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Little Saint
By
Francis Hodgson Burnett
Contents
THE STORY OF PRINCE FAIRYFOOT.
THE PROUD LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT.
LITTLE SAINT
She
had not been brought up in
"There she is," they would cry,
flying to their windows to look at her. "She is going out in her
carriage." "She is dressed all in black velvet and splendid
fur." "That is her own, own, carriage." "She has millio=
ns
of money; and she can have anything she wants--Jane says so!" "Sh=
e is
very pretty, too; but she is so pale and has such big, sorrowful, black eye=
s. I
should not be sorrowful if I were in her place; but Jane says the servants =
say
she is always quiet and looks sad." "Her maid says she lived with=
her
aunt, and her aunt made her too religious."
She rarely lifted her large dark eyes to l=
ook
at them with any curiosity. She was not accustomed to the society of childr=
en.
She had never had a child companion in her life, and these little Americans,
who were so very rosy and gay, and who went out to walk or drive with group=
s of
brothers and sisters, and even ran in the street, laughing and playing and =
squabbling
healthily--these children amazed her.
Poor little Saint Elizabeth! She had not l=
ived
a very natural or healthy life herself, and she knew absolutely nothing of =
real
childish pleasures. You see, it had occurred in this way: When she was a ba=
by
of two years her young father and mother died, within a week of each other,=
of
a terrible fever, and the only near relatives the little one had were her A=
unt
Clotilde and Uncle Bertrand. Her Aunt Clotilde lived in
"Only," he wrote to Mademoiselle=
de
Rochemont, "don't end by training her for an abbess, my dear
Clotilde."
There was a very great difference between
these two people--the distance between the gray stone château in
"Ah! she is good--she is a saint
Mademoiselle," the poor people always said when speaking of her; but t=
hey
also always looked a little awe-stricken when she appeared, and never were
sorry when she left them.
She was a tall woman, with a pale, rigid,
handsome face, which never smiled. She did nothing but good deeds, but howe=
ver
grateful her pensioners might be, nobody would ever have dared to dream of
loving her. She was just and cold and severe. She wore always a straight bl=
ack
serge gown, broad bands of white linen, and a rosary and crucifix at her wa=
ist.
She read nothing but religious works and legends of the saints and martyrs,=
and
adjoining her private apartments was a little stone chapel, where the serva=
nts
said she used to kneel on the cold floor before the altar and pray for hour=
s in
the middle of the night.
The little curé of the village, who=
was
plump and comfortable, and who had the kindest heart and the most cheerful =
soul
in the world, used to remonstrate with her, always in a roundabout way,
however, never quite as if he were referring directly to herself.
"One must not let one's self become t=
he
stone image of goodness," he said once. "Since one is really of f=
lesh
and blood, and lives among flesh and blood, that is not best. No, no; it is=
not
best."
But Mademoiselle de Rochemont never seemed
exactly of flesh and blood--she was more like a marble female saint who had
descended from her pedestal to walk upon the earth.
And she did not change, even when the baby
Elizabeth was brought to her. She attended strictly to the child's comfort =
and
prayed many prayers for her innocent soul, but it can be scarcely said that=
her
manner was any softer or that she smiled more. At first Elizabeth used to
scream at the sight of the black, nun-like dress and the rigid, handsome fa=
ce,
but in course of time she became accustomed to them, and, through living in=
an atmosphere
so silent and without brightness, a few months changed her from a laughing,
romping baby into a pale, quiet child, who rarely made any childish noise at
all.
In this quiet way she became fond of her a=
unt.
She saw little of anyone but the servants, who were all trained to quietness
also. As soon as she was old enough her aunt began her religious training.
Before she could speak plainly she heard legends of saints and stories of
martyrs. She was taken into the little chapel and taught to pray there. She
believed in miracles, and would not have been surprised at any moment if she
had met the Child Jesus or the Virgin in the beautiful rambling gardens whi=
ch surrounded
the château. She was a sensitive, imaginative child, and the sacred
romances she heard filled all her mind and made up her little life. She wis=
hed
to be a saint herself, and spent hours in wandering in the terraced rose
gardens wondering if such a thing was possible in modern days, and what she
must do to obtain such holy victory. Her chief sorrow was that she knew her=
self
to be delicate and very timid--so timid that she often suffered when people=
did
not suspect it--and she was afraid that she was not brave enough to be a
martyr. Once, poor little one! when she was alone in her room, she held her
hand over a burning wax candle, but the pain was so terrible that she could=
not
keep it there. Indeed, she fell back white and faint, and sank upon her cha=
ir, breathless
and in tears, because she felt sure that she could not chant holy songs if =
she
were being burned at the stake. She had been vowed to the Virgin in her
babyhood, and was always dressed in white and blue, but her little dress wa=
s a
small conventual robe, straight and narrow cut, of white woollen stuff, and
banded plainly with blue at the waist. She did not look like other children,
but she was very sweet and gentle, and her pure little pale face and large,
dark eyes had a lovely dreamy look. When she was old enough to visit the po=
or
with her Aunt Clotilde--and she was hardly seven years old when it was
considered proper that she should begin--the villagers did not stand in awe=
of
her. They began to adore her, almost to worship her, as if she had, indeed,
been a sacred child. The little ones delighted to look at her, to draw near=
her
sometimes and touch her soft white and blue robe. And, when they did so, she
always returned their looks with such a tender, sympathetic smile, and spok=
e to
them in so gentle a voice, that they were in ecstasies. They used to talk h=
er
over, tell stories about her when they were playing together afterwards.
"The little Mademoiselle," they
said, "she is a child saint. I have heard them say so. Sometimes there=
is
a little light round her head. One day her little white robe will begin to
shine too, and her long sleeves will be wings, and she will spread them and=
ascend
through the blue sky to
So, in this secluded world in the gray old
château, with no companion but her aunt, with no occupation but her
studies and her charities, with no thoughts but those of saints and religio=
us
exercises, Elizabeth lived until she was eleven years old. Then a great gri=
ef
befell her. One morning, Mademoiselle de Rochemont did not leave her room at
the regular hour. As she never broke a rule she had made for herself and he=
r household,
this occasioned great wonder. Her old maid servant waited half an hour--wen=
t to
her door, and took the liberty of listening to hear if she was up and moving
about her room. There was no sound. Old
That was what the doctors said when they w=
ere
sent for. She had been dead some hours--she had died of disease of the hear=
t,
and apparently without any pain or knowledge of the change coming to her. H=
er
face was serene and beautiful, and the rigid look had melted away. Someone =
said
she looked like little Mademoiselle Elizabeth; and her old servant Alice we=
pt very
much, and said, "Yes--yes--it was so when she was young, before her un=
happiness
came. She had the same beautiful little face, but she was more gay, more of=
the
world. Yes, they were much alike then."
Less than two months from that time
She entered the room, when she was sent fo=
r,
clad in a strange little nun-like robe of black serge, made as like her-dead
aunt's as possible. At her small waist were the rosary and crucifix, and in=
her
hand she held a missal she had forgotten in her agitation to lay down--
"But, my dear child," exclaimed
Uncle Bertrand, staring at her aghast.
He managed to recover himself very quickly,
and was, in his way, very kind to her; but the first thing he did was to se=
nd
to
"Because, as you will see," he
remarked to
Before she took off her little conventual
robe,
She felt as if she was living in a dream w=
hen
all the old life was left behind and she found herself in the big luxurious
house in the gay
But, secretly, she felt bewildered and alm=
ost
terrified, everything was so new, so strange, so noisy, and so brilliant. T=
he
dress she wore made her feel unlike herself; the books they gave her were f=
ull
of pictures and stories of worldly things of which she knew nothing. Her
carriage was brought to the door and she went out with her governess, drivi=
ng
round and round the park with scores of other people who looked at her curi=
ously,
she did not know why. The truth was that her refined little face was very
beautiful indeed, and her soft dark eyes still wore the dreamy spiritual lo=
ok
which made her unlike the rest of the world.
"She looks like a little princess,&qu=
ot;
she heard her uncle say one day. "She will be some day a beautiful, an
enchanting woman--her mother was so when she died at twenty, but she had be=
en
brought up differently. This one is a little devotee. I am afraid of her. H=
er
governess tells me she rises in the night to pray." He said it with li=
ght
laughter to some of his gay friends by whom he had wished the child to be s=
een.
He did not know that his gayety filled her with fear and pain. She had been
taught to believe gayety worldly and sinful, and his whole life was filled =
with
it. He had brilliant parties--he did not go to church--he had no pensioners=
--he
seemed to think of nothing but pleasure. Poor little Saint Elizabeth prayed=
for
his soul many an hour when he was asleep after a grand dinner or supper par=
ty.
He could not possibly have dreamed that th= ere was no one of whom she stood in such dread; her timidity increased tenfold = in his presence. When he sent for her and she went into the library to find hi= m luxurious in his arm chair, a novel on his knee, a cigar in his white hand, a toleran= t, half cynical smile on his handsome mouth, she could scarcely answer his questions, and could never find courage to tell what she so earnestly desir= ed. She had found out early that Aunt Clotilde and the curé and the life they had led, had only aroused in his mind a half-pitying amusement. It see= med to her that he did not understand and had strange sacrilegious thoughts abo= ut them--he did not believe in miracles--he smiled when she spoke of saints. H= ow could she tell him that she wished to spend all her money in building churc= hes and giving alms to the poor? That was what she wished to tell him--that she wan= ted money to send back to the village, that she wanted to give it to the poor people she saw in the streets, to those who lived in the miserable places.<= o:p>
But when she found herself face to face wi=
th
him and he said some witty thing to her and seemed to find her only amusing,
all her courage failed her. Sometimes she thought she would throw herself u=
pon
her knees before him and beg him to send her back to Normandy--to let her l=
ive
alone in the château as her Aunt Clotilde had done.
One morning she arose very early, and knel=
t a
long time before the little altar she had made for herself in her dressing
room. It was only a table with some black velvet thrown over it, a crucifix=
, a
saintly image, and some flowers standing upon it. She had put on, when she =
got
up, the quaint black serge robe, because she felt more at home in it, and h=
er heart
was full of determination. The night before she had received a letter from =
the
curé and it had contained sad news. A fever had broken out in her
beloved village, the vines had done badly, there was sickness among the cat=
tle,
there was already beginning to be suffering, and if something were not done=
for
the people they would not know how to face the winter. In the time of
Mademoiselle de Rochemont they had always been made comfortable and happy at
Christmas. What was to be done? The curé ventured to write to
Mademoiselle Elizabeth.
The poor child had scarcely slept at all. =
Her
dear village! Her dear people! The children would be hungry; the cows would
die; there would be no fires to warm those who were old.
"I must go to uncle," she said, =
pale
and trembling. "I must ask him to give me money. I am afraid, but it is
right to mortify the spirit. The martyrs went to the stake. The holy Saint
Elizabeth was ready to endure anything that she might do her duty and help =
the
poor."
Because she had been called
She did not eat any breakfast. She thought=
she
would fast until she had done what she intended to do. It had been her Aunt
Clotilde's habit to fast very often.
She waited anxiously to hear that her Uncle
Bertrand had left his room. He always rose late, and this morning he was la=
ter
than usual as he had had a long gay dinner party the night before.
It was nearly twelve before she heard his =
door
open. Then she went quickly to the staircase. Her heart was beating so fast
that she put her little hand to her side and waited a moment to regain her
breath. She felt quite cold.
"Perhaps I must wait until he has eat=
en
his breakfast," she said. "Perhaps I must not disturb him yet. It
would, make him displeased. I will wait--yes, for a little while."
She did not return to her room, but waited
upon the stairs. It seemed to be a long time. It appeared that a friend
breakfasted with him. She heard a gentleman come in and recognized his voic=
e,
which she had heard before. She did not know what the gentleman's name was,=
but
she had met him going in and out with her uncle once or twice, and had thou=
ght
he had a kind face and kind eyes. He had looked at her in an interested way
when he spoke to her--even as if he were a little curious, and she had wond=
ered
why he did so.
When the door of the breakfast room opened=
and
shut as the servants went in, she could hear the two laughing and talking. =
They
seemed to be enjoying themselves very much. Once she heard an order given f=
or
the mail phaeton. They were evidently going out as soon as the meal was ove=
r.
At last the door opened and they were comi=
ng
out.
"The blessed martyrs were not
afraid," she whispered to herself.
"Uncle Bertrand!" she said, as he
approached, and she scarcely knew her own faint voice. "Uncle
Bertrand--"
He turned, and seeing her, started, and
exclaimed, rather impatiently--evidently he was at once amazed and displeas=
ed
to see her. He was in a hurry to get out, and the sight of her odd little
figure, standing in its straight black robe between the portières, t=
he
slender hands clasped on the breast, the small pale face and great dark eye=
s uplifted,
was certainly a surprise to him.
"
"Uncle Bertrand," said the child,
clasping her hands still more tightly, her eyes growing larger in her
excitement and terror under his displeasure, "it is that I want money-=
-a
great deal. I beg your pardon if I derange you. It is for the poor. Moreove=
r,
the curé has written the people of the village are ill--the vineyards
did not yield well. They must have money. I must send them some."
Uncle Bertrand shrugged his shoulders.
"That is the message of monsieur le
curé, is it?" he said. "He wants money! My dear
"But," cried
"That was your Aunt Clotilde's
charity," replied her uncle. "Sometimes she was not so wise as she
was devout. I must know more of this. I have no time at present, I am going=
out
of town. In a few days I will reflect upon it. Tell your maid to give that
hideous garment away. Go out to drive--amuse yourself--you are too pale.&qu=
ot;
"But it is winter," she panted,
breathlessly; "there is snow. Soon it will be Christmas, and they will
have nothing--no candles for the church, no little manger for the holy chil=
d,
nothing for the poorest ones. And the children--"
"It shall be thought of later," =
said
Uncle Bertrand. "I am too busy now. Be reasonable, my child, and run a=
way.
You detain me."
He left her with a slight impatient shrug =
of
his shoulders and the slight amused smile on his lips. She heard him speak =
to
his friend.
"She was brought up by one who had
renounced the world," he said, "and she has already renounced it
herself--pauvre petite enfant! At eleven years she wishes to devote her for=
tune
to the poor and herself to the Church."
"He does not care," she said;
"he does not know. And I do no one good--no one." And she covered=
her
face with her hands and stood sobbing all alone.
When she returned to her room she was so p=
ale
that her maid looked at her anxiously, and spoke of it afterwards to the ot=
her
servants. They were all fond of Mademoiselle Elizabeth. She was always kind=
and
gentle to everybody.
Nearly all the day she sat, poor little sa=
int!
by her window looking out at the passers-by in the snowy street. But she
scarcely saw the people at all, her thoughts were far away, in the little
village where she had always spent her Christmas before. Her Aunt Clotilde =
had
allowed her at such times to do so much. There had not been a house she had=
not
carried some gift to; not a child who had been forgotten. And the church on=
Christmas
morning had been so beautiful with flowers from the hot-houses of the
château. It was for the church, indeed, that the conservatories were
chiefly kept up. Mademoiselle de Rochemont would scarcely have permitted
herself such luxuries.
But there would not be flowers this year, =
the
château was closed; there were no longer gardeners at work, the church
would be bare and cold, the people would have no gifts, there would be no
pleasure in the little peasants' faces. Little Saint Elizabeth wrung her sl=
ight
hands together in her lap.
"Oh," she cried, "what can I
do? And then there is the poor here--so many. And I do nothing. The Saints =
will
be angry; they will not intercede for me. I shall be lost!"
It was not alone the poor she had left in =
her
village who were a grief to her. As she drove through the streets she saw n=
ow
and then haggard faces; and when she had questioned a servant who had one d=
ay
come to her to ask for charity for a poor child at the door, she had found =
that
in parts of this great, bright city which she had not seen, there was said =
to
be cruel want and suffering, as in all great cities.
"And it is so cold now," she
thought, "with the snow on the ground."
The lamps in the street were just beginnin=
g to
be lighted when her Uncle Bertrand returned. It appeared that he had brought
back with him the gentleman with the kind face. They were to dine together,=
and
Uncle Bertrand desired that Mademoiselle Elizabeth should join them. Eviden=
tly the
journey out of town had been delayed for a day at least. There came also
another message: Monsieur de Rochemont wished Mademoiselle to send to him by
her maid a certain box of antique ornaments which had been given to her by =
her
Aunt Clotilde.
"They must be put somewhere for safe
keeping," Uncle Bertrand was saying. "It should have been done
before. I will attend to it."
The gentleman with the kind eyes looked at=
He did not seem simply to find her amusing=
, as
her Uncle Bertrand did. She was always conscious that behind Uncle Bertrand=
's
most serious expression there was lurking a faint smile as he watched her, =
but
this visitor looked at her in a different way. He was a doctor, she discove=
red.
Dr. Norris, her uncle called him, and Elizabeth wondered if perhaps his
profession had not made him quick of sight and kind.
She felt that it must be so when she heard=
him
talk at dinner. She found that he did a great deal of work among the very
poor---that he had a hospital, where he received little children who were
ill--who had perhaps met with accidents, and could not be taken care of in
their wretched homes. He spoke most frequently of terrible quarters, which =
he
called Five Points; the greatest poverty and suffering was there. And he sp=
oke of
it with such eloquent sympathy, that even Uncle Bertrand began to listen wi=
th
interest.
"Come," he said, "you are a
rich, idle fellow; De Rochemont, and we want rich, idle fellows to come and
look into all this and do something for us. You must let me take you with me
some day."
"It would disturb me too much, my good
Norris," said Uncle Bertrand, with a slight shudder. "I should not
enjoy my dinner after it."
"Then go without your dinner," s=
aid
Dr. Norris. "These people do. You have too many dinners. Give up
one."
Uncle Bertrand shrugged his shoulders and
smiled.
"It is Elizabeth who fasts," he
said. "Myself, I prefer to dine. And yet, some day, I may have the fan=
cy
to visit this place with you."
"Do you think she is a happy child?&q=
uot;
he asked Monsieur de Rochemont when they were alone together over their cig=
ars
and wine.
"Happy?" said Uncle Bertrand, wi=
th
his light smile. "She has been taught, my friend, that to be happy upon
earth is a crime. That was my good sister's creed. One must devote one's se=
lf,
not to happiness, but entirely to good works. I think I have told you that =
she,
this little one, desires to give all her fortune to the poor. Having heard =
you
this evening, she will wish to bestow it upon your Five Points."
When, having retired from the room with a
grave and stately little obeisance to her uncle and his guest,
"The Saints will tell me what to
do," she said. "The good Saints, who are always gracious, they wi=
ll
vouchsafe to me some thought which will instruct me if I remain long enough=
at
prayer."
She remained in prayer a long time. When at
last she arose from her knees it was long past midnight, and she was tired =
and
weak, but the thought had not been given to her.
But just as she laid her head upon her pil=
low
it came. The ornaments given to her by her Aunt Clotilde somebody would buy
them. They were her own--it would be right to sell them--to what better use
could they be put? Was it not what Aunt Clotilde would have desired? Had she
not told her stories of the good and charitable who had sold the clothes fr=
om their
bodies that the miserable might be helped? Yes, it was right. These things =
must
be done. All else was vain and useless and of the world. But it would requi=
re
courage--great courage. To go out alone to find a place where the people wo=
uld
buy the jewels--perhaps there might be some who would not want them. And th=
en
when they were sold to find this poor and unhappy quarter of which her uncl=
e's
guest had spoken, and to give to those who needed--all by herself. Ah! what
courage it would require. And then Uncle Bertrand, some day he would ask ab=
out
the ornaments, and discover all, and his anger might be terrible. No one had
ever been angry with her; how could she bear it. But had not the Saints and
Martyrs borne everything? had they not gone to the stake and the rack with
smiles? She thought of Saint Elizabeth and the cruel Landgrave. It could no=
t be
even so bad as that--but whatever the result was it must be borne.
So at last she slept, and there was upon h=
er
gentle little face so sweetly sad a look that when her maid came to waken h=
er
in the morning she stood by the bedside for some moments looking down upon =
her pityingly.
The day seemed very long and sorrowful to =
the
poor child. It was full of anxious thoughts and plannings. She was so innoc=
ent
and inexperienced, so ignorant of all practical things. She had decided tha=
t it
would be best to wait until evening before going out, and then to take the
jewels and try to sell them to some jeweller. She did not understand the di=
fficulties
that would lie in her way, but she felt very timid.
Her maid had asked permission to go out for
the evening and Monsieur de Rochemont was to dine out, so that she found it
possible to leave the house without attracting attention.
As soon as the streets were lighted she to=
ok
the case of ornaments, and going downstairs very quietly, let herself out. =
The
servants were dining, and she was seen by none of them.
When she found herself in the snowy street=
she
felt strangely bewildered. She had never been out unattended before, and she
knew nothing of the great busy city. When she turned into the more crowded =
thoroughfares,
she saw several times that the passers-by glanced at her curiously. Her tim=
id
look, her foreign air and richly furred dress, and the fact that she was a
child and alone at such an hour, could not fail to attract attention; but
though she felt confused and troubled she went bravely on. It was some time
before she found a jeweller's shop, and when she entered it the men behind =
the
counter looked at her in amazement. But she went to the one nearest to her =
and
laid the case of jewels on the counter before him.
"I wish," she said, in her soft =
low
voice, and with the pretty accent, "I wish that you should buy
these."
The man stared at her, and at the ornament=
s,
and then at her again.
"I beg pardon, miss," he said.
"I will speak to Mr. Moetyler," =
he
said, after a moment of hesitation.
He went to the other end of the shop to an
elderly man who sat behind a desk. After he had spoken a few words, the eld=
erly
man looked up as if surprised; then he glanced at
"You wish to sell these?" he sai=
d,
looking at the case of jewels with a puzzled expression.
"Yes,"
He bent over the case and took up one orna=
ment
after the other and examined them closely. After he had done this he looked=
at
the little girl's innocent, trustful face, seeming more puzzled than before=
.
"Are they your own?" he inquired=
.
"Yes, they are mine," she replie=
d,
timidly.
"Do you know how much they are worth?=
"
"I know that they are worth much
money," said
"Do your friends know that you are go=
ing
to sell them?"
"No,"
The man spent a few moments in examining t=
hem
again and, having done so, spoke hesitatingly.
"I am afraid we cannot buy them,"=
; he
said. "It would be impossible, unless your friends first gave their
permission."
"Impossible!" said
"We could not do it," said the
jeweller. "It is out of the question under the circumstances."
"Do you think," faltered the poor
little saint, "do you think that nobody will buy them?"
"I am afraid not," was the reply.
"No respectable firm who would pay their real value. If you take my
advice, young lady, you will take them home and consult your friends."=
He spoke kindly, but
When she found herself on the street again,
her long lashes were heavy with tears.
"If no one will buy them," she s=
aid,
"what shall I do?"
She walked a long way--so long that she was
very tired--and offered them at several places, but as she chanced to enter
only respectable shops, the same thing happened each time. She was looked at
curiously and questioned, but no one would buy.
"They are mine," she would say.
"It is right that I should sell them." But everyone stared and se=
emed
puzzled, and in the end refused.
At last, after much wandering, she found
herself in a poorer quarter of the city; the streets were narrower and dirt=
ier,
and the people began to look squalid and wretchedly dressed; there were sma=
ller
shops and dingy houses. She saw unkempt men and women and uncared for little
children. The poverty of the poor she had seen in her own village seemed
comfort and luxury by contrast. She had never dreamed of anything like this.
Now and then she felt faint with pain and horror. But she went on.
"They have no vineyards," she sa=
id
to herself. "No trees and flowers--it is all dreadful--there is nothin=
g. They
need help more than the others. To let them suffer so, and not to give them
charity, would be a great crime."
She was so full of grief and excitement th=
at
she had ceased to notice how everyone looked at her--she saw only the
wretchedness, and dirt and misery. She did not know, poor child! that she w=
as
surrounded by danger--that she was not only in the midst of misery, but of
dishonesty and crime. She had even forgotten her timidity--that it was grow=
ing late,
and that she was far from home, and would not know how to return--she did n=
ot
realize that she had walked so far that she was almost exhausted with fatig=
ue.
She had brought with her all the money she
possessed. If she could not sell the jewels she could, at least, give somet=
hing
to someone in want. But she did not know to whom she must give first. When =
she
had lived with her Aunt Clotilde it had been their habit to visit the peasa=
nts
in their houses. Must she enter one of these houses--these dreadful places =
with
the dark passages, from which she heard many times riotous voices, and even
cries, issuing?
"But those who do good must feel no
fear," she thought. "It is only to have courage." At length
something happened which caused her to pause before one of those places. She
heard sounds of pitiful moans and sobbing from something crouched upon the
broken steps. It seemed like a heap of rags, but as she drew near she saw by
the light of the street lamp opposite that it was a woman with her head in =
her
knees, and a wretched child on each side of her. The children were shivering
with cold and making low cries as if they were frightened.
"Why is it that you cry?" she as=
ked
gently. "Tell me."
The woman did not answer at first, but whe=
n
"Lord have mercy on yez!" she sa=
id
in a hoarse voice which sounded almost terrified. "Who are yez, an' wh=
at bees
ye dow' in a place the loike o' this?"
"I came," said
"It's no place for the loike o'
yez," she said. "An' it black noight, an' men and women wild in t=
he
drink; an' Pat Harrigan insoide bloind an' mad in liquor, an' it's turned me
an' the children out he has to shlape in the snow--an' not the furst toime
either. An' it's starvin' we are--starvin' an' no other," and she drop=
ped
her wretched head on her knees and began to moan again, and the children jo=
ined
her.
"Don't let yez daddy hear yez," =
she
said to them. "Whisht now--it's come out an' kill yez he will."
"Is it that they have hunger?" s=
he
asked.
"Not a bite or sup have they had this=
day,
nor yesterday," was the answer, "The good Saints have pity on
us."
"Yes," said
She had seen a shop only a few yards away-=
-she
remembered passing it. Before the woman could speak again she was gone.
"Yes," she said, "I was sen=
t to
them--it is the answer to my prayer--it was not in vain that I asked so
long."
When she entered the shop the few people w=
ho
were in it stopped what they were doing to stare at her as others had done-=
-but
she scarcely saw that it was so.
"Give to me a basket," she said =
to
the owner of the place. "Put in it some bread and wine--some of the th=
ings
which are ready to eat. It is for a poor woman and her little ones who
starve."
There was in the shop among others a red-f=
aced
woman with a cunning look in her eyes. She sidled out of the place and was
waiting for
"I'm starvin' too, little lady,"=
she
said. "There's many of us that way, an' it's not often them with money
care about it. Give me something too," in a wheedling voice.
"I have great sorrows for you," =
she
said. "Perhaps the poor woman will share her food with you."
"It's the money I need," said the
woman.
"I have none left," answered
"It's now I want it," the woman
persisted. Then she looked covetously at
Suddenly she gave the cloak a pull, but the
fastening did not give way as she had thought it would.
"Is it because you are cold that you =
want
it?" said
Had not the holy ones in the legends given
their garments to the poor? Why should she not give her cloak?
In an instant it was unclasped and snatched
away, and the woman was gone. She did not even stay long enough to give tha=
nks
for the gift, and something in her haste and roughness made
She made her way back to the place where t=
he
other woman and her children had been sitting; the cold wind made her shive=
r,
and the basket was very heavy for her slender arm. Her strength seemed to be
giving way.
As she turned the corner, a great, fierce =
gust
of wind swept round it, and caught her breath and made her stagger. She tho=
ught
she was going to fall; indeed, she would have fallen but that one of the ta=
ll
men who were passing put out his arm and caught her. He was a well dressed =
man,
in a heavy overcoat; he had gloves on.
"
For a moment it seemed as if they were alm=
ost
struck dumb with horror; and then her Uncle Bertrand seized her by the arm =
in
such agitation that he scarcely seemed himself--not the light, satirical,
jesting Uncle Bertrand she had known at all.
"What does it mean?" he cried. "What are you doing here, in this horrible place alone? Do you know wh= ere it is you have come? What have you in your basket? Explain! explain!"<= o:p>
The moment of trial had come, and it seemed
even more terrible than the poor child had imagined. The long strain and
exertion had been too much for her delicate body. She felt that she could b=
ear
no more; the cold seemed to have struck to her very heart. She looked up at
Monsieur de Rochemont's pale, excited face, and trembled from head to foot.=
A
strange thought flashed into her mind. Saint Elizabeth, of
"Speak!" repeated Monsieur de
Rochemont. "Why is this? The basket--what have you in it?"
"Roses," said
"Roses!" cried Uncle Bertrand.
"Is it that the child is mad? They are the jewels of my sister
Clotilde."
"Ah! monsieur," she sobbed,
"you will understand. It was for the poor--they suffer so much. If we =
do
not help them our souls will be lost. I did not mean to speak falsely. I
thought the Saints--the Saints---" But her sobs filled her throat, and=
she
could not finish. Dr. Norris stopped, and took her in his strong arms as if=
she
had been a baby.
"Quick!" he said, imperatively;
"we must return to the carriage, De Rochemont. This is a serious
matter."
"But the poor woman who starves?"
she cried. "The little children--they sit up on the step quite near--t=
he
food was for them! I pray you give it to them."
"Yes, they shall have it," said =
the
Doctor. "Take the basket, De Rochemont--only a few doors below." =
And
it appeared that there was something in his voice which seemed to render
obedience necessary, for Monsieur de Rochemont actually did as he was told.=
For a moment Dr. Norris put
"You are chilled through, poor
child," he said; "and you are not strong enough to walk just now.=
You
must let me carry you."
It was true that a sudden faintness had co=
me
upon her, and she could not restrain the shudder which shook her. It still
shook her when she was placed in the carriage which the two gentlemen had
thought it wiser to leave in one of the more respectable streets when they =
went
to explore the worse ones together.
"What might not have occurred if we h=
ad
not arrived at that instant!" said Uncle Bertrand when he got into the
carriage. "As it is who knows what illness--"
"It will be better to say as little as
possible now," said Dr. Norris.
"It was for the poor," said
And while her Uncle Bertrand regarded her =
with
a strangely agitated look, and Dr. Norris held her hand between his strong =
and
warm ones, the tears rolled down her pure, pale little face.
She did not know until some time after what
danger she had been in, that the part of the city into which she had wander=
ed
was the lowest and worst, and was in some quarters the home of thieves and
criminals of every class. As her Uncle Bertrand had said, it was impossible=
to
say what terrible thing might have happened if they had not met her so soon=
. It
was Dr. Norris who explained it all to her as gently and kindly as was poss=
ible.
She had always been fragile, and she had caught a severe cold which caused =
her
an illness of some weeks. It was Dr. Norris who took care of her, and it was
not long before her timidity was forgotten in her tender and trusting affec=
tion
for him. She learned to watch for his coming, and to feel that she was no
longer lonely. It was through him that her uncle permitted her to send to t=
he
curé a sum of money large enough to do all that was necessary. It was
through him that the poor woman and her children were clothed and fed and
protected. When she was well enough, he had promised that she should help h=
im
among his own poor. And through him--though she lost none of her sweet symp=
athy
for those who suffered--she learned to live a more natural and child-like l=
ife,
and to find that there were innocent, natural pleasures to be enjoyed in th=
e world.
In time she even ceased to be afraid of her Uncle Bertrand, and to be quite
happy in the great beautiful house. And as for Uncle Bertrand himself, he
became very fond of her, and sometimes even helped her to dispense her
charities. He had a light, gay nature, but he was kind at heart, and always
disliked to see or think of suffering. Now and then he would give more lavi=
shly
than wisely, and then he would say, with his habitual graceful shrug of the
shoulders--"Yes, it appears I am not discreet. Finally, I think I must
leave my charities to you, my good Norris--to you and Little Saint
Elizabeth."
THE STORY OF PRINCE FAIRYFOOT
PREFATORY
NOTE
"THE
STORY OF PRINCE FAIRYFOOT" was originally intended to be the first of a
series, under the general title of "Stories from the Lost Fairy-Book,
Re-told by the Child Who Read Them," concerning which Mrs. Burnett
relates:
"When I was a child of six or seven, I
had given to me a book of fairy-stories, of which I was very fond. Before it
had been in my possession many months, it disappeared, and, though since th=
en I
have tried repeatedly, both in
The little volume in question Mrs. Burnett
afterwards discovered to be entitled "Granny's Wonderful Chair and the
Tales it Told."
THE STORY OF PRINCE FAIRYFOOT
Once
upon a time, in the days of the fairies, there was in the far west country a
kingdom which was called by the name of Stumpinghame. It was a rather curio=
us
country in several ways. In the first place, the people who lived there tho=
ught
that Stumpinghame was all the world; they thought there was no world at all
outside Stumpinghame. And they thought that the people of Stumpinghame knew
everything that could possibly be known, and that what they did not know wa=
s of
no consequence at all.
One idea common in Stumpinghame was really
very unusual indeed. It was a peculiar taste in the matter of feet. In
Stumpinghame, the larger a person's feet were, the more beautiful and elega=
nt
he or she was considered; and the more aristocratic and nobly born a man wa=
s,
the more immense were his feet. Only the very lowest and most vulgar persons
were ever known to have small feet. The King's feet were simply huge; so we=
re the
Queen's; so were those of the young princes and princesses. It had never
occurred to anyone that a member of such a royal family could possibly disg=
race
himself by being born with small feet. Well, you may imagine, then, what a
terrible and humiliating state of affairs arose when there was born into th=
at
royal family a little son, a prince, whose feet were so very small and slen=
der
and delicate that they would have been considered small even in other places
than Stumpinghame. Grief and confusion seized the entire nation. The Queen
fainted six times a day; the King had black rosettes fastened upon his crow=
n;
all the flags were at half-mast; and the court went into the deepest mourni=
ng.
There had been born to Stumpinghame a royal prince with small feet, and nob=
ody
knew how the country could survive it!
Yet the disgraceful little prince survived=
it,
and did not seem to mind at all. He was the prettiest and best tempered baby
the royal nurse had ever seen. But for his small feet, he would have been t=
he
flower of the family. The royal nurse said to herself, and privately told h=
is
little royal highness's chief bottle-washer that she "never see a infa=
nt
as took notice so, and sneezed as intelligent." But, of course, the Ki=
ng
and Queen could see nothing but his little feet, and very soon they made up=
their
minds to send him away. So one day they had him bundled up and carried where
they thought he might be quite forgotten. They sent him to the hut of a
swineherd who lived deep, deep in a great forest which seemed to end nowher=
e.
They gave the swineherd some money, and so=
me
clothes for Fairyfoot, and told him, that if he would take care of the chil=
d,
they would send money and clothes every year. As for themselves, they only
wished to be sure of never seeing Fairyfoot again.
This pleased the swineherd well enough. He=
was
poor, and he had a wife and ten children, and hundreds of swine to take care
of, and he knew he could use the little Prince's money and clothes for his =
own
family, and no one would find it out. So he let his wife take the little
fellow, and as soon as the King's messengers had gone, the woman took the r=
oyal
clothes off the Prince and put on him a coarse little nightgown, and gave a=
ll
his things to her own children. But the baby Prince did not seem to mind
that--he did not seem to mind anything, even though he had no name but Prin=
ce
Fairyfoot, which had been given him in contempt by the disgusted courtiers.=
He
grew prettier and prettier every day, and long before the time when other
children begin to walk, he could run about on his fairy feet.
The swineherd and his wife did not like hi=
m at
all; in fact, they disliked him because he was so much prettier and so much
brighter than their own clumsy children. And the children did not like him,
because they were ill natured and only liked themselves.
So as he grew older year by year, the poor=
little
Prince was more and more lonely. He had no one to play with, and was oblige=
d to
be always by himself. He dressed only in the coarsest and roughest clothes;=
he seldom
had enough to eat, and he slept on straw in a loft under the roof of the
swineherd's hut. But all this did not prevent his being strong and rosy and
active. He was as fleet as the wind, and he had a voice as sweet as a bird'=
s;
he had lovely sparkling eyes, and bright golden hair; and he had so kind a
heart that he would not have done a wrong or cruel thing for the world. As =
soon
as he was big enough, the swineherd made him go out into the forest every d=
ay
to take care of the swine. He was obliged to keep them together in one plac=
e,
and if any of them ran away into the forest, Prince Fairyfoot was beaten. A=
nd
as the swine were very wild and unruly, he was very often beaten, because i=
t was
almost impossible to keep them from wandering off; and when they ran away, =
they
ran so fast, and through places so tangled, that it was almost impossible to
follow them.
The forest in which he had to spend the lo=
ng
days was a very beautiful one, however, and he could take pleasure in that.=
It
was a forest so great that it was like a world in itself. There were in it
strange, splendid trees, the branches of which interlocked overhead, and wh=
en their
many leaves moved and rustled, it seemed as if they were whispering secrets.
There were bright, swift, strange birds, that flew about in the deep golden
sunshine, and when they rested on the boughs, they, too, seemed telling one
another secrets. There was a bright, clear brook, with water as sparkling a=
nd
pure as crystal, and with shining shells and pebbles of all colours lying in
the gold and silver sand at the bottom. Prince Fairyfoot always thought the
brook knew the forest's secret also, and sang it softly to the flowers as it
ran along. And as for the flowers, they were beautiful; they grew as thickl=
y as
if they had been a carpet, and under them was another carpet of lovely green
moss. The trees and the birds, and the brook and the flowers were Prince
Fairyfoot's friends. He loved them, and never was very lonely when he was w=
ith
them; and if his swine had not run away so often, and if the swineherd had =
not beaten
him so much, sometimes--indeed, nearly all summer--he would have been almost
happy. He used to lie on the fragrant carpet of flowers and moss and listen=
to
the soft sound of the running water, and to the whispering of the waving
leaves, and to the songs of the birds; and he would wonder what they were s=
aying
to one another, and if it were true, as the swineherd's children said, that=
the
great forest was full of fairies. And then he would pretend it was true, and
would tell himself stories about them, and make believe they were his frien=
ds,
and that they came to talk to him and let him love them. He wanted to love
something or somebody, and he had nothing to love--not even a little dog.
One day he was resting under a great green
tree, feeling really quite happy because everything was so beautiful. He ha=
d even
made a little song to chime in with the brook's, and he was singing it soft=
ly
and sweetly, when suddenly, as he lifted his curly, golden head to look abo=
ut
him, he saw that all his swine were gone. He sprang to his feet, feeling ve=
ry much
frightened, and he whistled and called, but he heard nothing. He could not
imagine how they had all disappeared so quietly, without making any sound; =
but
not one of them was anywhere to be seen. Then his poor little heart began to
beat fast with trouble and anxiety. He ran here and there; he looked through
the bushes and under the trees; he ran, and ran, and ran, and called and
whistled, and searched; but nowhere--nowhere was one of those swine to be
found! He searched for them for hours, going deeper and deeper into the for=
est
than he had ever been before. He saw strange trees and strange flowers, and
heard strange sounds: and at last the sun began to go down, and he knew he
would soon be left in the dark. His little feet and legs were scratched with
brambles, and were so tired that they would scarcely carry him; but he dared
not go back to the swineherd's hut without finding the swine. The only comf=
ort
he had on all the long way was that the little brook had run by his side, a=
nd
sung its song to him; and sometimes he had stopped and bathed his hot face =
in
it, and had said, "Oh, little brook! you are so kind to me! You are my=
friend,
I know. I would be so lonely without you!"
When at last the sun did go down, Prince
Fairyfoot had wandered so far that he did not know where he was, and he was=
so
tired that he threw himself down by the brook, and hid his face in the flow=
ery
moss, and said, "Oh, little brook! I am so tired I can go no further; =
and
I can never find them!"
While he was lying there in despair, he he=
ard
a sound in the air above him, and looked up to see what it was. It sounded =
like
a little bird in some trouble. And, surely enough, there was a huge hawk
darting after a plump little brown bird with a red breast. The little bird =
was
uttering sharp frightened cries, and Prince Fairyfoot felt so sorry for it =
that
he sprang up and tried to drive the hawk away. The little bird saw him at o=
nce,
and straightway flew to him, and Fairyfoot covered it with his cap. And then
the hawk flew away in a great rage.
When the hawk was gone, Fairyfoot sat down
again and lifted his cap, expecting, of course, to see the brown bird with =
the
red breast. But, in. stead of a bird, out stepped a little man, not much hi=
gher
than your little finger--a plump little man in a brown suit with a bright r=
ed
vest, and with a cocked hat on.
"Why," exclaimed Fairyfoot,
"I'm surprised!"
"So am I," said the little man,
cheerfully. "I never was more surprised in my life, except when my
great-aunt's grandmother got into such a rage, and changed me into a robin-=
redbreast.
I tell you, that surprised me!"
"I should think it might," said
Fairyfoot. "Why did she do it?"
"Mad," answered the little
man--"that was what was the matter with her. She was always losing her
temper like that, and turning people into awkward things, and then being so=
rry
for it, and not being able to change them back again. If you are a fairy, y=
ou
have to be careful. If you'll believe me, that woman once turned her
second-cousin's sister-in-law into a mushroom, and somebody picked her, and=
she
was made into catsup, which is a thing no man likes to have happen in his
family!"
"Of course not," said Fairyfoot,
politely.
"The difficulty is," said the li=
ttle
man, "that some fairies don't graduate. They learn to turn people into
things, but they don't learn how to unturn them; and then, when they get ma=
d in
their families--you know how it is about getting mad in families--there is
confusion. Yes, seriously, confusion arises. It arises. That was the way wi=
th
my great-aunt's grandmother. She was not a cultivated old person, and she d=
id
not know how to unturn people, and now you see the result. Quite accidental=
ly I
trod on her favorite corn; she got mad and changed me into a robin, and
regretted it ever afterward. I could only become myself again by a kind-hea=
rted
person's saving me from a great danger. You are that person. Give me your
hand."
Fairyfoot held out his hand. The little man
looked at it.
"On second thought," he said,
"I can't shake it--it's too large. I'll sit on it, and talk to you.&qu=
ot;
With these words, he hopped upon Fairyfoot=
's
hand, and sat down, smiling and clasping his own hands about his tiny knees=
.
"I declare, it's delightful not to be=
a
robin," he said. "Had to go about picking up worms, you know.
Disgusting business. I always did hate worms. I never ate them myself--I dr=
ew
the line there; but I had to get them for my family."
Suddenly he began to giggle, and to hug his
knees up tight.
"Do you wish to know what I'm laughing
at?" he asked Fairyfoot.
"Yes," Fairyfoot answered.
The little man giggled more than ever.
"I'm thinking about my wife," he
said--"the one I had when I was a robin. A nice rage she'll be in when=
I
don't come home to-night! She'll have to hustle around and pick up worms for
herself, and for the children too, and it serves her right. She had a temper
that would embitter the life of a crow, much more a simple robin. I wore my=
self
to skin and bone taking care of her and her brood, and how I did hate
'em!--bare, squawking things, always with their throats gaping open. They
seemed to think a parent's sole duty was to bring worms for them."
"It must have been unpleasant," =
said
Fairyfoot.
"It was more than that," said the
little man; "it used to make my feathers stand on end. There was the n=
est,
too! Fancy being changed into a robin, and being obliged to build a nest at=
a
moment's notice! I never felt so ridiculous in my life. How was I to know h=
ow
to build a nest! And the worst of it was the way she went on about it."=
;
"She!" said Fairyfoot
"Oh, her, you know," replied the
little man, ungrammatically, "my wife. She'd always been a robin, and =
she
knew how to build a nest; she liked to order me about, too--she was one of =
that
kind. But, of course, I wasn't going to own that I didn't know anything abo=
ut
nest-building. I could never have done anything with her in the world if I'd
let her think she knew as much as I did. So I just put things together in a=
way
of my own, and built a nest that would have made you weep! The bottom fell =
out
of it the first night. It nearly killed me."
"Did you fall out, too?" inquired
Fairyfoot.
"Oh, no," answered the little ma=
n.
"I meant that it nearly killed me to think the eggs weren't in it at t=
he
time."
"What did you do about the nest?"
asked Fairyfoot.
The little man winked in the most improper
manner.
"Do?" he said. "I got mad, =
of
course, and told her that if she hadn't interfered, it wouldn't have happen=
ed;
said it was exactly like a hen to fly around giving advice and unsettling o=
ne's
mind, and then complain if things weren't right. I told her she might build=
the
nest herself, if she thought she could build a better one. She did it,
too!" And he winked again.
"Was it a better one?" asked
Fairyfoot.
The little man actually winked a third tim=
e.
"It may surprise you to hear that it was," he replied; "but =
it
didn't surprise me. By-the-by," he added, with startling suddenness,
"what's your name, and what's the matter with you?"
"My name is Prince Fairyfoot," s=
aid
the boy, "and I have lost my master's swine."
"My name," said the little man,
"is Robin Goodfellow, and I'll find them for you."
He had a tiny scarlet silk pouch hanging at
his girdle, and he put his hand into it and drew forth the smallest golden
whistle you ever saw.
"Blow that," he said, giving it =
to
Fairyfoot, "and take care that you don't swallow it. You are such a
tremendous creature!"
Fairyfoot took the whistle and put it very
delicately to his lips. He blew, and there came from it a high, clear sound
that seemed to pierce the deepest depths of the forest.
"Blow again," commanded Robin
Goodfellow.
Again Prince Fairyfoot blew, and again the
pure clear sound rang through the trees, and the next instant he heard a lo=
ud
rushing and tramping and squeaking and grunting, and all the great drove of
swine came tearing through the bushes and formed themselves into a circle a=
nd
stood staring at him as if waiting to be told what to do next.
"Oh, Robin Goodfellow, Robin
Goodfellow!" cried Fairyfoot, "how grateful I am to you!"
"Not as grateful as I am to you,"
said Robin Goodfellow. "But for you I should be disturbing that hawk's
digestion at the present moment, instead of which, here I am, a respectable
fairy once more, and my late wife (though I ought not to call her that, for
goodness knows she was early enough hustling me out of my nest before daybr=
eak,
with the unpleasant proverb about the early bird catching the worm!)--I sup=
pose
I should say my early wife--is at this juncture a widow. Now, where do you
live?"
Fairyfoot told him, and told him also about
the swineherd, and how it happened that, though he was a prince, he had to =
herd
swine and live in the forest.
"Well, well," said Robin Goodfel=
low,
"that is a disagreeable state of affairs. Perhaps I can make it rather
easier for you. You see that is a fairy whistle."
"I thought so," said Fairyfoot.<= o:p>
"Well," continued Robin Goodfell=
ow,
"you can always call your swine with it, so you will never be beaten
again. Now, are you ever lonely?"
"Sometimes I am very lonely indeed,&q=
uot;
ananswered the Prince. "No one cares for me, though I think the brook =
is
sometimes sorry, and tries to tell me things."
"Of course," said Robin. "T=
hey
all like you. I've heard them say so."
"Oh, have you?" cried Fairyfoot,
joyfully.
"Yes; you never throw stones at the
birds, or break the branches of the trees, or trample on the flowers when y=
ou
can help it."
"The birds sing to me," said
Fairyfoot, "and the trees seem to beckon to me and whisper; and when I=
am
very lonely, I lie down in the grass and look into the eyes of the flowers =
and
talk to them. I would not hurt one of them for all the world!"
"Humph!" said Robin, "you a=
re a
rather good little fellow. Would you like to go to a party?"
"A party!" said Fairyfoot.
"What is that?"
"This sort of thing," said Robin;
and he jumped up and began to dance around and to kick up his heels gaily in
the palm of Fairyfoot's hand. "Wine, you know, and cake, and all sorts=
of
fun. It begins at twelve to-night, in a place the fairies know of, and it l=
asts
until just two minutes and three seconds and a half before daylight. Would =
you
like to come?"
"Oh," cried Fairyfoot, "I
should be so happy if I might!"
"Well, you may," said Robin;
"I'll take you. They'll be delighted to see any friend of mine, I'm a
great favourite; of course, you can easily imagine that. It was a great blo=
w to
them when I was changed; such a loss, you know. In fact, there were several
lady fairies, who--but no matter." And he gave a slight cough, and beg=
an
to arrange his necktie with a disgracefully consequential air, though he was
trying very hard not to look conceited; and while he was endeavouring to ap=
pear
easy and gracefully careless, he began accidentally to hum, "See the
Conquering Hero Comes," which was not the right tune under the
circumstances.
"But for you," he said next, &qu=
ot;I
couldn't have given them the relief and pleasure of seeing me this evening.=
And
what ecstasy it will be to them, to be sure! I shouldn't be surprised if it
broke up the whole thing. They'll faint so--for joy, you know--just at
first--that is, the ladies will. The men won't like it at all; and I don't
blame 'em. I suppose I shouldn't like it--to see another fellow sweep all
before him. That's what I do; I sweep all before me." And he waved his
hand in such a fine large gesture that he overbalanced himself, and turned a
somersault. But he jumped up after it quite undisturbed.
"You'll see me do it to-night," =
he
said, knocking the dents out of his hat--"sweep all before me." T=
hen
he put his hat on, and his hands on his hips, with a swaggering, man-of-soc=
iety
air. "I say," he said, "I'm glad you're going. I should like=
you
to see it."
"And I should like to see it,"
replied Fairyfoot.
"Well," said Mr. Goodfellow,
"you deserve it, though that's saying a great deal. You've restored me=
to
them. But for you, even if I'd escaped that hawk, I should have had to spend
the night in that beastly robin's nest, crowded into a corner by those
squawking things, and domineered over by her! I wasn't made for that! I'm
superior to it. Domestic life doesn't suit me. I was made for society. I ad=
orn
it. She never appreciated me. She couldn't soar to it. When I think of the =
way
she treated me," he exclaimed, suddenly getting into a rage, "I'v=
e a
great mind to turn back into a robin and peck her head off!"
"Would you like to see her now?"
asked Fairyfoot, innocently.
Mr. Goodfellow glanced behind him in great
haste, and suddenly sat down.
"No, no!" he exclaimed in a
tremendous hurry; "by no means! She has no delicacy. And she doesn't
deserve to see me. And there's a violence and uncertainty about her movemen=
ts
which is annoying beyond anything you can imagine. No, I don't want to see =
her!
I'll let her go unpunished for the present. Perhaps it's punishment enough =
for
her to be deprived of me. Just pick up your cap, won't you? and if you see =
any
birds lying about, throw it at them, robins particularly."
"I think I must take the swine home, =
if
you'll excuse me," said Fairyfoot, "I'm late now."
"Well, let me sit on your shoulder and
I'll go with you and show you a short way home," said Goodfellow; &quo=
t;I
know all about it, so you needn't think about yourself again. In fact, we'll
talk about the party. Just blow your whistle, and the swine will go
ahead."
Fairyfoot did so, and the swine rushed thr=
ough
the forest before them, and Robin Goodfellow perched himself on the Prince's
shoulder, and chatted as they went.
It had taken Fairyfoot hours to reach the
place where he found Robin, but somehow it seemed to him only a very short =
time
before they came to the open place near the swineherd's hut; and the path t=
hey
had walked in had been so pleasant and flowery that it had been delightful =
all
the way.
"Now," said Robin when they stop=
ped,
"if you will come here to-night at twelve o'clock, when the moon shines
under this tree, you will find me waiting for you. Now I'm going.
Good-bye!" And he was gone before the last word was quite finished.
Fairyfoot went towards the hut, driving the
swine before him, and suddenly he saw the swineherd come out of his house, =
and
stand staring stupidly at the pigs. He was a very coarse, hideous man, with
bristling yellow hair, and little eyes, and a face rather like a pig's, and=
he always
looked stupid, but just now he looked more stupid than ever. He seemed dumb
with surprise.
"What's the matter with the swine?&qu=
ot;
he asked in his hoarse voice, which was rather piglike, too.
"I don't know," answered Fairyfo=
ot,
feeling a little alarmed. "What is the matter with them?"
"They are four times fatter, and five times bigger, and six times cleaner, and seven times heavier, and eight tim= es handsomer than they were when you took them out," the swineherd said.<= o:p>
"I've done nothing to them," said
Fairyfoot. "They ran away, but they came back again."
The swineherd went lumbering back into the
hut, and called his wife.
"Come and look at the swine," he
said.
And then the woman came out, and stared fi=
rst
at the swine and then at Fairyfoot.
"He has been with the fairies," =
she
said at last to her husband; "or it is because he is a king's son. We =
must
treat him better if he can do wonders like that."
In
went the shepherd's wife, and she prepared quite a good supper for Fairyfoot
and gave it to him. But Fairyfoot was scarcely hungry at all; he was so eag=
er
for the night to come, so that he might see the fairies. When he went to his
loft under the roof, he thought at first that he could not sleep; but sudde=
nly
his hand touched the fairy whistle and he fell asleep at once, and did not
waken again until a moonbeam fell brightly upon his face and aroused him. T=
hen
he jumped up and ran to the hole in the wall to look out, and he saw that t=
he
hour had come, and the moon was so low in the sky that its slanting light h=
ad
crept under the oak-tree.
He slipped downstairs so lightly that his
master heard nothing, and then he found himself out in the beautiful night =
with
the moonlight so bright that it was lighter than daytime. And there was Rob=
in
Goodfellow waiting for him under the tree! He was so finely dressed that, f=
or a
moment, Fairyfoot scarcely knew him. His suit was made out of the purple ve=
lvet
petals of a pansy, which was far finer than any ordinary velvet, and he wore
plumes and tassels, and a ruffle around his neck, and in his belt was thrus=
t a
tiny sword, not half as big as the finest needle.
"Take me on your shoulder," he s=
aid
to Fairyfoot, "and I will show you the way."
Fairyfoot took him up, and they went their=
way
through the forest. And the strange part of it was that though Fairyfoot
thought he knew ill the forest by heart, every path they took was new to hi=
m,
and more beautiful than anything he had ever seen before. The moonlight see=
med
to grow brighter and purer at every step, and the sleeping flowers sweeter =
and lovelier,
and the moss greener and thicken Fairyfoot felt so happy and gay that he fo=
rgot
he had ever been sad and lonely in his life.
Robin Goodfellow, too, seemed to be in very
good spirits. He related a great many stories to Fairyfoot, and, singularly
enough, they were all about himself and divers and sundry fairy ladies who =
had
been so very much attached to him that he scarcely expected to find them al=
ive
at the present moment. He felt quite sure they must have died of grief in h=
is
absence.
"I have caused a great deal of troubl=
e in
the course of my life," he said, regretfully, shaking his head. "I
have sometimes wished I could avoid it, but that is impossible. Ahem! When =
my
great-aunt's grandmother rashly and inopportunely changed me into a robin, I
was having a little flirtation with a little creature who was really quite
attractive. I might have decided to engage myself to her. She was very
charming. Her name was Gauzita. To-morrow I shall go and place flowers on h=
er
tomb."
"I thought fairies never died," =
said
Fairyfoot.
"Only on rare occasions, and only from
love," answered Robin. "They needn't die unless they wish to. They
have been known to do it through love. They frequently wish they hadn't
afterward--in fact, invariably--and then they can come to life again. But
Gauzita--"
"Are you quite sure she is dead?"
asked Fairyfoot.
"Sure!" cried Mr. Goodfellow, in
wild indignation, "why, she hasn't seen me for a couple of years. I've
moulted twice since last we met. I congratulate myself that she didn't see =
me
then," he added, in a lower voice. "Of course she's dead," he
added, with solemn emphasis; "as dead as a door nail."
Just then Fairyfoot heard some enchanting
sounds, faint, but clear. They were sounds of delicate music and of tiny
laughter, like the ringing of fairy bells.
"Ah!" said Robin Goodfellow,
"there they are! But it seems to me they are rather gay, considering t=
hey
have not seen me for so long. Turn into the path."
Almost immediately they found themselves i=
n a
beautiful little dell, filled with moonlight, and with glittering stars in =
the
cup of every flower; for there were thousands of dewdrops, and every dewdrop
shone like a star. There were also crowds and crowds of tiny men and women,=
all
beautiful, all dressed in brilliant, delicate dresses, all laughing or danc=
ing
or feasting at the little tables, which were loaded with every dainty the m=
ost fastidious
fairy could wish for.
"Now," said Robin Goodfellow,
"you shall see me sweep all before me. Put me down."
Fairyfoot put him down, and stood and watc=
hed
him while he walked forward with a very grand manner. He went straight to t=
he
gayest and largest group he could see. It was a group of gentlemen fairies,=
who
were crowding around a lily of the valley, on the bent stem of which a tiny=
lady
fairy was sitting, airily swaying herself to and fro, and laughing and chat=
ting
with all her admirers at once.
She seemed to be enjoying herself immensel=
y;
indeed, it was disgracefully plain that she was having a great deal of fun.=
One
gentleman fairy was fanning her, one was holding her programme, one had her
bouquet, another her little scent bottle, and those who had nothing to hold=
for
her were scowling furiously at the rest. It was evident that she was very
popular, and that she did not object to it at all; in fact, the way her eye=
s sparkled
and danced was distinctly reprehensible.
"You have engaged to dance the next w=
altz
with every one of us!" said one of her adorers. "How are you goin=
g to
do it?"
"Did I engage to dance with all of
you?" she said, giving her lily stem the sauciest little swing, which =
set
all the bells ringing. "Well, I am not going to dance it with all.&quo=
t;
"Not with me?" the admirer with =
the
fan whispered in her ear.
She gave him the most delightful little lo=
ok,
just to make him believe she wanted to dance with him but really couldn't.
Robin Goodfelllow saw her. And then she smiled sweetly upon all the rest, e=
very
one of them. Robin Goodfellow saw that, too.
"I am going to sit here and look at y=
ou,
and let you talk to me," she said. "I do so enjoy brilliant
conversation."
All the gentlemen fairies were so much ela=
ted
by this that they began to brighten up, and settle their ruffs, and fall in=
to
graceful attitudes, and think of sparkling things to say; because every one=
of
them knew, from the glance of her eyes in his direction, that he was one wh=
ose conversation
was brilliant; every one knew there could be no mistake about its being him=
self
that she meant. The way she looked just proved it. Altogether it was more t=
han
Robin Goodfellow could stand, for it was Gauzita who was deporting herself =
in
this unaccountable manner, swinging on lily stems, and "going on,"=
; so
to speak, with several parties at once, in a way to chill the blood of any
proper young lady fairy--who hadn't any partner at all. It was Gauzita hers=
elf.
He made his way into the very centre of the
group.
"Gauzita!" he said. He thought, =
of
course, she would drop right off her lily stem; but she didn't. She simply
stopped swinging a moment, and stared at him.
"Gracious!" she exclaimed. "=
;And
who are you?"
"Who am I?" cried Mr. Goodfellow,
severely. "Don't you remember me?"
"No," she said, coolly; "I
don't, not in the least."
Robin Goodfellow almost gasped for breath.=
He
had never met with anything so outrageous in his life.
"You don't remember me?" he crie=
d.
"Me! Why, it's impossible!"
"Is it?" said Gauzita, with a to=
uch
of dainty impudence. "What's your name?"
Robin Goodfellow was almost paralyzed. Gau=
zita
took up a midget of an eyeglass which she had dangling from a thread of a g=
old
chain, and she stuck it in her eye and tilted her impertinent little chin a=
nd
looked him over. Not that she was near-sighted--not a bit of it; it was just
one of her tricks and manners.
"Dear me!" she said, "you do
look a trifle familiar. It isn't, it can't be, Mr. ----, Mr. ----," th=
en
she turned to the adorer, who held her fan, "it can't be Mr. ----, the=
one
who was changed into a robin, you know," she said. "Such a ridicu=
lous
thing to be changed into! What was his name?"
"Oh, yes! I know whom you mean. Mr. -=
---,
ah--Goodfellow!" said the fairy with the fan.
"So it was," she said, looking R=
obin
over again. "And he has been pecking at trees and things, and hopping =
in
and out of nests ever since, I suppose. How absurd! And we have been enjoyi=
ng
ourselves so much since he went away! I think I never did have so lovely a =
time
as I have had during these last two years. I began to know you," she
added, in a kindly tone, "just about the time he went away."
"You have been enjoying yourself?&quo=
t;
almost shrieked Robin Goodfellow.
"Well," said Gauzita, in unexcus=
able
slang, "I must smile." And she did smile.
"And nobody has pined away and
died?" cried Robin.
"I haven't," said Gauzita, swing=
ing
herself and ringing her bells again. "I really haven't had time."=
Robin Goodfellow turned around and rushed =
out
of the group. He regarded this as insulting. He went back to Fairyfoot in s=
uch
a hurry that he tripped on his sword and fell, and rolled over so many times
that Fairyfoot had to stop him and pick him up.
"Is she dead?" asked Fairyfoot.<= o:p>
"No," said Robin; "she
isn't."
He sat down on a small mushroom and clasped
his hands about his knees and looked mad--just mad. Angry or indignant woul=
dn't
express it.
"I have a great mind to go and be a
misanthrope," he said.
"Oh! I wouldn't," said Fairyfoot=
. He
didn't know what a misanthrope was, but he thought it must be something
unpleasant.
"Wouldn't you?" said Robin, look=
ing
up at him.
"No," answered Fairyfoot.
"Well," said Robin, "I gues=
s I
won't. Let's go and have some fun. They are all that way. You can't depend =
on
any of them. Never trust one of them. I believe that creature has been enga=
ged
as much as twice since I left. By a singular coincidence," he added,
"I have been married twice myself--but, of course, that's different. I=
'm a
man, you know, and--well, it's different. We won't dwell on it. Let's go and
dance. But wait a minute first." He took a little bottle from his pock=
et.
"If you remain the size you are,"=
; he
continued, "you will tread on whole sets of lancers and destroy entire
germans. If you drink this, you will become as small as we are; and then, w=
hen
you are going home, I will give you something to make you large again."
Fairyfoot drank from the little flagon, and immediately he felt himself gro=
wing
smaller and smaller until at last he was as small as his companion.
"Now, come on," said Robin.
On they went and joined the fairies, and t=
hey
danced and played fairy games and feasted on fairy dainties, and were so gay
and happy that Fairyfoot was wild with joy. Everybody made him welcome and
seemed to like him, and the lady fairies were simply delightful, especially=
Gauzita,
who took a great fancy to him. Just before the sun rose, Robin gave him
something from another flagon, and he grew large again, and two minutes and
three seconds and a half before daylight the ball broke up, and Robin took =
him
home and left him, promising to call for him the next night.
Every night throughout the whole summer the
same thing happened. At midnight he went to the fairies' dance; and at two
minutes and three seconds and a half before dawn he came home. He was never
lonely any more, because all day long he could think of what pleasure he wo=
uld
have when the night came; and, besides that, all the fairies were his frien=
ds. But
when the summer was coming to an end, Robin Goodfellow said to him: "T=
his
is our last dance--at least it will be our last for some time. At this time=
of
the year we always go back to our own country, and we don't return until
spring."
This made Fairyfoot very sad. He did not k=
now
how he could bear to be left alone again, but he knew it could not be helpe=
d;
so he tried to be as cheerful as possible, and he went to the final
festivities, and enjoyed himself more than ever before, and Gauzita gave hi=
m a
tiny ring for a parting gift. But the next night, when Robin did not come f=
or
him, he felt very lonely indeed, and the next day he was so sorrowful that =
he wandered
far away into the forest, in the hope of finding something to cheer him a
little. He wandered so far that he became very tired and thirsty, and he was
just making up his mind to go home, when he thought he heard the sound of
falling water. It seemed to come from behind a thicket of climbing roses; a=
nd
he went towards the place and pushed the branches aside a little, so that he
could look through. What he saw was a great surprise to him. Though it was =
the
end of summer, inside the thicket the roses were blooming in thousands all
around a pool as clear as crystal, into which the sparkling water fell from=
a
hole in the rock above. It was the most beautiful, clear pool that Fairyfoot
had ever seen, and he pressed his way through the rose branches, and, enter=
ing
the circle they inclosed, he knelt by the water and drank.
Almost instantly his feeling of sadness le=
ft
him, and he felt quite happy and refreshed. He stretched himself on the thi=
ck
perfumed moss, and listened to the tinkling of the water, and it was not lo=
ng
before he fell asleep.
When he awakened the moon was shining, the
pool sparkled like a silver plaque crusted with diamonds, and two nightinga=
les
were singing in the branches over his head. And the next moment he found out
that he understood their language just as plainly as if they had been human=
beings
instead of birds. The water with which he had quenched his thirst was
enchanted, and had given him this new power.
"Poor boy!" said one nightingale,
"he looks tired; I wonder where he came from."
"Why, my dear," said the other,
"is it possible you don't know that he is Prince Fairyfoot?"
"What!" said the first
nightingale--"the King of Stumpinghame's son, who was born with small
feet?"
"Yes," said the second. "And
the poor child has lived in the forest, keeping the swineherd's pigs ever
since. And he is a very nice boy, too--never throws stones at birds or robs
nests."
"What a pity he doesn't know about the
pool where the red berries grow!" said the first nightingale.
"What
pool--and what red berries?" asked the second nightingale.
"Why, my dear," said the first,
"is it possible you don't know about the pool where the red berries
grow--the pool where the poor, dear Princess Goldenhair met with her
misfortune?"
"Never heard of it," said the se=
cond
nightingale, rather crossly.
"Well," explained the other,
"you have to follow the brook for a day and three-quarters, and then t=
ake
all the paths to the left until you come to the pool. It is very ugly and
muddy, and bushes with red berries on them grow around it."
"Well, what of that?" said her
companion; "and what happened to the Princess Goldenhair?"
"Don't you know that, either?"
exclaimed her friend.
"No."
"Ah!" said the first nightingale,
"it was very sad. She went out with her father, the King, who had a
hunting party; and she lost her way, and wandered on until she came to the
pool. Her poor little feet were so hot that she took off her gold-embroider=
ed
satin slippers, and put them into the water--her feet, not the slippers--and
the next minute they began to grow and grow, and to get larger and larger,
until they were so immense she could hardly walk at all; and though all the
physicians in the kingdom have tried to make them smaller, nothing can be d=
one,
and she is perfectly unhappy."
"What a pity she doesn't know about t=
his
pool!" said the other bird. "If she just came here and bathed them
three times in the water, they would be smaller and more beautiful than eve=
r,
and she would be more lovely than she has ever been."
"It is a pity," said her compani=
on;
"but, you know, if we once let people know what this water will do, we
should be overrun with creatures bathing themselves beautiful, and trampling
our moss and tearing down our rose-trees, and we should never have any
peace."
"That is true," agreed the other=
.
Very soon after they flew away, and Fairyf=
oot
was left alone. He had been so excited while they were talking that he had =
been
hardly able to lie still. He was so sorry for the Princess Goldenhair, and =
so
glad for himself. Now he could find his way to the pool with the red berrie=
s,
and he could bathe his feet in it until they were large enough to satisfy S=
tumpinghame;
and he could go back to his father's court, and his parents would perhaps; =
be
fond of him. But he had so good a heart that he could not think of being ha=
ppy
himself and letting others remain unhappy, when he could help them. So the
first thing was to find the Princess Goldenhair and tell her about the nigh=
tingales'
fountain. But how was he to find her? The nightingales had not told him. He=
was
very much troubled, indeed. How was he to find her?
Suddenly, quite suddenly, he thought of the
ring Gauzita had given him. When she had given it to him she had made an odd
remark.
"When you wish to go anywhere," =
she
had said, "hold it in your hand, turn around twice with closed eyes, a=
nd
something queer will happen."
He had thought it was one of her little jo=
kes,
but now it occurred to him that at least he might try what would happen. So=
he
rose up, held the ring in his hand, closed his eyes, and turned around twic=
e.
What did happen was that he began to walk,=
not
very fast, but still passing along as if he were moving rapidly. He did not
know where he was going, but he guessed that the ring did, and that if he
obeyed it, he should find the Princess Goldenhair. He went on and on, not
getting in the least tired, until about daylight he found himself under a g=
reat
tree, and on the ground beneath it was spread a delightful breakfast, which=
he
knew was for him. He sat down and ate it, and then got up again and went on=
his
way once more. Before noon he had left the forest behind him, and was in a
strange country. He knew it was not Stumpinghame, because the people had no=
t large
feet. But they all had sad faces, and once or twice, when he passed groups =
of
them who were talking, he heard them speak of the Princess Goldenhair, as if
they were sorry for her and could not enjoy themselves while such a misfort=
une
rested upon her.
"So sweet and lovely and kind a
princess!" they said; "and it really seems as if she would never =
be
any better."
The sun was just setting when Fairyfoot ca=
me
in sight of the palace. It was built of white marble, and had beautiful
pleasure-grounds about it, but somehow there seemed to be a settled gloom in
the air. Fairyfoot had entered the great pleasure-garden, and was wondering
where it would be best to go first, when he saw a lovely white fawn, with a
golden collar about its neck, come bounding over the flower-beds, and he he=
ard,
at a little distance, a sweet voice, saying, sorrowfully, "Come back, =
my
fawn; I cannot run and play with you as I once used to. Do not leave me, my=
little
friend."
And soon from behind the trees came a line=
of
beautiful girls, walking two by two, all very slowly; and at the head of the
line, first of all, came the loveliest princess in the world, dressed softl=
y in
pure white, with a wreath of lilies on her long golden hair, which fell alm=
ost
to the hem of her white gown.
She had so fair and tender a young face, a=
nd
her large, soft eyes, yet looked so sorrowful, that Fairyfoot loved her in a
moment, and he knelt on one knee, taking off his cap and bending his head u=
ntil
his own golden hair almost hid his face.
"Beautiful Princess Goldenhair, beaut=
iful
and sweet Princess, may I speak to you?" he said.
The Princess stopped and looked at him, and
answered him softly. It surprised her to see one so poorly dressed kneeling
before her, in her palace gardens, among the brilliant flowers; but she alw=
ays
spoke softly to everyone.
"What is there that I can do for you,=
my
friend?" she said.
"Beautiful Princess," answered
Fairyfoot, blushing, "I hope very much that I may be able to do someth=
ing
for you."
"For me!" she exclaimed. "T=
hank
you, friend; what is it you can do? Indeed, I need a help I am afraid no one
can ever give me."
"Gracious and fairest lady," said
Fairyfoot, "it is that help I think--nay, I am sure--that I bring to
you."
"Oh!" said the sweet Princess.
"You have a kind face and most true eyes, and when I look at you--I do=
not
know why it is, but I feel a little happier. What is it you would say to
me?"
Still kneeling before her, still bending h=
is
head modestly, and still blushing, Fairyfoot told his story. He told her of=
his
own sadness and loneliness, and of why he was considered so terrible a disg=
race
to his family. He told her about the fountain of the nightingales and what =
he had
heard there and how he had journeyed through the forests, and beyond it into
her own country, to find her. And while he told it, her beautiful face chan=
ged
from red to white, and her hands closely clasped themselves together.
"Oh!" she said, when he had
finished, "I know that this is true from the kind look in your eyes, a=
nd I
shall be happy again. And how can I thank you for being so good to a poor
little princess whom you had never seen?"
"Only let me see you happy once more,
most sweet Princess," answered Fairyfoot, "and that will be all I
desire--only if, perhaps, I might once--kiss your hand."
She held out her hand to him with so lovel=
y a
look in her soft eyes that he felt happier than he had ever been before, ev=
en
at the fairy dances. This was a different kind of happiness. Her hand was as
white as a dove's wing and as soft as a dove's breast. "Come," she
said, "let us go at once to the King."
Within a few minutes the whole palace was =
in
an uproar of excitement. Preparations were made to go to the fountain of the
nightingales immediately. Remembering what the birds had said about not wis=
hing
to be disturbed, Fairyfoot asked the King to take only a small party. So no=
one
was to go but the King himself, the Princess, in a covered chair carried by=
two
bearers, the Lord High Chamberlain, two Maids of Honour, and Fairyfoot.
Before morning they were on their way, and=
the
day after they reached the thicket of roses, and Fairyfoot pushed aside the
branches and led the way into the dell.
The Princess Goldenhair sat down upon the =
edge
of the pool and put her feet into it. In two minutes they began to look
smaller. She bathed them once, twice, three times, and, as the nightingales=
had
said, they became smaller and more beautiful than ever. As for the Princess
herself, she really could not be more beautiful than she had been; but the =
Lord
High Chamberlain, who had been an exceedingly ugly old gentleman, after was=
hing
his face, became so young and handsome that the First Maid of Honour
immediately fell in love with him. Whereupon she washed her face, and becam=
e so
beautiful that he fell in love with her, and they were engaged upon the spo=
t.
The Princess could not find any words to t=
ell
Fairyfoot how grateful she was and how happy. She could only look at him ag=
ain
and again with her soft, radiant eyes, and again and again give him her hand
that he might kiss it.
She was so sweet and gentle that Fairyfoot
could not bear the thought of leaving her; and when the King begged him to
return to the palace with them and live there always, he was more glad than=
I
can tell you. To be near this lovely Princess, to be her friend, to love and
serve her and look at her every day, was such happiness that he wanted noth=
ing
more. But first he wished to visit his father and mother and sisters and br=
others
in Stumpinghame! so the King and Princess and their attendants went with hi=
m to
the pool where the red berries grew; and after he had bathed his feet in the
water they were so large that Stumpinghame contained nothing like them, even
the King's and Queen's seeming small in comparison. And when, a few days la=
ter,
he arrived at the Stumpinghame Palace, attended in great state by the
magnificent retinue with which the father of the Princess Goldenhair had
provided him, he was received with unbounded rapture by his parents. The Ki=
ng
and Queen felt that to have a son with feet of such a size was something to=
be
proud of, indeed. They could not admire him sufficiently, although the whole
country was illuminated, and feasting continued throughout his visit.
But though he was glad to be no more a
disgrace to his family, it cannot be said that he enjoyed the size of his f=
eet
very much on his own account. Indeed, he much preferred being Prince Fairyf=
oot,
as fleet as the wind and as light as a young deer, and he was quite glad to=
go
to the fountain of the nightingales after his visit was at an end, and bathe
his feet small again, and to return to the palace of the Princess Goldenhai=
r with
the soft and tender eyes. There everyone loved him, and he loved everyone, =
and
was four times as happy as the day is long.
He loved the Princess more dearly every da=
y,
and, of course, as soon as they were old enough, they were married. And of
course, too, they used to go in the summer to the forest, and dance in the
moonlight with the fairies, who adored them both.
When they went to visit Stumpinghame, they
always bathed their feet in the pool of the red berries; and when they
returned, they made them small again in the fountain of the nightingales.
They were always great friends with Robin
Goodfellow, and he was always very confidential with them about Gauzita, who
continued to be as pretty and saucy as ever.
"Some of these days," he used to
say, severely, "I'll marry another fairy, and see how she'll like that=
--to
see someone else basking in my society! I'll get even with her!"
But he never did.
THE PROUD LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT
There
once was a little grain of wheat which was very proud indeed. The first thi=
ng
it remembered was being very much crowded and jostled by a great many other
grains of wheat, all living in the same sack in the granary. It was quite d=
ark
in the sack, and no one could move about, and so there was nothing to be do=
ne
but to sit still and talk and think. The proud little grain of wheat talked=
a
great deal, but did not think quite so much, while its next neighbour thoug=
ht a
great deal and only talked when it was asked questions it could answer. It =
used
to say that when it thought a great deal it could remember things which it
seemed to have heard a long time ago.
"What is the use of our staying here =
so
long doing nothing, and never being seen by anybody?" the proud little
grain once asked.
"I don't know," the learned grain
replied. "I don't know the answer to that. Ask me another."
"Why can't I sing like the birds that
build their nests in the roof? I should like to sing, instead of sitting he=
re
in the dark."
"Because you have no voice," said
the learned grain.
This was a very good answer indeed.
"Why didn't someone give me a voice,
then--why didn't they?" said the proud little grain, getting very cros=
s.
The learned grain thought for several minu=
tes.
"There might be two answers to
that," she said at last. "One might be that nobody had a voice to
spare, and the other might be that you have nowhere to put one if it were g=
iven
to you."
"Everybody is better off than I am,&q=
uot;
said the proud little grain. "The birds can fly and sing, the children=
can
play and shout. I am sure I can get no rest for their shouting and playing.
There are two little boys who make enough noise to deafen the whole sackful=
of
us."
"Ah! I know them," said the lear=
ned
grain. "And it's true they are noisy. Their names are Lionel and Vivia=
n.
There is a thin place in the side of the sack, through which I can see them=
. I
would rather stay where I am than have to do all they do. They have long ye=
llow
hair, and when they stand on their heads the straw sticks in it and they lo=
ok
very curious. I heard a strange thing through listening to them the other
day."
"What was it?" asked the proud
grain.
"They were playing in the straw, and
someone came in to them--it was a lady who had brought them something on a
plate. They began to dance and shout: 'It's cake! It's cake! Nice little ma=
mma
for bringing us cake.' And then they each sat down with a piece and began to
take great bites out of it. I shuddered to think of it afterward."
"Why?"
"Well, you know they are always asking
questions, and they began to ask questions of their mamma, who lay down in =
the
straw near them. She seemed to be used to it. These are the questions Vivian
asked:
"'Who made the cake?'
"'The cook.'
"'Who made the cook?'
"'God.'
"'What did He make her for?'
"'Why didn't He make her white?'
"'Why didn't He make you black?'
"'Did He cut a hole in heaven and dro=
p me
through when He made me?'
"'Why didn't it hurt me when I tumbled
such a long way?'
"She said she 'didn't know' to all but
the two first, and then he asked two more.
"'What is the cake made of?'
"'Flour, sugar, eggs and butter.'
"'What is flour made of?'
"It was the answer to that which made=
me
shudder."
"What was it?" asked the proud
grain.
"She said it was made of--wheat! I do=
n't
see the advantage of being rich--"
"Was the cake rich?" asked the p=
roud
grain.
"Their mother said it was. She said,
'Don't eat it so fast--it is very rich.'"
"Ah!" said the proud grain. &quo=
t;I
should like to be rich. It must be very fine to be rich. If I am ever made =
into
cake, I mean to be so rich that no one will dare to eat me at all."
"Ah?" said the learned grain.
"I don't think those boys would be afraid to eat you, however rich you
were. They are not afraid of richness."
"They'd be afraid of me before they h=
ad
done with me," said the proud grain. "I am not a common grain of
wheat. Wait until I am made into cake. But gracious me! there doesn't seem =
much
prospect of it while we are shut up here. How dark and stuffy it is, and ho=
w we
are crowded, and what a stupid lot the other grains are! I'm tired of it, I
must say."
"We are all in the same sack," s=
aid
the learned grain, very quietly.
It was a good many days after that, that
something happened. Quite early in the morning, a man and a boy came into t=
he
granary, and moved the sack of wheat from its place, wakening all the grains
from their last nap.
"What is the matter?" said the p=
roud
grain. "Who is daring to disturb us?"
"Hush!" whispered the learned gr=
ain,
in the most solemn manner. "Something is going to happen. Something li=
ke
this happened to somebody belonging to me long ago. I seem to remember it w=
hen
I think very hard. I seem to remember something about one of my family being
sown."
"What is sown?" demanded the oth=
er
grain.
"It is being thrown into the earth,&q=
uot;
began the learned grain.
Oh, what a passion the proud grain got int=
o!
"Into the earth?" she shrieked out. "Into the common earth? =
The
earth is nothing but dirt, and I am not a common grain of wheat. I won't be
sown! I will not be sown! How dare anyone sow me against my will! I would
rather stay in the sack."
But just as she was saying it, she was thr=
own
out with the learned grain and some others into another dark place, and car=
ried
off by the farmer, in spite of her temper; for the farmer could not hear her
voice at all, and wouldn't have minded if he had, because he knew she was o=
nly
a grain of wheat, and ought to be sown, so that some good might come of her=
.
Well, she was carried out to a large field=
in
the pouch which the farmer wore at his belt. The field had been ploughed, a=
nd
there was a sweet smell of fresh earth in the air; the sky was a deep, deep
blue, but the air was cool and the few leaves on the trees were brown and d=
ry,
and looked as if they had been left over from last year. "Ah!" sa=
id
the learned grain. "It was just such a day as this when my grandfather=
, or
my father, or somebody else related to me, was sown. I think I remember tha=
t it
was called Early Spring."
"As for me," said the proud grai=
n,
fiercely, "I should like to see the man who would dare to sow me!"=
;
At that very moment, the farmer put his bi=
g,
brown hand into the bag and threw her, as she thought, at least half a mile
from them.
He had not thrown her so far as that, howe=
ver,
and she landed safely in the shadow of a clod of rich earth, which the sun =
had
warmed through and through. She was quite out of breath and very dizzy at
first, but in a few seconds she began to feel better and could not help loo=
king
around, in spite of her anger, to see if there was anyone near to talk to. =
But she
saw no one, and so began to scold as usual.
"They not only sow me," she call=
ed
out, "but they throw me all by myself, where I can have no company at =
all.
It is disgraceful."
Then she heard a voice from the other side=
of
the clod. It was the learned grain, who had fallen there when the farmer th=
rew
her out of his pouch.
"Don't be angry," it said, "=
;I
am here. We are all right so far. Perhaps, when they cover us with the eart=
h,
we shall be even nearer to each other than we are now."
"Do you mean to say they will cover us
with the earth?" asked the proud grain.
"Yes," was the answer. "And
there we shall lie in the dark, and the rain will moisten us, and the sun w=
ill
warm us, until we grow larger and larger, and at last burst open!"
"Speak for yourself," said the p=
roud
grain; "I shall do no such thing!"
But it all happened just as the learned gr=
ain
had said, which showed what a wise grain it was, and how much it had found =
out
just by thinking hard and remembering all it could.
Before the day was over, they were covered
snugly up with the soft, fragrant, brown earth, and there they lay day after
day.
One morning, when the proud grain wakened,=
it
found itself wet through and through with rain which had fallen in the nigh=
t,
and the next day the sun shone down and warmed it so that it really began t=
o be
afraid that it would be obliged to grow too large for its skin, which felt =
a little
tight for it already.
It said nothing of this to the learned gra=
in,
at first, because it was determined not to burst if it could help it; but a=
fter
the same thing had happened a great many times, it found, one morning, that=
it
really was swelling, and it felt obliged to tell the learned grain about it=
.
"Well," it said, pettishly, &quo=
t;I
suppose you will be glad to hear that you were right, I am going to burst. =
My
skin is so tight now that it doesn't fit me at all, and I know I can't stand
another warm shower like the last."
"Oh!" said the learned grain, in=
a
quiet way (really learned people always have a quiet way), "I knew I w=
as
right, or I shouldn't have said so. I hope you don't find it very
uncomfortable. I think I myself shall burst by to-morrow."
"Of course I find it uncomfortable,&q=
uot;
said the proud grain. "Who wouldn't find it uncomfortable, to be two or
three sizes too small for one's self! Pouf! Crack! There I go! I have split=
up
all up my right side, and I must say it's a relief."
"Crack! Pouf! so have I," said t=
he
learned grain. "Now we must begin to push up through the earth. I am s=
ure
my relation did that."
"Well, I shouldn't mind getting out i=
nto
the air. It would be a change at least."
So each of them began to push her way thro=
ugh
the earth as strongly as she could, and, sure enough, it was not long before
the proud grain actually found herself out in the world again, breathing the
sweet air, under the blue sky, across which fleecy white clouds were drifti=
ng,
and swift-winged, happy birds darting.
"It really is a lovely day," were
the first words the proud grain said. It couldn't help it. The sunshine was=
so
delightful, and the birds chirped and twittered so merrily in the bare
branches, and, more wonderful than all, the great field was brown no longer,
but was covered with millions of little, fresh green blades, which trembled=
and
bent their frail bodies before the light wind.
"This is an improvement," said t=
he
proud grain.
Then there was a little stir in the earth
beside it, and up through the brown mould came the learned grain, fresh,
bright, green, like the rest.
"I told you I was not a common grain =
of
wheat," said the proud one.
"You are not a grain of wheat at all
now," said the learned one, modestly. "You are a blade of wheat, =
and
there are a great many others like you."
"See how green I am!" said the p=
roud
blade.
"Yes, you are very green," said =
its
companion. "You will not be so green when you are older."
The proud grain, which must be called a bl=
ade
now, had plenty of change and company after this. It grew taller and taller=
every
day, and made a great many new acquaintances as the weather grew warmer. Th=
ese
were little gold and green beetles living near it, who often passed it, and=
now
and then stopped to talk a little about their children and their journeys u=
nder
the soil. Birds dropped down from the sky sometimes to gossip and twitter of
the nests they were building in the apple-trees, and the new songs they were
learning to sing.
Once, on a very warm day, a great golden
butterfly, floating by on his large lovely wings, fluttered down softly and=
lit
on the proud blade, who felt so much prouder when he did it that she trembl=
ed
for joy.
"He admires me more than all the rest=
in
the field, you see," it said, haughtily. "That is because I am so
green."
"If I were you," said the learned
blade, in its modest way, "I believe I would not talk so much about be=
ing
green. People will make such ill-natured remarks when one speaks often of o=
ne's
self."
"I am above such people," said t=
he
proud blade "I can find nothing more interesting to talk of than
myself."
As time went on, it was delighted to find =
that
it grew taller than any other blade in the field, and threw out other blade=
s;
and at last there grew out at the top of its stalk ever so many plump, new
little grains, all fitting closely together, and wearing tight little green
covers.
"Look at me!" it said then. &quo=
t;I
am the queen of all the wheat. I have a crown."
"No." said its learned companion.
"You are now an ear of wheat."
And in a short time all the other stalks w=
ore
the same kind of crown, and it found out that the learned blade was right, =
and
that it was only an ear, after all.
And now the weather had grown still warmer=
and
the trees were covered with leaves, and the birds sang and built their nest=
s in
them and laid their little blue eggs, and in time, wonderful to relate, the=
re
came baby birds, that were always opening their mouths for food, and crying
"peep, peep," to their fathers and mothers. There were more
butterflies floating about on their amber and purple wings, and the gold and
green beetles were so busy they had no time to talk.
"Well!" said the proud ear of wh=
eat
(you remember it was an ear by this time) to its companion one day. "Y=
ou
see, you were right again. I am not so green as I was. I am turning yellow-=
-but
yellow is the colour of gold, and I don't object to looking like gold."=
;
"You will soon be ripe," said its
friend.
"And what will happen then?"
"The reaping-machine will come and cut
you down, and other strange things will happen."
"There I make a stand," said the
proud ear, "I will not be cut down."
But it was just as the wise ear said it wo=
uld
be. Not long after a reaping-machine was brought and driven back and forth =
in
the fields, and down went all the wheat ears before the great knives. But it
did not hurt the wheat, of course, and only the proud ear felt angry.
"I am the colour of gold," it sa=
id,
"and yet they have dared to cut me down. What will they do next, I
wonder?"
What they did next was to bunch it up with
other wheat and tie it and stack it together, and then it was carried in a
waggon and laid in the barn.
Then there was a great bustle after a whil=
e.
The farmer's wife and daughters and her two servants began to work as hard =
as
they could.
"The threshers are coming," they
said, "and we must make plenty of things for them to eat."
So they made pies and cakes and bread until
their cupboards were full; and surely enough the threshers did come with the
threshing-machine, which was painted red, and went "Puff! puff! puff!
rattle! rattle!" all the time. And the proud wheat was threshed out by=
it,
and found itself in grains again and very much out of breath.
"I look almost as I was at first,&quo=
t;
it said; "only there are so many of me. I am grander than ever now. I =
was
only one grain of wheat at first, and now I am at least fifty."
When it was put into a sack, it managed to=
get
all its grains together in one place, so that it might feel as grand as
possible. It was so proud that it felt grand, however much it was knocked
about.
It did not lie in the sack very long this =
time
before something else happened. One morning it heard the farmer's wife sayi=
ng
to the coloured boy:
"Take this yere sack of wheat to the
mill, Jerry. I want to try it when I make that thar cake for the boarders. =
Them
two children from Washington city are powerful hands for cake."
So Jerry lifted the sack up and threw it o=
ver
his shoulder, and carried it out into the spring-waggon.
"Now we are going to travel," sa=
id
the proud wheat "Don't let us be separated."
At that minute, there were heard two young
voices, shouting:--
"Jerry, take us in the waggon! Let us=
go
to mill, Jerry. We want to go to mill."
And these were the very two boys who had
played in the granary and made so much noise the summer before. They had gr=
own
a little bigger, and their yellow hair was longer, but they looked just as =
they
used to, with their strong little legs and big brown eyes, and their sailor
hats set so far back on their heads that it was a wonder they stayed on. An=
d gracious!
how they shouted and ran.
"What does yer mar say?" asked
Jerry.
"Says we can go!" shouted both at
once, as if Jerry had been deaf, which he wasn't at all--quite the contrary=
.
So Jerry, who was very good-natured, lifted
them in, and cracked his whip, and the horses started off. It was a long ri=
de
to the mill, but Lionel and Vivian were not too tired to shout again when t=
hey
reached it. They shouted at sight of the creek and the big wheel turning ro=
und
and round slowly, with the water dashing and pouring and foaming over it.
"What turns the wheel?" asked
Vivian.
"The water, honey," said Jerry.<= o:p>
"What turns the water?"
"Well now, honey," said Jerry,
"you hev me thar. I don't know nuffin 'bout it. Lors-a-massy, what a b=
oy
you is fur axin dif'cult questions."
Then he carried the sack in to the miller,=
and
said he would wait until the wheat was ground.
"Ground!" said the proud wheat.
"We are going to be ground. I hope it is agreeable. Let us keep close
together."
They did keep close together, but it wasn't
very agreeable to be poured into a hopper and then crushed into fine powder
between two big stones.
"Makes nice flour," said the mil=
ler,
rubbing it between his fingers.
"Flour!" said the wheat--which w=
as
wheat no longer. "Now I am flour, and I am finer than ever. How white I
am! I really would rather be white than green or gold colour. I wonder where
the learned grain is, and if it is as fine and white as I am?"
But the learned grain and her family had b=
een
laid away in the granary for seed wheat.
Before the waggon reached the house again,=
the
two boys were fast asleep in the bottom of it, and had to be helped out jus=
t as
the sack was, and carried in.
The sack was taken into the kitchen at once
and opened, and even in its wheat days the flour had never been so proud as=
it
was when it heard the farmer's wife say--
"I'm going to make this into cake.&qu=
ot;
"Ah!" it said; "I thought s=
o.
Now I shall be rich, and admired by everybody."
The farmer's wife then took some of it out=
in
a large white bowl, and after that she busied herself beating eggs and sugar
and butter all together in another bowl: and after a while she took the flo=
ur
and beat it in also.
"Now I am in grand company," said
the flour. "The eggs and butter are the colour of gold, the sugar is l=
ike
silver or diamonds. This is the very society for me."
"The cake looks rich," said one =
of
the daughters.
"It's rather too rich for them
children," said her mother. "But Lawsey, I dunno, neither. Nothin'
don't hurt 'em. I reckon they could eat a panel of rail fence and come to no
harm."
"I'm rich," said the flour to
itself. "That is just what I intended from the first. I am rich and I =
am a
cake."
Just then, a pair of big brown eyes came a=
nd
peeped into it. They belonged to a round little head with a mass of tangled
curls all over it--they belonged to Vivian.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Cake."
"Who made it?"
"I did."
"I like you," said Vivian.
"You're such a nice woman. Who's going to eat any of it? Is Lionel?&qu=
ot;
"I'm afraid it's too rich for boys,&q=
uot;
said the woman, but she laughed and kissed him.
"No," said Vivian. "I'm afr=
aid
it isn't."
"I shall be much too rich," said=
the
cake, angrily. "Boys, indeed. I was made for something better than
boys."
After that, it was poured into a cake-moul=
d,
and put into the oven, where it had rather an unpleasant time of it. It was=
so
hot in there that if the farmer's wife had not watched it carefully, it wou=
ld
have been burned.
"But I am cake," it said, "=
and
of the richest kind, so I can bear it, even if it is uncomfortable."
When it was taken out, it really was cake,=
and
it felt as if it was quite satisfied. Everyone who came into the kitchen and
saw it, said--
"Oh, what a nice cake! How well your =
new
flour has done!"
But just once, while it was cooling, it ha=
d a
curious, disagreeable feeling. It found, all at once, that the two boys, Li=
onel
and Vivian, had come quietly into the kitchen and stood near the table, loo=
king
at the cake with their great eyes wide open and their little red mouths ope=
n,
too.
"Dear me," it said. "How
nervous I feel--actually nervous. What great eyes they have, and how they
shine! and what are those sharp white things in their mouths? I really don't
like them to look at me in that way. It seems like something personal. I wi=
sh
the farmer's wife would come."
Such a chill ran over it, that it was quite
cool when the woman came in, and she put it away in the cupboard on a plate=
.
But, that very afternoon, she took it out
again and set it on the table on a glass cake-stand. She put some leaves ar=
ound
it to make it look nice, and it noticed there were a great many other thing=
s on
the table, and they all looked fresh and bright.
"This is all in my honour," it s=
aid.
"They know I am rich."
Then several people came in and took chairs
around the table.
"They all come to sit and look at
me," said the vain cake. "I wish the learned grain could see me
now."
There was a little high-chair on each side=
of
the table, and at first these were empty, but in a few minutes the door ope=
ned
and in came the two little boys. They had pretty, clean dresses on, and the=
ir
"bangs" and curls were bright with being brushed.
"Even they have been dressed up to do=
me
honour," thought the cake.
But, the next minute, it began to feel qui= te nervous again, Vivian's chair was near the glass stand, and when he had cli= mbed up and seated himself, he put one elbow on the table and rested his fat chi= n on his fat hand, and fixing his eyes on the cake, sat and stared at it in such= an unnaturally quiet manner for some seconds, that any cake might well have felt nervous.<= o:p>
"There's the cake," he said, at
last, in such a deeply thoughtful voice that the cake felt faint with anger=
.
Then a remarkable thing happened. Some one
drew the stand toward them and took the knife and cut out a large slice of =
the
cake.
"Go away," said the cake, though=
no
one heard it. "I am cake! I am rich! I am not for boys! How dare
you?"
Vivian stretched out his hand; he took the
slice; he lifted it up, and then the cake saw his red mouth open--yes, open
wider than it could have believed possible--wide enough to show two dreadful
rows of little sharp white things.
"Good gra--" it began.
But it never said "cious." Never=
at
all. For in two minutes Vivian had eaten it!!
And there was an end of its airs and grace=
s.
It
began with Aunt Hetty's being out of temper, which, it must be confessed, w=
as
nothing new. At its best, Aunt Hetty's temper was none of the most charming,
and this morning it was at its worst. She had awakened to the consciousness=
of
having a hard day's work before her, and she had awakened late, and so
everything had gone wrong from the first. There was a sharp ring in her voi=
ce
when she came to Jem's bedroom door and called out, "Jemima, get up th=
is
minute!"
Jem knew what to expect when Aunt Hetty be=
gan
a day by calling her "Jemima." It was one of the poor child's
grievances that she had been given such an ugly name. In all the books she =
had
read, and she had read a great many, Jem never had met a heroine who was ca=
lled
Jemima. But it had been her mother's favorite sister's name, and so it had
fallen to her lot. Her mother always called her "Jem," or
"Mimi," which was much prettier, and even Aunt Hetty only reserved
Jemima for unpleasant state occasions.
It was a dreadful day to Jem. Her mother w=
as not
at home, and would not be until night. She had been called away unexpectedl=
y,
and had been obliged to leave Jem and the baby to Aunt Hetty's mercies.
So Jem found herself busy enough. Scarcely=
had
she finished doing one thing, when Aunt Hetty told her to begin another. She
wiped dishes and picked fruit and attended to the baby; and when baby had g=
one
to sleep, and everything else seemed disposed of, for a time, at least, she=
was
so tired that she was glad to sit down.
And then she thought of the book she had b=
een
reading the night before--a certain delightful story book, about a little g=
irl
whose name was Flora, and who was so happy and rich and pretty and good that
Jem had likened her to the little princesses one reads about, to whose
christening feast every fairy brings a gift.
"I shall have time to finish my chapt=
er
before dinner-time comes," said Jem, and she sat down snugly in one co=
rner
of the wide, old fashioned fireplace.
But she had not read more than two pages
before something dreadful happened. Aunt Hetty came into the room in a great
hurry--in such a hurry, indeed, that she caught her foot in the matting and
fell, striking her elbow sharply against a chair, which so upset her temper
that the moment she found herself on her feet she flew at Jem.
"What!" she said, snatching the =
book
from her, "reading again, when I am running all over the house for
you?" And she flung the pretty little blue covered volume into the fir=
e.
Jem sprang to rescue it with a cry, but it=
was
impossible to reach it; it had fallen into a great hollow of red coal, and =
the
blaze caught it at once.
"You are a wicked woman!" cried =
Jem,
in a dreadful passion, to Aunt Hetty. "You are a wicked woman."
Then matters reached a climax. Aunt Hetty
boxed her ears, pushed her back on her little footstool, and walked out of =
the
room.
Jem hid her face on her arms and cried as =
if
her heart would break. She cried until her eyes were heavy, and she thought=
she
would be obliged to go to sleep. But just as she was thinking of going to s=
leep,
something fell down the chimney and made her look up. It was a piece of mor=
tar,
and it brought a good deal of soot with it. She bent forward and looked up =
to see
where it had come from. The chimney was so very wide that this was easy eno=
ugh.
She could see where the mortar had fallen from the side and left a white pa=
tch.
"How white it looks against the
black!" said Jem; "it is like a white brick among the black ones.
What a queer place a chimney is! I can see a bit of the blue sky, I
think."
And then a funny thought came into her
fanciful little head. What a many things were burned in the big fireplace a=
nd
vanished in smoke or tinder up the chimney! Where did everything go? There =
was
Flora, for instance--Flora who was represented on the frontispiece--with
lovely, soft, flowing hair, and a little fringe on her pretty round forehea=
d, crowned
with a circlet of daisies, and a laugh in her wide-awake round eyes. Where =
was
she by this time? Certainly there was nothing left of her in the fire. Jem
almost began to cry again at the thought.
"It was too bad," she said.
"She was so pretty and funny, and I did like her so."
I daresay it scarcely will be credited by
unbelieving people when I tell them what happened next, it was such a very
singular thing, indeed.
Jem felt herself gradually lifted off her
little footstool.
"Oh!" she said, timidly, "I
feel very light." She did feel light, indeed. She felt so light that s=
he
was sure she was rising gently in the air.
"Oh," she said again, "how-=
-how
very light I feel! Oh, dear, I'm going up the chimney!"
It was rather strange that she never thoug=
ht
of calling for help, but she did not. She was not easily frightened; and now
she was only wonderfully astonished, as she remembered afterwards. She shut=
her
eyes tight and gave a little gasp.
"I've heard Aunt Hetty talk about the
draught drawing things up the chimney, but I never knew it was as strong as
this," she said.
She went up, up, up, quietly and steadily,=
and
without any uncomfortable feeling at all; and then all at once she stopped,
feeling that her feet rested against something solid. She opened her eyes a=
nd
looked about her, and there she was, standing right opposite the white bric=
k,
her feet on a tiny ledge.
"Well," she said, "this is
funny."
But the next thing that happened was funni=
er
still. She found that, without thinking what she was doing, she was knockin=
g on
the white brick with her knackles, as if it was a door and she expected
somebody to open it. The next minute she heard footsteps, and then a sound,=
as
if some one was drawing back a little bolt.
"It is a door," said Jem, "=
and
somebody is going to open it."
The white brick moved a little, and some m=
ore
mortar and soot fell; then the brick moved a little more, and then it slid
aside and left an open space.
"It's a room!" cried Jem,
"There's a room behind it!"
And so there was, and before the open space
stood a pretty little girl, with long lovely hair and a fringe on her foreh=
ead.
Jem clasped her hands in amazement. It was Flora herself, as she looked in =
the
picture, and Flora stood laughing and nodding.
"Come in," she said. "I tho=
ught
it was you."
"But how can I come in through such a
little place?" asked Jem.
"Oh, that is easy enough," said
Flora. "Here, give me your hand."
Jem did as she told her, and found that it=
was
easy enough. In an instant she had passed through the opening, the white br=
ick
had gone back to its place, and she was standing by Flora's side in a large
room--the nicest room she had ever seen. It was big and lofty and light, an=
d there
were all kinds of delightful things in it--books and flowers and playthings=
and
pictures, and in one corner a great cage full of lovebirds.
"Have I ever seen it before?" as=
ked
Jem, glancing slowly round.
"Yes," said Flora; "you saw=
it
last night--in your mind. Don't you remember it?"
Jem shook her head.
"I feel as if I did, but--"
"Why," said Flora, laughing,
"it's my room, the one you read about last night."
"So it is," said Jem. "But =
how
did you come here?"
"I can't tell you that; I myself don't
know. But I am here, and so"--rather mysteriously--"are a great m=
any
other things."
"Are they?" said Jem, very much interested. "What things? Burned things? I was just wondering--"<= o:p>
"Not only burned things," said Flora, nodding. "Just come with me and I'll show you something."<= o:p>
She led the way out of the room and down a
little passage with several doors in each side of it, and she opened one do=
or
and showed Jem what was on the other side of it. That was a room, too, and =
this
time it was funny as well as pretty. Both floor and walls were padded with =
rose
color, and the floor was strewn with toys. There were big soft balls, rattl=
es, horses,
woolly dogs, and a doll or so; there was one low cushioned chair and a low
table.
"You can come in," said a shrill=
little
voice behind the door, "only mind you don't tread on things."
"What a funny little voice!" said
Jem, but she had no sooner said it than she jumped back.
The owner of the voice, who had just come
forward, was no other than Baby.
"Why," exclaimed Jem, beginning =
to
feel frightened, "I left you fast asleep in your crib."
"Did you?" said Baby, somewhat
scornfully. "That's just the way with you grown-up people. You think y=
ou
know everything, and yet you haven't discretion enough to know when a pin i=
s sticking
into one. You'd know soon enough if you had one sticking into your own
back."
"But I'm not grown up," stammered
Jem; "and when you are at home you can neither walk nor talk. You're n=
ot
six months old."
"Well, miss," retorted Baby, who=
se
wrongs seemed to have soured her disposition somewhat, "you have no ne=
ed
to throw that in my teeth; you were not six months old, either, when you we=
re
my age."
Jem could not help laughing.
"You haven't got any teeth," she
said.
"Haven't I?" said Baby, and she =
displayed
two beautiful rows with some haughtiness of manner. "When I am up
here," she said, "I am supplied with the modern conveniences, and
that's why I never complain. Do I ever cry when I am asleep? It's not falli=
ng
asleep I object to, it's falling awake."
"Wait a minute," said Jem. "=
;Are
you asleep now?"
"I'm what you call asleep. I can only
come here when I'm what you call asleep. Asleep, indeed! It's no wonder we
always cry when we have to fall awake."
"But we don't mean to be unkind to
you," protested Jem, meekly.
She could not help thinking Baby was very
severe.
"Don't mean!" said Baby. "W=
ell,
why don't you think more, then? How would you like to have all the nice thi=
ngs
snatched away from you, and all the old rubbish packed off on you, as if yo=
u hadn't
any sense? How would you like to have to sit and stare at things you wanted,
and not to be able to reach them, or, if you did reach them, have them fall=
out
of your hand, and roll away in the most unfeeling manner? And then be scold=
ed
and called 'cross!' It's no wonder we are bald. You'd be bald yourself. It'=
s trouble
and worry that keep us bald until we can begin to take care of ourselves; I=
had
more hair than this at first, but it fell off, as well it might. No philoso=
pher
ever thought of that, I suppose!"
"Well," said Jem, in despair,
"I hope you enjoy yourself when you are here?"
"Yes, I do," answered Baby.
"That's one comfort. There is nothing to knock my head against, and th=
ings
have patent stoppers on them, so that they can't roll away, and everything =
is
soft and easy to pick up."
There was a slight pause after this, and B=
aby
seemed to cool down.
"I suppose you would like me to show =
you
round?" she said.
"Not if you have any objection,"
replied Jem, who was rather subdued.
"I would as soon do it as not," =
said
Baby. "You are not as bad as some people, though you do get my clothes
twisted when you hold me."
Upon the whole, she seemed rather proud of=
her
position. It was evident she quite regarded herself as hostess. She held her
small bald head very high indeed, as she trotted on before them. She stoppe=
d at
the first door she came to, and knocked three times. She was obliged to sta=
nd
upon tiptoe to reach the knocker.
"He's sure to be at home at this time=
of
year," she remarked. "This is the busy season."
"Who's 'he'?" inquired Jem.
But Flora only laughed at Miss Baby's
consequential air.
"S.C., to be sure," was the answ=
er,
as the young lady pointed to the door-plate, upon which Jem noticed, for the
first time, "S.C." in very large letters.
The door opened, apparently without
assistance, and they entered the apartment.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Jem, =
the
next minute. "Goodness gracious!"
She might well be astonished. It was such a
long room that she could not see to the end of it, and it was piled up from
floor to ceiling with toys of every description, and there was such bustle =
and
buzzing in it that it was quite confusing. The bustle and buzzing arose fro=
m a
very curious cause, too,--it was the bustle and buzz of hundreds of tiny men
and women who were working at little tables no higher than mushrooms,--the
pretty tiny women cutting out and sewing, the pretty tiny men sawing and ha=
mmering
and all talking at once. The principal person in the place escaped Jem's no=
tice
at first; but it was not long before she saw him,--a little old gentleman, =
with
a rosy face and sparkling eyes, sitting at a desk, and writing in a book al=
most
as big as himself. He was so busy that he was quite excited, and had been
obliged to throw his white fur coat and cap aside, and he was at work in his
red waistcoat.
"Look here, if you please," piped
Baby, "I have brought some one to see you."
When he turned round, Jem recognized him at
once.
"Eh! Eh!" he said. "What! W=
hat!
Who's this, Tootsicums?"
Baby's manner became very acid indeed.
"I shouldn't have thought you would h=
ave
said that, Mr. Claus," she remarked. "I can't help myself down be=
low,
but I generally have my rights respected up here. I should like to know what
sane godfather or godmother would give one the name of 'Tootsicums' in one's
baptism. They are bad enough, I must say; but I never heard of any of them
calling a person 'Tootsicums.'"
"Come, come!" said S.C., chuckli=
ng
comfortably and rubbing his hands. "Don't be too dignified,--it's a bad
thing. And don't be too fond of flourishing your rights in people's
faces,--that's the worst of all, Miss Midget. Folks who make such a fuss ab=
out
their rights turn them into wrongs sometimes."
Then he turned suddenly to Jem.
"You are the little girl from down be=
low,"
he said.
"Yes, sir," answered Jem. "=
I'm
Jem, and this is my friend Flora,--out of the blue book."
"I'm happy to make her
acquaintance," said S.C., "and I'm happy to make yours. You are a
nice child, though a trifle peppery. I'm very glad to see you."
"I'm very glad indeed to see you,
sir," said Jem. "I wasn't quite sure--"
But there she stopped, feeling that it wou=
ld
be scarcely polite to tell him that she had begun of late years to lose fai=
th
in him.
But S.C. only chuckled more comfortably th=
an ever
and rubbed his hands again.
"Ho, ho!" he said. "You know
who I am, then?"
Jem hesitated a moment, wondering whether =
it
would not be taking a liberty to mention his name without putting
"Mr." before it: then she remembered what Baby had called him.
"Baby called you 'Mr. Claus,' sir,&qu=
ot;
she replied; "and I have seen pictures of you."
"To be sure," said S.C. "S.
Claus, Esquire, of Chimneyland. How do you like me?"
"Very much," answered Jem;
"very much, indeed, sir."
"Glad of it! Glad of it! But what was=
it
you were going to say you were not quite sure of?"
Jem blushed a little.
"I was not quite sure that--that you =
were
true, sir. At least I have not been quite sure since I have been older.&quo=
t;
S.C. rubbed the bald part of his head and =
gave
a little sigh.
"I hope I have not hurt your feelings,
sir," faltered Jem, who was a very kind hearted little soul.
"Well, no," said S.C. "Not
exactly. And it is not your fault either. It is natural, I suppose; at any
rate, it is the way of the world. People lose their belief in a great many
things as they grow older; but that does not make the things not true, thank
goodness! and their faith often comes back after a while. But, bless me!&qu=
ot;
he added, briskly, "I'm moralizing, and who thanks a man for doing tha=
t?
Suppose--"
"Black eyes or blue, sir?" said a
tiny voice close to them.
Jem and Flora turned round, and saw it was=
one
of the small workers who was asking the question.
"Whom for?" inquired S.C.
"Little girl in the red brick house at
the corner," said the workwoman; "name of Birdie."
"Excuse me a moment," said S.C. =
to
the children, and he turned to the big book and began to run his fingers do=
wn
the pages in a business-like manner. "Ah! here she is!" he exclai=
med
at last. "Blue eyes, if you please, Thistle, and golden hair. And let =
it
be a big one. She takes good care of them."
"Yes, sir," said Thistle; "=
I am
personally acquainted with several dolls in her family. I go to parties in =
her
dolls' house sometimes when she is fast asleep at night, and they all speak
very highly of her. She is most attentive to them when they are ill. In fac=
t,
her pet doll is a cripple, with a stiff leg."
She ran back to her work and S.C. finished=
his
sentence.
"Suppose I show you my
establishment," he said. "Come with me."
It really would be quite impossible to
describe the wonderful things he showed them. Jem's head was quite in a whi=
rl
before she had seen one-half of them, and even Baby condescended to become
excited.
"There must be a great many children =
in
the world, Mr. Claus," ventured Jem.
"Yes, yes, millions of 'em; bless
'em," said S.C., growing rosier with delight at the very thought. &quo=
t;We
never run out of them, that's one comfort. There's a large and varied
assortment always on hand. Fresh ones every year, too, so that when one gro=
ws
too old there is a new one ready. I have a place like this in every twelfth
chimney. Now it's boys, now it's girls, always one or t'other; and there's =
no
end of playthings for them, too, I'm glad to say. For girls, the great thing
seems to be dolls. Blitzen! what comfort they do take in dolls! but the boys
are for horses and racket."
They were standing near a table where a wo=
rker
was just putting the finishing touch to the dress of a large wax doll, and =
just
at that moment, to Jem's surprise, she set it on the floor, upon its feet, =
quite
coolly.
"Thank you," said the doll,
politely.
Jem quite jumped.
"You can join the rest now and introd=
uce
yourself," said the worker.
The doll looked over her shoulder at her
train.
"It hangs very nicely," she said.
"I hope it's the latest fashion."
"Mine never talked like that," s=
aid
Flora. "My best one could only say 'Mamma,' and it said it very badly,
too."
"She was foolish for saying it at
all," remarked the doll, haughtily. "We don't talk and walk before
ordinary people; we keep our accomplishments for our own amusement, and for=
the
amusement of our friends. If you should chance to get up in the middle of t=
he
night, some time, or should run into the room suddenly some day, after you =
have
left it, you might hear--but what is the use of talking to human beings?&qu=
ot;
"You know a great deal, considering y=
ou
are only just finished," snapped Baby, who really was a Tartar.
"I was FINISHED," retorted the d=
oll
"I did not begin life as a baby!" very scornfully.
"Pooh!" said Baby. "We impr=
ove
as we get older."
"I hope so, indeed," answered the
doll. "There is plenty of room for improvement." And she walked a=
way
in great state.
S.C. looked at Baby and then shook his hea=
d.
"I shall not have to take very much care of you," he said,
absent-mindedly. "You are able to take pretty good care of yourself.&q=
uot;
"I hope I am," said Baby, tossing
her head.
S.C. gave his head another shake.
"Don't take too good care of
yourself," he said. "That's a bad thing, too."
He showed them the rest of his wonders, and
then went with them to the door to bid them good-bye.
"I am sure we are very much obliged to
you, Mr. Claus," said Jem, gratefully. "I shall never again think=
you
are not true, sir".
S.C. patted her shoulder quite affectionat=
ely.
"That's right," he said.
"Believe in things just as long as you can, my dear. Good-bye until
Christmas Eve. I shall see you then, if you don't see me."
He must have taken quite a fancy to Jem, f=
or
he stood looking at her, and seemed very reluctant to close the door, and e=
ven
after he had closed it, and they had turned away, he opened it a little aga=
in
to call to her.
"Believe in things as long as you can=
, my
dear."
"How kind he is!" exclaimed Jem =
full
of pleasure.
Baby shrugged her shoulders.
"Well enough in his way," she sa=
id,
"but rather inclined to prose and be old-fashioned."
Jem looked at her, feeling rather frighten=
ed,
but she said nothing.
Baby showed very little interest in the ne=
xt
room she took them to.
"I don't care about this place,"=
she
said, as she threw open the door. "It has nothing but old things in it=
. It
is the Nobody-knows-where room."
She had scarcely finished speaking before =
Jem
made a little spring and picked something up.
"Here's my old strawberry
pincushion!" she cried out. And then, with another jump and another da=
sh
at two or three other things, "And here's my old fairy-book! And here'=
s my
little locket I lost last summer! How did they come here?"
"They went Nobody-knows-where," =
said
Baby.
"And this is it."
"But cannot I have them again?"
asked Jem.
"No," answered Baby. "Things
that go to Nobody-knows-where stay there."
"Oh!" sighed Jem, "I am so
sorry."
"They are only old things," said
Baby.
"But I like my old things," said
Jem. "I love them. And there is mother's needle case. I wish I might t=
ake
that. Her dead little sister gave it to her, and she was so sorry when she =
lost
it."
"People ought to take better care of
their things," remarked Baby.
Jem would have liked to stay in this room =
and
wander about among her old favorites for a long time, but Baby was in a hur=
ry.
"You'd better come away," she sa=
id.
"Suppose I was to have to fall awake and leave you?"
The next place they went into was the most
wonderful of all.
"This is the Wish room," said Ba=
by.
"Your wishes come here--yours and mother's, and Aunt Hetty's and fathe=
r's
and mine. When did you wish that?"
Each article was placed under a glass shad=
e,
and labelled with the words and name of the wishers. Some of them were
beautiful, indeed; but the tall shade Baby nodded at when she asked her
question was truly alarming, and caused Jem a dreadful pang of remorse.
Underneath it sat Aunt Hetty, with her mouth stitched up so that she could =
not
speak a word, and beneath the stand was a label bearing these words, in lar=
ge black
letters--
"I wish Aunt Hetty's mouth was sewed =
up,
Jem."
"Oh, dear!" cried Jem, in great
distress. "How it must have hurt her! How unkind of me to say it! I wi=
sh I
hadn't wished it. I wish it would come undone."
She had no sooner said it than her wish was
gratified. The old label disappeared and a new one showed itself, and there=
sat
Aunt Hetty, looking herself again, and even smiling.
Jem was grateful beyond measure, but Baby
seemed to consider her weak minded.
"It served her right," she said.=
"But when, after looking at the wishe=
s at
that end of the room, they went to the other end, her turn came. In one cor=
ner
stood a shade with a baby under it, and the baby was Miss Baby herself, but
looking as she very rarely looked; in fact, it was the brightest, best temp=
ered
baby one could imagine."
"I wish I had a better tempered baby.
Mother," was written on the label.
Baby became quite red in the face with ang=
er
and confusion.
"That wasn't here the last time I
came," she said. "And it is right down mean in mother!"
This was more than Jem could bear.
"It wasn't mean," she said.
"She couldn't help it. You know you are a cross baby--everybody says
so."
Baby turned two shades redder.
"Mind your own business," she
retorted. "It was mean; and as to that silly little thing being better
than I am," turning up her small nose, which was quite turned up enoug=
h by
Nature--"I must say I don't see anything so very grand about her. So,
there!"
She scarcely condescended to speak to them
while they remained in the Wish room, and when they left it, and went to the
last door in the passage, she quite scowled at it.
"I don't know whether I shall open it=
at
all," she said.
"Why not?" asked Flora. "You
might as well."
"It is the Lost pin room," she s=
aid.
"I hate pins."
She threw the door open with a bang, and t=
hen
stood and shook her little fist viciously. The room was full of pins, stack=
ed
solidly together. There were hundreds of them--thousands--millions, it seem=
ed.
"I'm glad they are lost!" she sa=
id.
"I wish there were more of them there."
"I didn't know there were so many pin=
s in
the world," said Jem.
"Pooh!" said Baby. "Those a=
re
only the lost ones that have belonged to our family."
After this they went back to Flora's room =
and
sat down, while Flora told Jem the rest of her story.
"Oh!" sighed Jem, when she came =
to
the end. "How delightful it is to be here! Can I never come again?&quo=
t;
"In one way you can," said Flora.
"When you want to come, just sit down and be as quiet as possible, and
shut your eyes and think very hard about it. You can see everything you have
seen to-day, if you try."
"Then I shall be sure to try," J=
em
answered. She was going to ask some other question, but Baby stopped her.
"Oh! I'm falling awake," she whimpered, crossly, rubbing her eyes. "I'm falling awake again."<= o:p>
And then, suddenly, a very strange feeling
came over Jem. Flora and the pretty room seemed to fade away, and, without
being able to account for it at all, she found herself sitting on her little
stool again, with a beautiful scarlet and gold book on her knee, and her mo=
ther
standing by laughing at her amazed face. As to Miss Baby, she was crying as
hard as she could in her crib.
"Mother!" Jem cried out, "h=
ave
you really come home so early as this, and--and," rubbing her eyes in
great amazement, "how did I come down?"
"Don't I look as if I was real?" said her mother, laughing and kissing her. "And doesn't your present l= ook real? I don't know how you came down, I'm sure. Where have you been?"<= o:p>
Jem shook her head very mysteriously. She =
saw
that her mother fancied she had been asleep, but she herself knew better.
"I know you wouldn't believe it was t=
rue
if I told you," she said; "I have been BEHIND THE WHITE BRICK.&qu=
ot;