The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFairy BookThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Fairy BookAuthor: Sophie MayRelease date: November 24, 2008 [eBook #27321]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAIRY BOOK ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Fairy BookAuthor: Sophie MayRelease date: November 24, 2008 [eBook #27321]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)
Title: Fairy Book
Author: Sophie May
Author: Sophie May
Release date: November 24, 2008 [eBook #27321]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAIRY BOOK ***
LITTLE PRUDY SERIES.
BY
BOSTON:LEE AND SHEPARD,(Successors to Phillips, Sampson, & Co.)1866.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, byLEE & SHEPARD,In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
Christobal carries Jasper down the ladder
CRISTOBAL. Page32.
THISBOOK OF FAIRY TALESIS DEDICATEDTO LITTLE BESSIE.
LITTLE PRUDY SERIES.
BY SOPHIE MAY.
I.LITTLE PRUDY.
II.LITTLE PRUDY’S SISTER SUSY.
III.LITTLE PRUDY’S CAPTAIN HORACE.
IV.LITTLE PRUDY’S COUSIN GRACIE.
V.LITTLE PRUDY’S STORY BOOK.
VI.LITTLE PRUDY’S DOTTY DIMPLE.
While Prudy was in Indiana visiting the Cliffords, and in the midst of her trials with mosquitoes, she said one day,—
“I wouldn’t cry, Aunt ’Ria, only my heart’s breaking. The very next person that ever dies, I wish they’d ask God to please stop sending these awful skeeters. I can’t bear ’em any longer, now, certainly.”
There was a look of utter despair on Prudy’s disfigured face. Bitter tears were trickling from the two white puff-balls which had been her eyes; her forehead and cheeks were of a flaming pink, broken into littlesnow-drifts full of stings: she looked as if she had just been rescued from an angry beehive. Altogether, her appearance was exceedingly droll; yet Grace would not allow herself to smile at her afflicted little cousin. “Strange,” said she, “what makes our mosquitoes so impolite to strangers! It’s a downright shame, isn’t it, ma, to have little Prudy so imposed upon? If I could only amuse her, and make her forget it!”
“Oh, mamma,” Grace broke forth again suddenly, “I have an idea, a very brilliant idea! Please listen, and pay particular attention; for I shall speakin a figure, as Robin says. There’s a certain small individual who is not to understand.”
“I wouldn’t risk that style of talking,” said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; “or, if you do, your figures of speech must beveryobscure, remember.”
“Well, ma,” continued Grace with a significant glance at Prudy, “what I was going to say is this: We wish to treat certain young relatives of ours very kindly; don’t we, now?—certain afflicted and abused young relatives, you know.
“Now, I’ve thought of an entertainment. Ahem! Yesterday I entered a certain Englishman’s house,”—here Grace pointed through the window towards Mr. Sherwood’s cottage, lest her mother should, by chance, lose her meaning,—“I entered a certain Englishman’s house just as the family were sitting down to the table,—festal board, I mean.
“They were talking about mistle-toe boughs, and all sorts of old-country customs; and then they said what a funny time they had one Christmas, with the youngest, about themizzle, as he called it: do you remember, ma? do you understand?”
“You mean little Harvey? Oh, yes.”
“Pray do be careful, ma! Then Mr. Sherwood said to his—I mean, thehatsaid to thebonnet, that there were some wonderful—ahem—legends, about genii and sprites and—and so forth; not printed, butwritten, which the boy liked to hear when he was ‘overgetting’ the measles. A certain lady, not three inches from your chair, ma, was the one who wrote them; and now”—
Prudy had turned about, and the only remnants of her face which looked at all natural—that is, the irises and pupils of her swollen eyes—were shining with curiosity.
“There, now, what is it, Gracie? what is it you don’t want me to hear?”
Grace laughed. “Oh, nothing much, dear: never mind.”
“You oughtn’t to say ‘Never mind,’” pursued Prudy: “my mother tells mealwaysto mind.”
“I only mean it isn’t any matter, Prudy.”
“Oh! do you? Then don’t you care for my skeeter-bites? You always say, ‘Never mind!’ I didn’t know it wasn’tany matter.”
“Now, ma,” Grace went on, “I want to ask you where are those I-don’t-know-what-to-call-’ems? And may I copy them, Cassy and I, into a book, for a certain afflicted relative?”
“Yes, yes, on gold-edged paper!” cried Prudy, springing up from the sofa; “oh, do, do; I’ll love you dearly if you will! Fairy stories are just as nice! What little Harvey Sherwood likes,Ilike, and I’ve had the measles;butI shouldn’t think his father and mother’d wear their hat and bonnet to the dinner-table!”
“Deary me!” laughed Grace; “how happened that little thing to mistrust what I meant?”
“It would be strange if a child of her age, of ordinary abilities, shouldnotunderstand,” remarked Mrs. Clifford, somewhat amused. “Next time you wish to ask me any thing confidentially, I advise you to choose a better opportunity.”
“When may she, Aunt ’Ria?” cried Prudy, entirely forgetting her troubles; “when may she write it, Aunt ’Ria, she and Cassy?”
“A pretty piece of folly it would be, wouldn’t it, dear, when you can’t read a word of writing?”
“But Susy can a little, auntie; and mother can a great deal: and I’ll never tease ’em, only nights when I go to bed, and days when I don’t feel well. Please, Aunt ’Ria.”
“Yes, ma, I know you can’t refuse,” said Grace.
Mrs. Clifford hesitated. “The stories areyellow with age, Grace; they were written in my girlhood: and they are rather torn and disarranged, if I remember. Besides, my child, my flowing hand is difficult to read.”
“Oh, mamma, I think you write beautifully! splendidly!”
“Another objection,” continued Mrs. Clifford: “they are rather too old for Prudy, I should judge.”
“But I keep a-growing, Aunt ’Ria! Don’t you s’pose I know what fairy stories mean? They don’t mean any thing! You didn’t feel afraid I’d believe ’em, did you? I wouldn’t believe ’em, IpromiseI wouldn’t; just as true’s I’m walking on this floor!”
“Indeed, I hope you would not, little Prudy; for I made them up as I went along. There are no fairies but those we have in our hearts. Our best thoughts are good fairies; and our worst thoughts are evil fairies.”
“Oh, yes, auntie, I know! When we go bathing in the ocean, Susy says, ‘Let’s be all clean, so the spirit of the water can enter our hearts.’ And it does; but it goes in by our noses.”
Mrs. Clifford had tacitly given her consent to Grace’s copying the stories. This task was performed accordingly, much to the disgust of Horace, who declared that of the whole number only the tale of “Wild Robin” was worth reading.
“And ‘Wild Robin,’” said Grace, instructively, “is the only one that has a moral for you, Horace. When our soldiers are starving so, it is really dreadful to see how you dislike corned beef and despise vegetables! Such a dainty boy as you needs to be stolen a while by the fairies.”
“Well, Gracie, I reckon you’d run double-quick to pull me off the milk-white steed.You couldn’t get along without me two days. Look here! what story has a moral for you, miss? It’s the ‘Water-kelpie.’ You are like the man that married Moneta: you’re always wanting money.”
“But it’s for the soldiers, Horace,” said Grace, with a smile of forbearance toward her brother. “I’m willing to give all my pocket-money; and I mean the other girls shall. If we’re stingy to our country these days, we ought to be shot! ‘Princess Hilda’s’ the best story in the book. I wish Isa Harrington could read it! She wouldn’t make any more mischief between Cassy and me!”
“I like ‘The Lost Sylphid’ the best,” said Prudy; “butwasshe a great butterfly, do you s’pose? The stories are all just as nice; just like book stories. I shouldn’t think anybody made ’em up. Aunt ’Ria can write asgood as the big girls to the grammar-school. I promised not to believe a single word; and I sha’n’t. I’m glad she called itmyFairy Book.”
Long ago, in fair Burgundy, lived a lad named Cristobal. His large dark eyes lay under the fringe of his lids, full of shadows; eyes as lustrous as purple amethysts, and, alas! as sightless.
He had not always been blind, as perhaps a wild and passionate lad, named Jasper, might have told you. On a certain Christmas Eve, a merry boy was little Cristobal, as he pattered along to church, trying with his wooden shoes to keep time to the dancing bells. In his hand he carried a Christmas candle of various colors. Never, he thought,was a rainbow so exquisitely tinted as that candle. Carefully he watched it when it winked its sleepy eye, eagerly begging his mamma to snuff it awake again. How gayly the streets twinkled with midnight lanterns! And how mortifying to the stars to be outdone by such a grand illumination!
A new painting had just been hung in the church,—the Holy Child, called by the people “Little Jesus,” with an aureola about his head. Cristobal looked at this picture with reverent delight; and, to his surprise, the Holy Child returned his gaze: wherever he went, the sweet, sorrowful eyes followed him. There was a wondrous charm in that pleading glance. Why was it so wistful? What had those deep eyes to say?
The air was cloudy with the breath of frankincense and myrrh. Deep voices and the heavy organ sounded chants andanthems. There were prayers to the coming Messiah, and the sprinkling of holy water; and, at last, the midnight mass was ended.
Then, in tumult and great haste, the people went home for merry-makings. Cristobal, eager to see what the Yule-log might have in store for him, rushed out of the church with careless speed, stumbling over a boy who stood in his way,—the haughty, insolent Jasper. Jasper’s beautiful Christmas-candle was cracked in twenty pieces by his fall.
“I’ll teach you better manners, young peasant!” cried he, rushing upon Cristobal in a frenzy, and dealing fierce blows without mercy or reason.
It was then that Cristobal’s eyes went out like falling stars. Their lustre and beauty remained; but they were empty caskets, their vision gone.
Then followed terrible anguish; and all Cristobal’s mother could do was to hold her boy in her arms, and soothe him by singing. At last the fever was spent; but the pain still throbbed on, and sometimes seemed to burn into Cristobal’s brain. He cried out again and again, “What right had that fierce Jasper to spring upon me so? I meant him no harm; and he knew it. Oh, I would like to see him chained in a den! He is like the wicked people who are turned into wolves at Christmas-tide. I would cry for joy if I could hear him groan with such pain as mine!”
Poor Cristobal never hoped to see again. He carried in his mind pictures of cities and hamlets, of trees, flowers, and old familiar faces; but oftenest came Jasper’s face, just as it had last glared on him with blood-thirsty eyes. It was a terrible countenance. Onlyone charm could dispel the horror,—the remembrance of the beautiful Child in the church. That picture blotted out every thing else. It was like the refrain in the Burgundy carols, “Noel, Noel,” which comes again and again, and never tires of coming.
A whole year passed away. Cristobal’s mother only prayed now that her boy might suffer less: she had ceased to pray for the healing of his blindness.
Now it was Christmas-tide again. Ever since Advent, people had been clearing their throats, and singing carols. They roasted chestnuts, drank white wine, and chanted praises of the “Little Jesus,” who was soon to come, bringing peace on earth, good-will to men.
In the streets, one heard bagpipes and minstrels; and, by the hearthstones, the music of the wandering piper. The children began totalk again of the Yule-log, and to wonder what gifts Noel would bring to place under each end of it; for these little folks, who have no stocking-saint like our Santa Claus, believe in another quite as good, who rains down sugar-plums in the night.
Everywhere there was a joyful bustle. Housewives were making ready their choicest dishes for the great Christmas-supper; fathers were slyly peeping into shop-windows, and children hoarding their sous and centimes for bonbons and comfits.
Everybody was merry but Cristobal; or so thought the lad. He had no money to spend, and little but pain for his holiday-cheer. A patch here and there in his worn clothes was the best present his thrifty mother was able to make; always excepting the little variegated taper, which few were too poor to buy.
Christmas Eve came. Family friends dropped in. The Yule-log was set on the fire with shouts and singing. “Oh that I could see these kind faces!” moaned Cristobal. “No doubt, Jasper’s chestnuts are popping merrily; and his shoes will be full of presents. And here am I! My head aches, and my eye-balls burn.”
He stole out of the room, and, throwing himself on a wicker bench, mused over his troubles in solitude. One might have supposed him sleeping; for how should one imagine that his beautiful eyes were of no manner of use, except when they were closed? When Cristobal said, “Let me see,” he dropped his eye-lids; and what he saw then, no artist can paint.
On this night, a beautiful child appeared before him, as like the picture of the Little Jesus as if it had stepped out of its frame onthe church-wall. Even the crimson and blue tints of the old painting were faithfully preserved; and every fold of the soft drapery was the very same.
“I saw you, Cristobal, when you came before me with your colored candle, one year ago.”
“I knew it, I knew it!” cried Cristobal, clasping his hands in awe. “I saw your eyes follow me; and I never once turned but you were looking. They told me it was only a picture; but I said for that very reason your eyes were sorrowful,—you longed to be alive.”
The child replied by a slight motion of the head; and the aureola trembled like sunlight on the water. The longer Cristobal gazed, the more courage he gathered. “Lovely vision,” said he, “if vision you may be,—I have said to myself, I would gladly walk toRome with peas in my shoes, if I could know what you wished to say to me that Christmas night.”
“Only this, little brother: Are you ready for Christmas?”
“Alas! no: I never am. I have only two sous in the world.”
“Poor Cristobal! Yet, without a centime, one may be ready for Christmas.”
“But I am so very unhappy!”
“You do indeed look sad, little brother: where is your pain?”
“In my eyes,” moaned the boy, pouring out the words with a delightful sense of relief; for he was sure they dropped into a pitying heart. “Beloved little Jesus, let me tell you that since I saw you last I have been wickedly injured. Now I have always a pain in my eyes: there are two flames behind them, which burn day and night.”
“I grieve for you,” said the Child with exquisite tenderness; “yet, dear boy, for all that, you might be ready for Christmas: but is there not also a pain throbbing and burning in yourheart?”
“Oh, if you mean that, I am tossed up and down by vexation: I am full of hatred against that terrible Jasper. It was all about a miserable Christmas-candle he carried. I broke it by pushing him down. Tell me, was he right to fly at me like a wild beast? Ought he not to suffer even as I have suffered? Is it just, is it right, for the great man’s son to put out a peasant boy’s eyes, and be happy again?”
“Misguided Jasper!” said the Child solemnly; “let him answer for his own sin: judge not, little brother.”
Cristobal hid his face in his hands, and wept for shame.
“Shall I give you ten golden words for a Christmas-gift? Will you hide them in your heart, and be happy?”
“I will,” answered Cristobal.
“They are these,” said the Child with a voice of wondrous sweetness: “Pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.”
Cristobal repeated the words, a soft light stealing over his face. “I will remember,” he said, looking up to meet the pleading eyes of the Child: but, lo! the whole face had melted into the aureola; nothing was left but light. Yet Cristobal was filled with a new joy; and, as he opened his eyes, his dream—if dream it were—changed, becoming as sweet and solemn as a prayer. It seemed to him that the roof of the cottage glittered with stars, and was no longer a roof, but the boundless sky; and, afar off, like rememberedmusic, a voice fell on his ear, “For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you your trespasses.”
Cristobal arose, and, although still blind, walked in light. “It is the aureola which has stolen into my heart,” thought Cristobal. “The pain and hate are all gone. Now I am ready for Christmas. I wish I could help poor Jasper, who has such a weight of guilt to carry!”
Next day, “golden-sided” Burgundy saw no happier boy than Cristobal. He walked in the procession that night, carrying a candle whose light he could not see; but what did it signify, since there was light in his soul?
Hark! In the midst of the Christmas-chimes breaks the jangling of fire-bells. The count’s house is on fire! The sparks pourout thicker and faster; tongues of flame leap to the sky; the bells clang hoarsely; the Christmas procession is broken into wild disorder; the wheels of the engine roll through the streets, unheard in the din.
Cristobal rushed eagerly toward the flames, but was pulled away by the people.
“We cannot drown the fire!” they cried: “the building must fall! Are the inmates all safe?”
“All, thank Heaven!” cried the count.
“No:Jasper! See, he waves his hand from the third story! Save him! save my boy!”
Jasper had set fire to a curtain with his fatal Christmas-candle. Now he raved and shouted in vain: no one would venture up the ladder.
“O Little Jesus,” whispered Cristobal, “give light to my eyes, even as unto my soul! Let me save Jasper!”
At once the iron band fell from Cristobal’s vision. He saw, and, at the same moment, felt a supernatural strength. He tore away from the restraining arms of the people; he rushed up the ladder, shouting, “In the name of the Little Jesus!” He reached the window, heedless of his scorched arms. “Jasper!” he cried, seizing the half-conscious boy, “be not afraid: I have the strength to carry you.”
And down the ladder he bore him, step by step, through the crackling flames.
Jasper was revived; and the fainting Cristobal was borne through the streets in the arms of the populace.
“Wonder of wonders!” they all shouted.
“It was the Little Jesus,” gasped Cristobal: “he opened my eyes; he guided me up the ladder, and down again!”
“Hallelujah!” was now the cry. “On thebirthday of our Lord, the blind receive their sight.”
“It is a triumph of faith,” said the saints reverently.
“A miracle,” murmured the nuns, making the sign of the cross.
“Not a miracle,” replied the wise doctors, after they had first consulted their books: “it is only the electrifying of the optic nerve.”
But hardly any two could agree, and what was so mysterious at the time is no clearer now.
“Dear little Cristobal,” sobbed the broken-hearted Jasper, “how could you forgive such a wicked boy as I?”
“It was very easy,” replied Cristobal, “when once the Little Jesus called me ‘brother,’ and bade me pray for you.”
“Oh that I could repay you for yourwonderful deed of love,” said Jasper, through his tears.
“Do not thank me,” whispered Cristobal, with a look of awe; “thank the Little Jesus. And when he comes again next year, to ask what feelings we hold in our hearts, let us both be ready for Christmas.”
In the green valley of the Yarrow, near the castle-keep of Norham, dwelt an honest, sonsy little family, whose only grief was an unhappy son, named Robin.
Janet, with jimp form, bonnie eyes, and cherry cheeks, was the best of daughters; the boys, Sandie and Davie, were swift-footed, brave, kind, and obedient; but Robin, the youngest, had a stormy temper, and, when his will was crossed, he became as reckless as a reeling hurricane. Once, in a passion, he drove two of his father’s “kye,” or cattle, down a steep hill to their death. He seemed not to care for home or kindred, and often pierced the tender heart of his mother withsharp words. When she came at night, and “happed” the bed-clothes carefully about his form, and then stooped to kiss his nut-brown cheeks, he turned away with a frown, muttering, “Mither, let me be.”
It was a sad case with Wild Robin, who seemed to have neither love nor conscience.
“My heart is sair,” sighed his mother, “wi’ greeting over sich a son.”
“He hates our auld cottage and our muckle wark,” said the poor father. “Ah, weel! I could a’maist wish the fairies had him for a season, to teach him better manners.”
This the gudeman said heedlessly, little knowing there was any danger of Robin’s being carried away to Elf-land. Whether the fairies were at that instant listening under the eaves, will never be known; but it chanced, one day, that Wild Robin was sent across the moors to fetch the kye.
“I’ll rin away,” thought the boy: “’tis hard indeed if ilka day a great lad like me must mind the kye. I’ll gae aff; and they’ll think me dead.”
So he gaed, and he gaed, over round swelling hills, over old battle-fields, past the roofless ruins of houses whose walls were crowned with tall climbing grasses, till he came to a crystal sheet of water, called St. Mary’s Loch. Here he paused to take breath. The sky was dull and lowering; but at his feet were yellow flowers, which shone, on that gray day, like freaks of sunshine.
He threw himself wearily upon the grass, not heeding that he had chosen his couch within a little mossy circle known as a “fairy’s ring.” Wild Robin knew that the country people would say the fays had pressed that green circle with their light feet. He had heard all the Scottish lore of brownies, elves,will-o’-the-wisps, and the strange water-kelpies, who shriek with eldritch laughter. He had been told that the queen of the fairies had coveted him from his birth, and would have stolen him away, only that, just as she was about to seize him from the cradle, he hadsneezed; and from that instant the fairy-spell was over, and she had no more control of him.
Yet, in spite of all these stories, the boy was not afraid; and if he had been informed that any of the uncanny people were, even now, haunting his footsteps, he would not have believed it.
“I see,” said Wild Robin, “the sun is drawing his night-cap over his eyes, and dropping asleep. I believe I’ll e’en take a nap mysel’, and see what comes o’ it.”
In two minutes he had forgotten St. Mary’s Loch, the hills, the moors, the yellow flowers.He heard, or fancied he heard, his sister Janet calling him home.
“And what have ye for supper?” he muttered between his teeth.
“Parritch and milk,” answered the lassie gently.
“Parritch and milk! Whist! say nae mair! Lang, lang may ye wait for Wild Robin: he’ll not gae back for oat-meal parritch!”
Next a sad voice fell on his ear.
“Mither’s; and she mourns me dead!” thought he; but it was only the far-off village-bell, which sounded like the echo of music he had heard lang syne, but might never hear again.
“D’ye think I’m not alive?” tolled the bell. “I sit all day in my little wooden temple, brooding over the sins of the parish.”
“A brazen lie!” cried Robin.
“Nay, the truth, as I’m a living soul!Wae worth ye, Robin Telfer: ye think yersel’ hardly used. Say, have your brithers softer beds than yours? Is your ain father served with larger potatoes or creamier buttermilk? Whose mither sae kind as yours, ungrateful chiel? Gae to Elf-land, Wild Robin; and dool and wae follow ye! dool and wae follow ye!”
The round yellow sun had dropped behind the hills; the evening breezes began to blow; and now could be heard the faint trampling of small hoofs, and the tinkling of tiny bridle-bells: the fairies were trooping over the ground. First of all rode the queen.
“Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,Her mantle of the velvet fine;At ilka tress of her horse’s maneHung fifty silver bells and nine.”
“Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,Her mantle of the velvet fine;At ilka tress of her horse’s maneHung fifty silver bells and nine.”
But Wild Robin’s closed eyes saw nothing;his sleep-sealed ears heard nothing. The queen of fairies dismounted, stole up to him, and laid her soft fingers on his cheeks.
“Here is a little man after my ain heart,” said she: “I like his knitted brow, and the downward curve of his lips. Knights, lift him gently, set him on a red-roan steed, and waft him away to Fairy-land.”
Wild Robin was lifted as gently as a brown leaf borne by the wind; he rode as softly as if the red-roan steed had been saddled with satin, and shod with velvet. It even may be that the faint tinkling of the bridle-bells lulled him into a deeper slumber; for when he awoke it was morning in Fairy-land.
Robin sprang from his mossy couch, and stared about him. Where was he? He rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Dreaming, no doubt; but what meant all these nimble little beings bustling hither and thitherin hot haste? What meant these pearl-bedecked caves, scarcely larger than swallows’ nests? these green canopies, overgrown with moss? He pinched himself, and gazed again. Countless flowers nodded to him, and seemed, like himself, on tiptoe with curiosity, he thought. He beckoned one of the busy, dwarfish little brownies toward him.
“I ken I’m talking in my sleep,” said the lad; “but can ye tell me what dell is this, and how I chanced to be in it?”
The brownie might or might not have heard; but, at any rate, he deigned no reply, and went on with his task, which was pounding seeds in a stone mortar.
“Am I Robin Telfer, of the Valley of Yarrow, and yet canna shake aff my silly dreams?”
“Weel, my lad,” quoth the queen of the fairies, giving him a smart tap with her wand,“stir yersel’, and be at work; for naebody idles in Elf-land.”
Bewildered Robin ventured a look at the little queen. By daylight she seemed somewhat sleepy and tired; and was withal so tiny, that he might almost have taken her between his thumb and finger, and twirled her above his head; yet she poised herself before him on a mullein-stalk, and looked every inch a queen. Robin found her gaze oppressive; for her eyes were hard and cold and gray, as if they had been little orbs of granite.
“Get ye to work, Wild Robin!”
“What to do?” meekly asked the boy, hungrily glancing at a few kernels of rye which had rolled out of one of the brownie’s mortars.
“Are ye hungry, my laddie? touch a grain of rye if ye dare! Shell these drybains; and if so be ye’re starving, eat as many as ye can boil in an acorn-cup.”
With these words she gave the boy a withered bean-pod, and, summoning a meek little brownie, bade him see that the lad did not over-fill the acorn-cup, and that he did not so much as peck at a grain of rye. Then, glancing sternly at her unhappy prisoner, she withdrew, sweeping after her the long train of her green robe.
The dull days crept by, and still there seemed no hope that Wild Robin would ever escape from his beautiful but detested prison. He had no wings, poor laddie; and he could neither become invisible nor draw himself through a keyhole bodily.
It is true, he had mortal companions: many chubby babies; many bright-eyed boys and girls, whose distracted parents were still seeking them, far and wide, uponthe earth. It would almost seem that the wonders of Fairy-land might make the little prisoners happy. There were countless treasures to be had for the taking, and the very dust in the little streets was precious with specks of gold: but the poor children shivered for the want of a mother’s love; they all pined for the dear home-people. If a certain task seemed to them particularly irksome, the heartless queen was sure to find it out, and oblige them to perform it, day after day. If they disliked any article of food, that, and no other, were they forced to eat, or starve.
Wild Robin, loathing his withered beans and unsalted broths, longed intensely for one little breath of fragrant steam from the toothsome parritch on his father’s table, one glance at a roasted potato. He was homesick for the gentle sister he had neglected, therough brothers whose cheeks he had pelted black and blue; and yearned for the very chinks in the walls, the very thatch on the home-roof.
Gladly would he have given every fairy-flower, at the root of which clung a lump of gold ore, if he might have had his own coverlet “happed” about him once more by the gentle hands he had despised.
“Mither,” he whispered in his dreams, “my shoon are worn, and my feet bleed; but I’ll soon creep hame, if I can. Keep the parritch warm for me.”
Robin was as strong as a mountain-goat; and his strength was put to the task of threshing rye, grinding oats and corn, or drawing water from a brook.
Every night, troops of gay fairies and plodding brownies stole off on a visit to the upper world, leaving Robin and his companionsin ever deeper despair. Poor Robin! he was fain to sing,—
“Oh that my father had ne’er on me smiled!Oh that my mother had ne’er to me sung!Oh that my cradle had never been rocked,But that I had died when I was young!”
“Oh that my father had ne’er on me smiled!Oh that my mother had ne’er to me sung!Oh that my cradle had never been rocked,But that I had died when I was young!”
Now, there was one good-natured brownie who pitied Robin. When he took a journey to earth with his fellow-brownies, he often threshed rye for the laddie’s father, or churned butter in his good mother’s dairy, unseen and unsuspected. If the little creature had been watched, and paid for these good offices, he would have left the farmhouse forever in sore displeasure.
To homesick Robin he brought news of the family who mourned him as dead. He stole a silky tress of Janet’s fair hair, and wondered to see the boy weep over it; forbrotherly affection is a sentiment which never yet penetrated the heart of a brownie. The dull little sprite would gladly have helped the poor lad to his freedom, but told him that only on one night of the year was there the least hope, and that was on Hallow-e’en, when the whole nation of fairies ride in procession through the streets of earth.
So Robin was instructed to spin a dream, which the kind brownie would hum in Janet’s ear while she slept. By this means the lassie would not only learn that her brother was in the power of the elves, but would also learn how to release him.
Accordingly, the night before Hallow-e’en, the bonnie Janet dreamed that the long-lost Robin was living in Elf-land, and that he was to pass through the streets with a cavalcade of fairies. But, alas! how should evena sister know him in the dim starlight, among the passing troops of elfish and mortal riders? The dream assured her that she might let the first company go by, and the second; but Robin would be one of the third:—
“First let pass the black, Janet,And syne let pass the brown;But grip ye to the milk-white steed,And pull the rider down.ForIride on the milk-white steed,And aye nearest the town:Because I was a christened ladThey gave me that renown.My right hand will be gloved, Janet;My left hand will be bare;And these the tokens I give thee:No doubt I will be there.They’ll shape me in your arms, Janet,A toad, snake, and an eelBut hold me fast, nor let me gang,As you do love me weel.They’ll shape me in your arms, Janet,A dove, bat, and a swan:Cast your green mantle over me,I’ll be myself again.”
“First let pass the black, Janet,And syne let pass the brown;But grip ye to the milk-white steed,And pull the rider down.
ForIride on the milk-white steed,And aye nearest the town:Because I was a christened ladThey gave me that renown.
My right hand will be gloved, Janet;My left hand will be bare;And these the tokens I give thee:No doubt I will be there.
They’ll shape me in your arms, Janet,A toad, snake, and an eelBut hold me fast, nor let me gang,As you do love me weel.
They’ll shape me in your arms, Janet,A dove, bat, and a swan:Cast your green mantle over me,I’ll be myself again.”
The good sister Janet, far from remembering any of the old sins of her brother, wept for joy to know that he was yet among the living. She told no one of her strange dream; but hastened secretly to the Miles Cross, saw the strange cavalcade pricking through the greenwood, and pulled down the rider on the milk-white steed, holding him fast through all his changing shapes. But when she had thrown her green mantle over him, and clasped him in her arms as her own brotherRobin, the angry voice of the fairy queen was heard:—
“Up then spake the queen of fairies,Out of a bush of rye,‘You’ve taken away the bonniest ladIn all my companie.‘Had I but had the wit, yestreen,That I have learned to-day,I’d pinned the sister to her bedE’re he’d been won away!’”
“Up then spake the queen of fairies,Out of a bush of rye,‘You’ve taken away the bonniest ladIn all my companie.
‘Had I but had the wit, yestreen,That I have learned to-day,I’d pinned the sister to her bedE’re he’d been won away!’”
However, it was too late now. Wild Robin was safe, and the elves had lost their power over him forever. His forgiving parents and his leal-hearted brothers welcomed him home with more than the old love.
So grateful and happy was the poor laddie, that he nevermore grumbled at his oat-meal parritch, or minded his kye with a scowling brow.
But to the end of his days, when he heard mention of fairies and brownies, his mind wandered off in a mizmaze. He died in peace, and was buried on the banks of the Yarrow.
Once upon a time, the new moon was shining like a silver bow in the heavens, and the stars glittered and trembled as if they were afraid.
“What frightens you?” said the placid Moon; “be calm, like me.”
“I am freezing,” answered the North Star; “that is why I shake.”
“We are dancing,” said the Seven Sisters; “and, watch as closely as you please, you can never get a fair peep at our golden sandals, our feet twinkle so.”
“I am sleepy,” grumbled the Great Bear; “I am trying to keep my eyes open. Perhaps that is the reason I wink so much.”
Thus, with one accord, they made excuses to the pale Moon, who is their guardian,—all but the sweet Vesper Star: she was silent; and when a white cloud floated by, she was glad of an excuse to hide her face.
“Let the North Star shiver, and the Seven Sisters dance, and all the golden stars hold a revel,” thought she; “as for me, I am sad.”
For you must know that the Vesper Star has a task to perform, and is not allowed to sleep. She keeps vigil over the Earth, by night; and never ceases her watch till the world is up in the morning. For the sick and sad, who cannot sleep, she feels an unutterable pity, so that her heart is always throbbing with sorrow.
The Moon looked at the Vesper Star, and said, “Dream on, sweet sister; for you, the noblest of all, have told me no falsehood.”
This the Moon said because she knew thatnone of the stars had given a true reason for twinkling so gayly that night. The truth was, they were filled with envy, and were trying to be as brilliant as possible, to compete with a flaming Comet which had just appeared in the sky.
It is not for man to know how long and how peacefully the gentle stars had travelled together, doing the work which God has appointed, without a murmur. But now that this distinguished stranger had arrived, the whole firmament was in dismay. How proudly he strode the heavens! how his blaze illumined the sky! The Stars whispered one to another, and cast angry eyes on the shining wonder.
“Make way for me,” he said, sweeping after him a glorious train of light.
“Not I,” muttered the fiery Mars.
“Not I,” quoth the majestic Jupiter; “I do not move an inch.”
The Comet flashed with a lofty disdain.
“Puny Stars,” said he, “keep your places, give out all your light,—nobody heeds you; the place of honor is always by the Vesper Star; here I make my throne.”
The Vesper Star smiled sadly, but without a twinge of envy.
“Welcome, shining one! Warm me with your fires; let us work together.”
“Work!” cried the Comet, throwing out sparkles of scorn; “I was not born to work, but toshine!”
“Indeed!” said the Vesper Star; “you have come into strange company, then; for here we all work with a good will.” “He does not burn with the true fire,” thought the good Star; and she wrapped herself about with a soft cloud, and said no more.
“Oh that I could be set on fire like the Comet!” thought the cold North Star. “Iwould gladly burn to death if I could astonish the world with my blaze!”
“Let us die!” said the Seven Sisters; “let us die together; we have ceased to be noticed.”
“Ah, hum!” growled the Great Bear; “so many years as I have kept watch in this sky; and now to be set one side by this upstart of a foreigner! I’ve a great mind to go to sleep and never wake up!”
“Hush!” whispered the Vesper Star gently; “do your duty, and trust God for the rest.”
And lo! that very night there was an end of the Comet’s splendor.
“Adieu, my dull friends,” said he; “I am tired of a quiet life: a little more, and I should fade out entirely!”
Then, with a blaze and a whiz, and a dizzy wheel, he flashed out of the sky; and no oneknew whither he went, or whence he came, any more than the path of the quick lightning.
The stars were ashamed of their envy, and went to their old work with a stronger will and a steadier purpose: but to the Vesper Star was given a brighter and sweeter light than to any other, because she had done her work without envy and without repining.
Once there lived under the earth a race of fairies called gnomes. They were strange little beings, with dull eyes and harsh voices; but they did no harm, and lived in peace.
They never saw the sun; but they had lamps much brighter than our gaslight, which burned night and day, year after year.
They had music; but it was the tinkling of silver bells and golden harps,—not half so sweet as the singing of birds and the babbling of brooks.
Flowers they had none, but plenty of gems,—“the stars of earth.” There were green trees in the kingdom: but the leaveswere hard emeralds; and the fruit, apples of gold or cherries of ruby; and these precious gems the gnomes ground to powder, and swallowed with much satisfaction.
They heaped up piles of gold and diamonds as high as your head; and never was there a gnome so poor as to build a house of any thing a whit coarser than jasper or onyx. You would have believed yourself dreaming, if you could have walked through the streets of their cities. They were paved with rosy almandine and snowy alabaster; and the palaces glittered in the gay lamplight like a million stars.
These gnomes led, for the most part, rather dull lives. Like their cousins, the water-sprites, or undines, they were roguish and shrewd, but had no higher views of life than our katydids and crickets. Indeed, they hardly cared for any thing but friskingabout, eating and sleeping. But, after all, what can be expected of creatures without souls? One sees, now and then, stupid human beings, whose eyes have no thoughts in them, and whose souls seem to be sound asleep. Such lumps of dulness might almost as well be gnomes, and slip into the earth and have done with it.
These underground folk had a great horror of our world. They knew all about it; for one of them had peeped out and taken a bird’s-eye view. He went up very bravely, but hurried back with such strange accounts, that his friends considered him a little insane.
“Listen!” said the gnome, whose name was Clod. “The earth has a soft carpet, of a new kind of emerald; overhead is a blue roof, made of turquoise; but I am told that there is a crack in it, and sometimes water comes pouring down in torrents. But the worstplague of all is a great glaring eye-ball of fire, which mortals call the sun.”
When Clod told his stories of the earth, he always ended by saying,—
“Believe me, it is bad luck to have the sun shine on you. It nearly put my eyes out; and I have had the headache ever since.”
Now, there was a young girl, named Moneta, who listened very eagerly to the old gnome’s stories of the earth, and thought she would like to see it for herself. She was a kind little maiden, as playful as a kitten; and her friends were not willing she should go. But Moneta had somewhere heard that fairies who marry mortals receive the gift of a human soul: so, in spite of all objections, she was resolved to take the journey; for she had in her dark mind some vague aspirations after a higher state of being.
Then the gnome-family declared, that, if she once went away, they would never allow her to return; for they highly disapproved of running backward and forward between the two worlds, gossiping.
“Have you no love of country,” cried they, “that you would willingly cast your lot among silly creatures who look down upon your race?”
The old gnome, who had travelled, took the romantic maiden one side, and said,—
“My dear Moneta, since youwillgo, I must tell you a secret; for you remember I have seen the world, and know all about it. Mortals are a higher race than ourselves, it is true; but that is only because they live atop o’ the earth, while we are under their feet. They make a great parade about their little ticking jewel they call Conscience; but, after all, they will any of them sell it for one ofour ear-rings! I assure you they love money better than their own souls; and I would advise you, as a friend that has seen the world, to load yourself with as much gold as you can carry.”
So Moneta donned a heavy dress of spun gold, which was woven in such a manner, that, at every motion she made, it let fall a shower of gold-dust. She filled the sleeves with sardonyx, almandine, and amethyst; and hid in her bosom diamonds and sapphires enough to purchase a kingdom.
Then she went up a steep ladder, and knocked on the alabaster ceiling, using the charm which the gnome had given her:—
“Mother Earth, Mother Earth, set me free!”
At her words there was a sound as of an earthquake, and a little space was made, just large enough for her to crawl through.When she had reached the top, the earth closed again, and she was left seated upon a rock; and the light of the sun was so dazzling, that she hid her face in her hands.
Thus she sat for a long time, not knowing whither to go, till a young man chanced to come that way, who said, “What do you here?”
She raised her face at his words, and could not speak, so great was her surprise at the beauty of the strange youth. He, for his part, could not help smiling; for she was as yellow as an orange; and an uglier little creature he had never beheld: but he said in a kind voice,—
“Come with me to my mother’s house, and you shall be refreshed with cake and wine.”
She arose to follow him; and, as she walked, a bright shower of gold-dust sprinkled the earth at every step.
The young man held out his hands eagerly to catch the shining spray, thinking he would like such a rarely-gifted damsel for his wife; and, in truth, he smiled so sweetly, and dropped such winning words, that in time he won her heart and she became his bride.