THE CAT AND THE PARROT

“WeenySleepy head,LeaveDewy bed,TimeTo get upFromSoft tulipCup.”

“Weeny

Sleepy head,

Leave

Dewy bed,

Time

To get up

From

Soft tulip

Cup.”

The little old woman awoke in the nick of time to hear them kissing and caressing the elfin babies as they carried them home. In a bound she was out of bed and at the window, but they had vanished.

For all that she knew they had been there. She could tell it by the tulips. The slim green stalks of them stood in the earth, as they had when she planted them, tall and straight. And every other row of lovely cups they held was red and every other was yellow. Yet there was a wonderful change. It wasn’t only the shining drops of dew on them. No, it was something more wonderful—itwas fairy fragrance. Every tulip smelled as sweet as a rose. This was the pixies’ thanks to the little old woman.

News of these rare tulips went far and wide, and people came from here, there, and everywhere to buy them. So for the rest of her days the little old woman had plenty of money for many a cup of tea, and a pinch of snuff into the bargain.

—Angela M. Keyes

Once there was a cat and once there was a parrot. They agreed to invite each other to dinner, turn and turn about. The cat should ask the parrot to-day, and the parrot should ask the cat to-morrow.

Well, it was the cat’s turn first. The cat went to market and bought nothing but a pennyworth of rice. The parrot could make no dinner on this meager fare. And what is more, the cat was so ill-mannered that he actually made the parrot cook the food himself. Of course the parrot was too well-bred to complain.

Next day came the parrot’s turn. He went to market and bought a leg of meat and a whole fish, head and tail and all, and about thirty pounds of flour, and a tub of butter, and great bunches of luscious grapes. And before his guest came he cookedthe food. He made heaps and heaps of brown, crisp spice cakes, thick with currants, oh, enough to fill a washerwoman’s basket.

Well, the cat came, and the parrot set the whole meal before him, keeping only two cakes for himself. The cat ate the meat till he licked the plate, and he picked the fish till the bones were clean, and he sucked the grapes till the skins were dry, and then he began on the cakes; and he ate the whole basketful. Then he looked up at the parrot and said, “Have you any more?”

“Take my two cakes,” said the parrot. And the cat took them. Then he looked up at the parrot and said, “Have you any more?”

This was too much for the parrot. Bristling his feathers, he said sharply, “There’s nothing left but me.” And the cat looked him over, licked his chops, and—gullup, gulloo—down went the parrot, bones, beak, and feathers.

Now an old woman had seen it all, and she was so shocked she picked up a stone, and cried, “You unnatural cat, how could you eat your friend the parrot? Scat! away with you, before I hit you with this stone.”

“Old woman,” said the cat, “I’ve eaten a basketful of cakes, I’ve eaten my friend the parrot, and shall I blush to eat an old hag like you? No, surely not.” And—gullup, gulloo—down went the old woman with the stone in her hand.

Then the cat walked along the road till he met a man beating a donkey to make him go. “Cat,” cried the man, “get out of the way, or my donkey may kick you.”

“Man,” said the cat, “I’ve eaten a basketful of cakes, I’ve eaten my friend the parrot, I’ve eaten an old woman, and shall I blush to eat a miserable donkey driver? No, surely not.” And—gullup, gulloo—down went the man and his donkey.

After this the cat walked on again till he met a wedding procession. At the head came the king with his newly made bride, and behind him marched a company of soldiers, and behind them tramped ever and ever so many elephants, two and two, and two and two, and two and two, and a great many more.

“Cat,” said the happy king, kindly, “turn out of the road a little, or my elephants may trample you to death.”

“King,” said the cat, “you don’t know me. I’ve eaten a basketful of cakes, I’ve eaten my friend the parrot, I’ve eaten a miserable man and his donkey, and shall I blush to eat a beggarly king? No, surely not.” And—gullup, gulloo—down went the king, down went the queen, down went the soldiers, bayonets and all, down went the elephants, two and two and two and two.

After this the cat walked on more slowly, for he was somewhat heavy. On the way two landcrabswent scuttling across the road. “Run away, run away, Pussycat,” they squeaked, “or we might nip you.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the cat, shaking his fat sides. “Ho, ho, ho!” he roared, showing his teeth; “you don’t know me. I’ve eaten a basketful of cakes, I’ve eaten my friend the parrot, I’ve eaten a miserable man and his donkey, I’ve eaten a king and his bride, I’ve eaten a company of soldiers, I’ve eaten a herd of elephants, two and two, and shall I blush to eat two silly little landcrabs? Nay, not so.” And he pounced upon the landcrabs, gullup, gulloo, gulloo, gullup, in two swallows they were inside the cat.

But—when their eyes were used to the darkness, the landcrabs made out the king sitting with his head in his hands, very unhappy. Across his knee lay the newly made bride in a dead faint. Near them the company of soldiers were trying to form fours. Behind these the elephants were trumpeting, the donkey was braying, the parrot was whetting his beak on his own claws, and the old woman was scolding the cat roundly. In a corner they made out a great pile of cakes.

The landcrabs said, “His sides are soft: let’s get out.” Nip, nip, they went, nip, nip, nip. And out they scuttled. Then out walked the king with his bride on his arm, out marched the soldiers, out tramped the elephants, two and two, out went theman and his donkey without any beating, out hobbled the old woman, and out flew the parrot.

And the cat had to spend a night and a day sewing up his sides.

—Eastern folk tale

A poor black paint lay very unhappy in its tube. It had tumbled out of an artist’s color-box and had lain unnoticed for a year. “I am only Lampblack,” he said to himself. “The master never looks at me: he says I am heavy, dull, lusterless, useless. I wish I could cake and dry up and die, as poor Flakewhite did.”

But Lampblack could not die; he could only lie in his tin tube and pine, like a silly, sorrowful thing as he was, in company with some broken bits of charcoal and a rusty palette-knife. The master never touched him; month after month passed by, and he was never thought of; the other paints had all their turn of fair fortune, and went out into the world to great halls and mighty palaces, transfigured and rejoicing in a thousand beautiful shapes and services. But Lampblack was always passed over as dull and coarse. Indeed he knew himself to be so, poor fellow, and this made it all the worse. “You are only a deposit!” said the other colors to him; and he felt that it was disgraceful to be adeposit, though he was not quite sure what it meant.

“If only I were happy like the others!” thought poor, sooty Lampblack, sorrowful in his corner. “There is Bistre, now, he is not so very much better-looking than I am, and yet they can do nothing without him, whether it is a girl’s face or a wimple in a river!”

The others were all so happy in this beautiful bright studio, where the open casements were hung with green myrtle, and where the silence was filled with the singing of nightingales. Cobalt, with a touch or two, became the loveliness of summer skies at morning; the Lakes and Carmines bloomed in a thousand exquisite flowers and fancies; the Chromes and Ochres (mere dull earths) were allowed to spread themselves in sheets of gold that took the shine of the sun into the darkest places; Umber, a somber and gloomy thing, could lurk in a child’s curls and laugh in a child’s smiles; whilst all the families of the Vermilions, the Blues, the Greens, lived in a perpetual glory of sunset or sunrise, of ocean waves or autumn woods, of kingly pageant or of martial pomp.

It was very hard. Poor Lampblack felt as if his very heart would break, above all when he thought of pretty little Rose Madder, whom he loved dearly, and who never would even look at him, she was so proud, because she was always placed in nothingless than rosy clouds, or the hearts of roses, or something as fair and spiritual.

“I am only a wretched deposit!” sighed Lampblack, and the rusty palette-knife grumbled back, “My own life has been ruined in cleaning dirty brushes!”

“But at least you were of use once; but I never am,—never!” said Lampblack. And indeed he had been there so long that the spiders had spun their silver fleeces all about him, and he was growing as gray as an old bottle does in a dark cellar.

At that moment the door of the studio opened, and there came a flood of light, and the step of a man was heard; the hearts of all the colors jumped for joy. It was their magician, who out of mere common clays and ground ores could raise them at a touch into splendors immortal.

Only the heart of poor dusty Lampblack did not beat a throb the more, because he was always left alone and never was thought worthy of even a glance. But he could not believe his senses when the master crossed the floor to the dark corner where he lay under the spiders’ webs. Lampblack felt sick and faint with rapture. Had his turn come at last?

The master took him up. “You will do for this work,” he said; and Lampblack was borne trembling to an easel. The colors, for once neglected, crowded together to watch, looking in their bright tin tubes like rows of little soldiers in armor.

“It is dull Old Deposit,” they murmured to one another, and felt contemptuous, but curious, as scornful people often will be.

“I am going to be glorious and great,” thought Lampblack, and his heart swelled high; for nevermore would they be able to hurl the name of Deposit at him, a name which hurt all the more because he did not know what it meant.

“You will do for this work,” said the master, and let Lampblack out of his metal prison-house into the light and touched him with the brush that was the wand of magic.

“What am I going to be?” wondered Lampblack, as he felt himself taken on to a large piece of deal board, so large that he felt he must be going to make at the least the outline of an athlete or the shadows of a tempest.

He could not tell what he was becoming; but he was happy enough and grand enough only to be used. He began to dream a thousand things of all the scenes he would be in, and all the hues that he would wear, and all the praise that he would hear when he went out into that wonderful world where his master was so much admired.

But he was harshly roused from his secret dreams; all the colors were laughing and tittering round him till the little tin helmets they wore shook with their merriment.

“Old Deposit is going to be a sign-post,” theycried to one another so merrily that the spiders, who are not companionable creatures, came to the doors of their dens to chuckle too. A sign-post! Lampblack, stretched out in joy upon the board, roused himself and gazed at the change. He had been made into seven letters, thus:

BANDITA.

This word in the Italian country, where the English painter’s studio was, means, Do not trespass, Do not shoot, Do not show yourself here: anything, indeed, that is uncivil to all comers. In these seven letters, outspread upon the board, was Lampblack disgraced!

Farewell, hopes and dreams! He had been employed to paint a sign-board, a thing stoned by the boys, blown on by the winds, gnawed by the rats, and drenched with the winter’s rains. Better the dust and the cobwebs of his old corner than such shame as this!

But there was no help for it. He was dried with a drench of turpentine, hastily clothed in a coat of copal, and, ere he yet was fully aware of all his misery, was being borne away upon the great board out of doors and handed to the gardener. It was the master himself who did this to him. As the door closed on him, he heard all the colors laughing, and the laugh of little Rose Madder was highest of all as she cried to Naples Yellow, who wasa dandy and made court to her, “Poor old ugly Deposit! He will grumble to the owls and the bats now!”

The door shut him out forever from all the joyous company and the palace of beauty, and the rough hands of the gardener grasped him and carried him to the edge of the garden, where the wall overlooked the public road, and there fastened him up on high with a band of iron round the trunk of a tree.

That night it rained heavily, the north wind blew, and there was thunder. Lampblack, out in the storm without his tin house to shelter him, felt that of all creatures wretched on the face of the earth there was not one so miserable as he. A sign-board! Nothing but a sign-board!

A color, created for art and artists, could not feel more grievously disgraced. Oh, how he longed for his tin tube and the quiet nook with the charcoal and the palette-knife! He had been unhappy there indeed, but he had had some sort of hope to comfort him,—some chance still remaining that one day he might be allowed to be at least the shadow of some immortal work. Now—nevermore could he be anything but what he was; change there could be none till weather and time should have done their work on him, and he be rotting on the wet earth, a shattered and worm-eaten wreck.

Day broke,—a gloomy, misty morning.

From where he was disgraced upon the tree-trunk he could no longer even see his beloved home, the studio; he could see only a dusky, intricate tangle of branches all about him, and below the wall of flint, with the Banksia that grew on it, and the hard muddy highway, drenched with the storm of the night.

A man passed in a miller’s cart, and stood up and scowled at him, because the people had liked to come and shoot and trap the birds of the master’s wooded gardens, and they knew that they must not do it now. A slug crawled over him, and a snail also. A woodpecker hammered at him with its strong beak. A boy went by under the wall, and threw stones at him, and called him names. The rain poured down again heavily. He thought of the happy painting-room, where it had seemed always summer and always sunshine, and where now in the forenoon all the colors were marshaling in the pageantry of the Arts, as he had seen them do hundreds of times from his lonely corner. All the misery of the past looked happiness now.

“If I were only dead, like Flakewhite,” he thought; but the stones only bruised, they did not kill him; and the iron band only hurt, it did not stifle him. For whatever suffers very much, has much strength to continue to exist. His loyal heart almost hated the master who had brought him to such a fate as this.

The day grew apace, and noon went by, and with it the rain passed. The sun shone out once more, and Lampblack, even imprisoned and wretched as he was, could not but see how beautiful the wet leaves looked, and the gossamers all hung with rain-drops, and the blue sky that shone through the boughs; for he had not lived with an artist all his days to be blind, even in pain, to the loveliness of nature. Some little brown birds tripped out too with the sun—very simple and plain in their dress, but Lampblack knew they were the loves of the poets, for he had heard the master call them so many times in summer nights. The little brown birds came tripping and pecking about on the grass underneath his tree-trunk, and then flew on the top of the wall, which was covered with Banksia and many other creepers. The brown birds sang a little song, for though they sing most in the moonlight they do sing by day too, and sometimes all day long. And what they sang was this:

“Oh, how happy we are, how happy!No nets dare now be spread for us,No cruel boys dare climb,And no cruel shooters fire.We are safe, quite safe,And the sweet summer has begun!”

“Oh, how happy we are, how happy!

No nets dare now be spread for us,

No cruel boys dare climb,

And no cruel shooters fire.

We are safe, quite safe,

And the sweet summer has begun!”

Lampblack listened, and even in his misery was soothed by the tender liquid sounds that these littlethroats poured out among the bloom of the Banksia flowers. And when one of the brown birds came and sat on a branch by him, swaying itself and drinking the rain-drops off a leaf, he ventured to ask, as well as he could for the iron that strangled him, why they were so safe, and what made them so happy.

The bird looked at him in surprise.

“Do you not know?” he said. “It is you!”

“I!” echoed Lampblack, and could say no more, for he feared that the bird was mocking him, a poor, silly, rusty black paint, only spread out to rot in fair weather and foul. What good could he do to any creature?

“You,” repeated the nightingale. “Did you not see that man under the wall? He had a gun; we should have been dead but for you. We will come and sing to you all night long, as you like it; and when we go to bed at dawn, I will tell my cousins, the thrushes and merles, to take our places, so that you shall hear somebody singing near you all day long.”

Lampblack was silent. His heart was too full to speak. Was it possible that he was of use, after all.

“Can it be true?” he said, timidly.

“Quite true,” said the nightingale.

“Then the master knew best,” thought Lampblack.

The colors in the studio had all the glories of theworld, but he was of use in it, after all; he could save these little lives. He was poor and despised, bruised by stones and drenched by storms; yet was he content, for he had not been made quite in vain.

The sunset poured its red and golden splendors through the darkness of the boughs, and the birds sang all together, shouting for joy and praising God.

—La Ramée

Once upon a time there was a boy whose name was Jack. His mother was very poor, but she was hard-working and tried to get her living by spinning. Jack was so lazy he never did anything to help her. So, at last, she said that he should not eat his porridge unless he earned it.

At this out shuffled Jack and hired himself to a farmer and got for his day’s labor a shining new penny. Home he went with it, but on the way let it slip out of his fingers into a brook, unknown to himself.

When his mother saw him smiling and holding his fist closed, she said, “Well, Jack, did you earn your porridge to-day?”

“That I did, mother,” said Jack, “and here’s the penny.” With that he opened his empty hand.

“A penny,” cried his mother, in high delight, “give it here, my darling boy.” But when she sawthe empty hand she changed her tune. “You stupid lout,” said she, “you’ve lost the good money. That’s no way to bring home a penny. The safest thing to do with a penny is to put it into your pocket and come straight home.”

“Say no more about it, sweet mother,” whimpered Jack, “that’s what I’ll do the next time.” So his mother gave him his supper.

The next day Jack went out again, and this time hired himself to a cowherd and got for his day’s labor a jug of new milk. Jack took the jug, squeezed it into the largest pocket of his coat, and set off home, spilling the milk at every step, so that by the time he got home there wasn’t a drop left.

When his mother saw his pocket bulging out, she asked, “What have you there, Jack, my son?”

“A jug of new milk, mother,” answered Jack, tugging it out of his pocket.

“A jug of new milk,” cried his mother, “and you’ve spilled it! Have you no sense, you ninny-hammer? That’s no way to bring home a jug of milk. The safest way to carry a jug of milk is to put it on your head and hold it with both hands and come straight home.”

“Say no more about it, sweet mother,” whimpered Jack, beginning to blubber; “that’s what I’ll do the next time.” So his mother gave him his supper that time, too.

Well, the next day Jack hired himself to a farmer,and got for his day’s labor a fine fresh cream cheese. Jack took that cheese, placed it on his head, held it down firmly with both hands, and set out home. Now, Jack’s head was warm and the cheese was soft. So it wasn’t long before it began to get softer. By the time he reached home part of it had oozed down over his face and more of it had matted into his hair; he was a sight to behold.

When his mother saw him, she threw up her arms and cried, “Dearie me, dearie me, whatever has happened to my own bonny son?”

“Why, nothing, mother,” said Jack, “and see the fine cheese I’ve brought you home.” With that he took down from his head a bit of grease in each hand.

“You’ve spoiled a cheese, a fine cream cheese,” screamed his mother. “Have you no sense at all, at all, in your empty head, you numbskull? That’s no way to bring home a cheese. The safest thing to do with a cheese is to take it in both hands, hold it out before you, and come straight home.”

“Say no more about it, sweet mother,” said Jack, beginning to snuffle, “that’s what I’ll do the next time.”

So he didn’t go supperless to bed that night either.

It was a baker Jack hired himself to the next day, and at the close of it the baker gave him a cat. “Your mother will find her a good mouser,” said he. And Jack said, “Thank you, kindly, sir,” andtook the cat. He held her with both hands out before him and started straight for home. On the way a mouse scurried across his path and the cat leaped from his hands; but Jack still held them out, ready for her when she should come back, and kept on toward home.

When he reached home his mother looked at his hands and said, “What have you in your hands, Jack?”

“I had a cat, mother,” said he, “a good mouser, but she made after a mouse and hasn’t come back yet.”

“Get out of my sight,” cried his mother, “before I lose my patience and do something I might be sorry for. Haven’t you an atom of sense about you at all, at all, at all? Wouldn’t a child know that’s no way to bring home a live cat? The safest thing to do with a cat is to tie a string around her neck, put her on the ground, and draw her home after you.”

“Say no more about it, sweet mother,” cried Jack, bawling outright; “that’s what I’ll do the very next time.” So his mother wouldn’t see him starve that night.

Well, the very next day Jack hired out to a butcher, and got for his day’s labor a splendid shoulder of mutton for Sunday’s dinner, for this was Saturday. Jack took the mutton, tied a string around it, put it on the ground, and dragged it homeafter him in the mud and dirt. So by the time he got home the meat was completely ruined.

When his mother saw it she was so upset that she threw her apron over her head and rocked herself to and fro and wept aloud. “If you had the least grain of sense in you, you useless omadhaun,” she wailed, “you’d have brought the sweet meat home on your shoulder.”

Jack put his arms around his mother and kissed her and promised to do that the next time. So she gave him his supper, but they had to make their Sunday dinner of cabbage.

Monday morning, bright and early, Jack went out once more and hired himself to a cattle-drover and for his day’s labor got a donkey. Although Jack was a husky fellow, he found it hard to hoist the donkey on his shoulder, but mindful of his mother’s grief he got it up and set out home slowly with the prize.

Now it chanced that on the way home he had to pass the house of a beautiful girl who unfortunately was deaf and dumb. The doctors said she would never speak until someone should make her laugh. Many had tried but without success. In despair her father, who was very rich, had promised that very day whoever could make her laugh should marry her.

The girl happened to be looking out of the window when Jack came along with the donkey on hisshoulders, its legs sticking up in the air. He looked so funny she burst into a merry fit of laughter, and at once was able to hear and speak.

So her father, overjoyed, gave her to Jack with a sackful of money and more to come.

“My love, your fortune is made,” cried his mother, when she heard the good news. And she went to live with Jack and his bride, and they all had plenty and were happy ever after.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling,Let the wedding bells ring.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling,

Let the wedding bells ring.

—Folk tale

One warm bright day in autumn, when the whole world was changing to brown and red and gold, a little squealing pig was sent by his mother to bring home some beechnuts to Piggikin, the baby.

“They’re dropping now, tender and sweet, in the wood,” said Mother Sow. “Off with you and get some.” So

With a run and a squealAway went the pig,With an odd little reel.

With a run and a squeal

Away went the pig,

With an odd little reel.

Now, on the way he passed a boy and a girl sitting by the roadside, with their backs to him. And the boy was saying to the girl,

“A long time ago when pigs had wingsAnd pups grew in the tree-tops,In that good time donkeys brayed in rhymeAnd fiddles danced the barn hops”—

“A long time ago when pigs had wings

And pups grew in the tree-tops,

In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme

And fiddles danced the barn hops”—

“That’s very strange,” said the pig; “can it be true? I’ll ask the old witch owl about it. I’d like a pair of wings; I’d fly high, I can tell you.” So

With a run and a squealAway went the pig,With an odd little reel;

With a run and a squeal

Away went the pig,

With an odd little reel;

and he left the path to the wood to make for a barn half a mile off, where the old witch owl lived.

On the way he met a pup whose father had told him to guard the kennel while he himself went in search of a bone. The pup was rolling on the ground in the sunshine.

“O roly-poly pup,” called out the pig, “what do you think I heard this morning?”

“What?” said the roly-poly pup, running away from the kennel.

“A long time ago when pigs had wingsAnd pups grew in the tree-tops,In that good timeDonkeys brayed in rhymeAnd fiddles danced the barn hops.”

“A long time ago when pigs had wings

And pups grew in the tree-tops,

In that good time

Donkeys brayed in rhyme

And fiddles danced the barn hops.”

“That’s very strange,” said the pup; “can it be true? We’ll ask the old witch owl about it. I’dlike to grow in a tree-top. I’d see farther than my nose, I can tell you.” So

With a run and a squealAway went the pig with an odd little reelAnd the roly-poly pup followed after.

With a run and a squeal

Away went the pig with an odd little reel

And the roly-poly pup followed after.

Well, on the way they met a donkey kicking his heels to get rid of the pack on his back. And they called out to him, “O kicking, kicking donkey, what do you think we heard this very morning?”

“What?” said the kicking, kicking donkey, as he kicked the pack from his back.

“A long time ago when pigs had wingsAnd pups grew in the tree-tops,In that good time donkeys brayed in rhymeAnd fiddles danced the barn hops.”

“A long time ago when pigs had wings

And pups grew in the tree-tops,

In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme

And fiddles danced the barn hops.”

“That’s very strange,” said the donkey; “can it be true? We’ll ask the old witch owl about it. I’d like to bray in rhyme. I’d bring down the house, I can tell you.” So

With a run and a squealAway went the pig with an odd little reel,And the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey followed after.

With a run and a squeal

Away went the pig with an odd little reel,

And the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey followed after.

Halfway to the barn they met a fiddle lying near a bench. He was in such a bad temper that he had broken the string that makes the sweetest music.But the others were too full of their news to notice his ill humor.

“O fiddle diddle,” they cried, “what do you think we heard this very morning?”

“What?” snapped the fiddle, and he broke another string.

“A long time ago when pigs had wingsAnd pups grew in the tree-tops,In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme,And fiddles danced the barn hops.”

“A long time ago when pigs had wings

And pups grew in the tree-tops,

In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme,

And fiddles danced the barn hops.”

“What nonsense!” growled the fiddle, in such an ugly tone that even the donkey rose on his hind legs to cover his big ears with his forefeet.

“We’re going to ask the old witch owl about it,” said the pup. “Come along and hear what she says.”

“Rr-r-r-r-zing, you silly thing,” snarled the fiddle, so fiercely that without waiting for more,

With a run and a squealAway went the pig with an odd little reel,And the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey,And the ill-tempered fiddle followed after.

With a run and a squeal

Away went the pig with an odd little reel,

And the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey,

And the ill-tempered fiddle followed after.

He sneaked along, though, behind the others, and tripped often in his broken strings, and this made his temper worse.

Well, the day was darkening into twilight when they reached the barn. But they were so anxiousto hear the old witch owl’s opinion that they didn’t notice this. The old witch owl stood in a little round opening in the front of the barn, high up near the pointed top where the weathercock turns. She was looking out into the gathering darkness, planning her voyage into the night.

“There she is,” squealed the pig in a whisper, getting behind the pup.

“Her ears are bigger than mine,” said the donkey, getting behind the pig.

But the fiddle pushed to the front and growled, “Rr-r-r-r-zing, you silly thing, I’m not afraid of an old witch owl. I’ll ask the ridiculous question.”

“Do, sweet fiddle,” whispered the little squealing pig and the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey, “how kind of you to have come.”

“Rr-r-r-r-zing, you silly thing, and you, and you; I came to please myself.”

“Madame Witch Owl,” he growled, spoiling the music of the verse, “is it true that

“A long time ago pigs had wingsAnd pups grew in the tree-tops,In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme,And fiddles danced the barn hops?”

“A long time ago pigs had wings

And pups grew in the tree-tops,

In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme,

And fiddles danced the barn hops?”

The old witch looked down at him. And her eyes glowed so much like two round wheels of fire that the fiddle in secret fright burst another string. But for all that he stared back at her. “Hoot-hoot-hoot,”she cried, “wait till I’ve heard your betters. Let the pig stand forth and the pup and the donkey.”

Out came the little squealing pig, but not very far, so that the roly-poly pup might catch him by the tail in case of need; and out came the roly-poly pup, but not very far, so that the little squealing pig might catch him by the tail in case of need; and out came the kicking, kicking donkey, but not very far, so that he might get behind the pup and the pig in case of need.

“Pig, pig,” said the old witch owl, “how did you hear this?”

And the little pig began in a squealing little voice to tell her how Mother Sow had sent him to the wood to get some beechnuts for Piggikin, the baby, and how he had heard the boy tell it to the girl, and how he had set off to ask her about it.

“And Piggikin is still hungry for the beechnuts, is he?” asked the old witch owl, looking beyond the little pig into the darkness.

“Yes,” said the little pig, in a very little voice.

“And Mother Sow is getting anxious as the night grows darker.”

“The night,” cried the little squealing pig and the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey, drawing nearer together. And they looked fearfully over their shoulders as the shadows of the apple-tree near the barn moved nearer to them.

When the old witch owl brought back her eyesfrom the darkness, she looked at the roly-poly pup, and he went on to tell, in a very loud voice to give himself courage, how his father had left him to guard the kennel, but how when he heard the news he, too, set off to ask her about it.

“And the kennel is still unguarded, is it?” asked the old witch owl, looking beyond the roly-poly pup into the darkness.

“Yes,” said the roly-poly pup, in a very small voice.

“And Father Dog is getting anxious as the night grows darker.”

“The night,” cried the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey and the little squealing pig, drawing nearer together. And they looked fearfully over their shoulders as the shadows of the apple-tree near the barn moved nearer to them.

When the old witch owl brought her eyes back from the darkness she looked at the kicking, kicking donkey, and he straightway began to roar how his master had given him a pack to carry, but how, when he heard the news, he had kicked it off and set out to ask her about it.

When he finished he joined forepaws with the pig and the pup and danced around the fiddle; the pig singing,

“O for a pair of wings to fly high,”

and the pup singing,

“O to grow in a tree-top and see farther than my nose,”

and the donkey singing,

“O to bray in rhyme and bring down the house.”

And then they all sang together,

“O for the time when pigs had wingsAnd pups grew in the tree-tops,In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme,And fiddles danced the barn hops.”

“O for the time when pigs had wings

And pups grew in the tree-tops,

In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme,

And fiddles danced the barn hops.”

The fiddle never even noticed them; he still stared at the old witch owl, though he did not dare to say anything.

“You kicked off the pack, did you?” asked the old witch owl, turning the full blaze of her eyes on the donkey.

“Yes,” he gasped, running behind the pup and the pig, and the pig tried to catch the pup by the tail, and the pup tried to catch the pig by the tail.

“Do you think,” she cried in a frightful voice, and her feathers stood out straight around her, “that runaways and idlers will ever fly high or see farther than their noses or bring music into the world? They bring nothing but sorrow, sorrow to those that love them.” And suddenly the old witch owl looked out into the night and called,

“Hoo-oo-oo-oo. Is it you-oo-oo? Is it you-oo-oo?”

Immediately out of the night walked the mother of the squealing pig and the father of the roly-poly pup and the master of the kicking, kicking donkey. And into the sky came the moon. And into the moonlight trooped crowds of boys and girls from the land of dreams, led by the boy and girl the little pig had passed in the morning, more and more of them, till they surrounded the barn and covered the shadows cast by the apple-tree.

The little squealing pig ran to his mother and the roly-poly pup ran to his father and the kicking, kicking donkey ran to his master; and there was great rejoicing. The donkey begged his master for a beating, saying he richly deserved it, and so did the pup and the pig. But the grown-ups said, “They’ll do better next time.”

When the dream children heard this they streamed out into the moonlight back to their dreams, singing,

“The time will come again when pigs will have wingsAnd pups will grow in the tree-tops,In that good time donkeys will bray in rhyme,And fiddles will dance the barn hops.”

“The time will come again when pigs will have wings

And pups will grow in the tree-tops,

In that good time donkeys will bray in rhyme,

And fiddles will dance the barn hops.”

And lo and behold! when the fiddle heard them he felt his ill-humor slipping away. And as theold witch owl looked at them his strings mended themselves.

Dancing down the path and out into the moonlight after the children he sounded his sweetest notes in time to their singing; and the little pig and his mother and the roly-poly pup and his father and the donkey and his master followed and took up the children’s song. To the very end of it the fiddle danced and played his merriest. At the turn of the road he looked back at the old witch owl and she was looking at him.

“The little pig’s news is good,” he cried,“I’m off to spread it far and wide.”

“The little pig’s news is good,” he cried,

“I’m off to spread it far and wide.”

And as she sailed off into the night he was sure she nodded at him.

And Piggikin got the nuts after all, though they were a day late.

—Angela M. Keyes

One evening Tommy’s grandmother had been telling him and his little brother Johnny a story about a brownie who used to do all the work in a neighbor’s house before the family got up in the morning. But the maids caught sight of him one night, and they felt so sorry to see his ragged coat that the next night they laid near his bowl of bread and milk anew suit and a new linen shirt. Brownie put the things on and danced around the room, singing,

“What have we here? Hemten hamten!Here will I nevermore tread nor stampen.”

“What have we here? Hemten hamten!

Here will I nevermore tread nor stampen.”

And away he danced through the door and never came back again. Tommy wanted to know why, but his grandmother couldn’t tell him. “The Old Owl knows,” she said, “I don’t. Ask her.”

Now Tommy was a lazy boy. He thought that if only he could find a brownie that would do his work he would save himself a great deal of trouble. So that night, while little Johnnie lay sound asleep beside him, in the loft of the kitchen, as rosy and rosier than an apple, he lay broad awake, thinking of his grandmother’s story. “There’s an owl living in the old shed by the lake,” he thought. “It may be the Old Owl herself, and she knows, Granny says. When father’s gone to bed and the moon rises, I’ll go and ask her.”

By and by the moon rose like gold and went up into the heavens like silver, flooding the fields with a pale ghostly light. Tom crept softly down the ladder and stole out. It was a glorious night, though everything but the wind and Tommy seemed asleep. The stones, the walls, the gleaming lanes, were so intensely still, the church tower in the valley seemed awake and watching, but silent; the houses in the village round it had all their eyes shut; and itseemed to Tommy as if the very fields had drawn white sheets over them, and lay sleeping also.

“Hoot! hoot!” said a voice from the fir wood behind him. Somebody else was awake, then. “It’s the Old Owl,” said Tommy; and there she came swinging heavily across the moor with a flapping stately flight, and sailed into the shed by the lake. The old lady moved faster than she appeared to do, and though Tommy ran hard she was in the shed some time before him. When he got in, no bird was to be seen, but he heard a sound from above, and there sat the Old Owl, blinking at him—Tommy—with yellow eyes.

“Come up, come up!” said she hoarsely. She could speak then! Beyond all doubt it wastheOld Owl, and none other.

“Come up here! come up here!” said the Old Owl.

Tommy had often climbed up for fun to the beam that ran across the shed where the Old Owl sat. He climbed up now, and sat face to face with her, and thought her eyes looked as if they were made of flame.

“Now, what do you want?” said the Owl.

“Please,” said Tommy, “can you tell me where to find the brownies, and how to get one to come and live with us?”

“Oohoo!” said the Owl, “that’s it, is it? I know of two brownies.”

“Hurrah!” said Tommy. “Where do they live?”

“In your house,” said the Owl.

Tommy was aghast.

“In our house!” he exclaimed. “Whereabouts? Let me rummage them out. Why do they do nothing?”

“One of them is too young,” said the Owl.

“But why doesn’t the other work?” asked Tommy.

“He is idle, he is idle,” said the Owl, and she gave herself such a shake as she said it that the fluff went flying through the shed, and Tommy nearly tumbled off the beam in fright.

“Then we don’t want him,” said he. “What is the use of having brownies if they do nothing to help us? But perhaps if you would tell me where to find them,” said Tommy, “I could tell them what to do.”

“Could you?” said the Owl. “Oohoo! oohoo!” and Tommy couldn’t tell whether she were hooting or laughing.

“Of course I could,” he said. “They might be up and sweep the house, and light the fire, and spread the tables, and that sort of thing, before Father came down. The Brownie did all that in Granny’s mother’s young days. And they might tidy the room, and fetch the turf, and pick up my chips, and sort Granny’s scraps. Oh! there’s plenty to do.”

“So there is,” said the Owl. “Oohoo! Well, I can tell you where to find one of the brownies; and if you can find him, he will tell you where his brother is. But all this depends upon whether you feel equal to undertaking it, and whether you will follow my directions.”

“I am quite ready to go,” said Tommy, “and I will do as you tell me. I feel sure I could persuade them to come; if they only knew how every one would love them if they made themselves useful!”

“Oohoo! oohoo!” said the Owl. “Now listen. You must go to the north side of the lake when the moon is shining—(“I know brownies like water,” muttered Tommy)—and turn yourself round three times, saying this charm:

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