From this bag the Night Wind begged a dream for the Little Tree.—Page 96.
"I promise," said the Night Wind, and blew upon his way.
And after that night, the Little Tree was not lonely or sad. She never became a joyous tree—her youth had been too sorrowful for that—but she was content. Each night, when all the forest filled with creeping shadows, she sang her songs to the Stars, and she came to love the Night Wind dearly. Each night the Little Tree dreamed the dream the Spirits of the Woods had given her, and strange to tell, it was always the same dream. It was such a pleasant, lovely dream that sometimes the Little Tree was puzzled, and wondered whether she really lived in her beautiful dream, and only dreamed that she lived in the forest.
Each night the Little Tree dreamed she floated far away, until she reached a palace which was set on a high hill. Within the palace was a great hall richly hung with silken tapestries and gleaming softly with light that shone from carved crystal bowls. Within this palace hall a great king and his court were seated, and sweet strains of music floated on the breeze. But the strangest thing of all was this: theLittle Tree often thought she heard her own songs in this palace hall. She was not sure, but she was greatly puzzled. She knew that she had dwelled always in the forest, and how could she know the music of noble lords and ladies? Then one night in her dream the Little Tree was startled to hear the sound of her own voice singing the songs she had so often sung to the Stars. She pressed eagerly to the palace window to see within, but because of her branches she could not go very near, and she could not see. Then came the dawn, and her dream floated far away.
All through the day, the Little Tree called again and again to the tall trees and asked them of her curious dream; but, of course, they could not hear her. She waited eagerly to see the daylight fade, and when the Night Wind came, she questioned him:
"Oh, Night Wind," cried the Little Tree, "will you tell me of my dream? I am sure I heard my own voice singing; but how could it be that noble lords and ladies within that palace hall would listen to me? For am I not the least of little trees?"
But the Night Wind did not tell her truly. He had given his promise that he would not, and so he answered her, saying:
"Now that I do not know, my dear, but though you are indeed the least of little trees, you are the only Little Tree in all this world to me. Of noble lords and ladies and their ways I know nothing, for do they not shut me from their homes and hearths when I would enter and warm myself? But now, Little Tree, it grows late; will you not sing for me?"
Thus with the Night Wind and the Stars for company, the Little Tree lived on for many years. From them she learned much wisdom and came to know about the great world which lay beyond the forest, and that all trees would one day go there. And all this time the world was growing older, and the forest was not so silent as it had been in the time when the Little Tree first dwelled there. Sometimes the woodcutter's ax rang out, and the Little Tree would hear a great tree come crashing down to earth.
"Oh, why must I leave the freedom of the forest and be torn limb from limb in somewretched mill!" cried one of the tall trees, as he fell close by the Little Tree one day.
"Ah," replied the Little Tree softly, "you would not wish to dwell forever in this forest, would you? In the world there is much that a great tree may do to bring happiness."
"Who is it that speaks to me thus gently?" asked the Fallen Tree. "I do not know the voice, although I thought I knew all trees growing in this forest, for I was among the first trees to grow here."
"And so was I," replied the Little Tree. "Do you not remember the Little Tree that could neither speak nor sing? I am she. For though I am ages and ages old, I am scarcely taller than yonder little fir of ten seasons."
"In those days we thought you stupid and sulky, Little Tree," replied the Fallen Tree, "but by your speech I now can see that we were wrong. Who has taught you all your wisdom, and have you not been lonely all these years?"
"Indeed, I was very lonely," said the Little Tree. "Even after I could sing, it was no better. The flowers and ferns had died, and there wasnone to hear me or talk to me. One night I wept and wished to die, and the Night Wind, who is of a kind heart, cheered me with words of praise. Since then I have never been sad, for I have had a lovely dream each night, and I have sung to the Stars."
But this the Fallen Tree could not believe, and so he answered sharply:
"Now, Little Tree, how can that be? Tall as I was, and high as I stood when I was monarch of this forest, never once could I send my songs to the Stars, although I tried to do so many times. Now surely such a little tree as you could not accomplish what a monarch failed to do! You have learned wisdom without doubt, and you sing very sweetly, I daresay; but take care lest your dreaming lead you in untruthful ways."
"Oh, pray believe me!" cried the Little Tree. "Wait only until the twilight comes, and the Night Wind himself will tell you so."
"More foolish talk!" scoffed the Fallen Tree. "The Night Wind is but a feeble creature to a monarch of the forest, such as I. When I stood aloft in all my glory, the Night Wind could notbend the smallest twig of mine unless I willed it so."
"That is true, my friends," spoke a gentle voice beside them. It was the voice of the Night Wind, for all unknown to them, darkness had fallen. "Because you were so proud and held your branches firm against my gentle breezes, never once did I carry your songs to the Stars; but I have done so for the Little Tree." Then he brushed aside the branches of the tall trees, and the Little Tree sang to her shining audience so far above in heaven. She sang until the Fallen Tree slept, and then the Night Wind gently dropped the branches until the forest was all dark once more. Then he kissed the Little Tree farewell and blew upon his way.
Now, as more people came to dwell upon the earth, more trees were needed every year to shelter them. The forest was no longer dark and silent. The woodman's ax rang out, and here and there the sun shone down where groves of noble trees had once stood. But even so, the ferns and flowers and grasses did not bloom again. The woodcutters made dusty roads andtrails, and heaps of dead leaves eddied in the breeze. At last one day a certain king gave orders that all remaining trees of this forest should be cut down. He planned to build a noble city where the forest stood. Now charcoal fires flared all night, and herds of oxen tramped the whole day through, and soon a dreary waste of withering branches whose brown leaves crackled dismally was all that remained of the noble forest.
"Ah, Little Tree," the Night Wind mourned, "there is no longer any need for me. When the forest stood, it was my work and pleasure to brush the fallen leaves and lull the trees to sleep. Indeed, were it not for you, I would be desolate. Each night I tremble lest I shall not find you awaiting me."
"Ah, Night Wind," replied the Little Tree softly, "it is because you love me that you fear to lose me; but do not be troubled. I have seen great trees fall to my right and to my left, and small trees likewise, yet no one seems to want me. I am such a little tree; I am sure that you will find me here forever. That does not grieve me, even so, for I have come to love youdearly, and it would break my heart to be parted from you."
Then one dull winter's day, the Little Tree felt a human hand laid on her slender trunk, and she knew her fate had come. She was such a little tree that it took but two blows to fell her. When the Night Wind came again, he found the Little Tree moaning with the pain of her wounds. He caressed her tenderly and begged her to say her pain was better.
"Oh, Night Wind, the pain is truly better since you have come," whispered the Little Tree bravely, and died in his arms.
When the Night Wind knew the Little Tree was gone, he flung himself down on the earth beside her, and wept and wailed so bitterly that the Spirits of the Woods came from the ends of the world to see what troubled him.
"Ah," sighed the first Spirit. "How sad it is the Night Wind should be parted from the Little Tree. Could we not make him a mortal, so that he may meet her again in the world?"
"Agreed," replied the second Spirit. So while the Night Wind slept, the Spirits of theWoods changed him to a mortal and called him Robello.
Thus it was that some time later a youth called Robello came to dwell on the outskirts of the noble city which stood in place of the great forest. Now this Robello did not till the soil, and neither did he herd flocks on the hillsides. Instead, at evenings, he played his violin so sweetly and so sadly that some folk could not tell his music from the wailing of the winds. People from that region, as they passed his cottage at nightfall, paused to listen to Robello's playing, and many a one wiped a tear from his eye at the memories it stirred. Robello's fame began to go abroad, and wise men learned in the arts of song declared that if Robello but possessed a fine violin, the world could hear no better music.
Now, at this time it happened that the king (the same who had ordered the great forest cut down) received the gift of a rare violin. The maker of this violin vowed that its like was not to be found the whole world over, for when 'twas touched with the bow, it sent forth a sobbing sound like the cry of a broken heart.The maker of this rare violin besought the king and begged that no mere fiddler be allowed to touch it, and that a music master should play it always. The king agreed and accordingly commanded that all who played the violin should appear at the palace. Robello went in company of a thousand other players.
The palace of the king was set on a high hill, and as Robello entered, he seemed dimly to remember it, although he knew well that he had never been within its gates before. The king and court sat waiting within a great hall richly hung with silken tapestries and gleaming with lights that shone softly through carved crystal bowls. The violin players were gathered together, and to Robello fell the lot of playing first.
The king himself placed the violin in Robello's arms, and slowly, as though in a dream, Robello drew the bow across the strings. With the first notes wakened memories that had long been slumbering. Then as he played, Robello felt the great hall grow dim, until at last it seemed to fade away, and he saw naught but a vision: the deep dark forest just at dusk, and he wasonce more the Night Wind caressing the Little Tree.
"Ah, my Little Tree," he whispered, as he bent lovingly above the violin. "This is the dream that you did love so dearly. Do you remember me?"
"Ah, Night Wind," sang the Little Tree, "although they call thee by another name, to me thou wilt be the Night Wind forever. He who fashioned me thus spoke truly when he said I sobbed like a broken heart, for my heart has been broken with longing for thee. Let us sing the songs we sang to the Stars so long ago."
Then Robello played as he had never played before, and the violin sang as never violin had sung before. When the last notes died away, there were tears in the eyes of the noble lords and ladies, and the king sat silent for a time. At last he spoke, and ordered that all other players be sent away, and declared that none save Robello should ever touch this rare violin.
So Robello remained in the palace of the king and was made chief musician to his majesty, and never had the Little Tree sung so sweetly in the forest as she sang now at Robello'smagic touch. Robello played at all court festivals, and nothing had such power to soothe the king as had Robello's music when he played his violin at nightfall.
Then came a sad day when his servants went to waken him and found Robello dead, his beloved violin clasped closely in his arms. The king and all his court mourned the passing of Robello for many days. Then one evening, just at dusk, they buried him with his beloved violin still clasped closely in his arms, and strewed his grave with boughs of trees. And in that region, to this day, there are some folk who say that when night falls Robello can still be heard playing his violin within the palace hall; but others say this is not right; it is the Night Wind calling softly to the Little Tree that never grew up.
There lived once long ago, in days of jesters and court fools and harlequins, a certain clown called Punchinello. This Punchinello, like all others of his trade, whitened his face and painted it in grotesque fashion. He wore gay satin robes of many colors all hung with silver bells that jingled when he danced, and pom-pom slippers turned up at the toes. This Punchinello was a clown of clowns, and his droll dances and his merry tricks and songs had made thousands laugh.
Punchinello traveled around the world in company with a circus. Whenever this circus reached a city, it formed a great parade before it entered. Then would the people throng the streets and highways, eager for the show. They clapped their hands when lions roaring in theircages and elephants led by their keepers passed along; but when this famous Punchinello, prancing and twirling, came in view, the crowds cheered wildly with applause.
"Oh, welcome! Welcome, Punchinello!" they would shout.
The ladies threw him flowers and children blew him kisses. Kings and queens had often hailed him thus, for Punchinello pleased all folk. Those who were sad and those who sorrowed often sent for Punchinello when the circus show was done, and he would dance and sing to cheer them. But for this service he would take no gold or present. So though he grew to fame, this Punchinello grew not rich.
"It is enough that I can make sad faces glad," said Punchinello, and wrapping his great cloak about him, he would steal away, leaving happiness behind him.
"My store of wealth lies in the golden smiles my antics bring," he often said, "and when my merry songs and dances please the world no more, I shall be poor indeed." But with his light, fantastic dancing, and his songs and jests, with his twirlings and his leapings,—was itlikely that the world would ever cease to smile on Punchinello? The world is always fond of fun and laughter.
"Punchinello is the greatest man in all the world," some folk said when they had seen him dance and heard him sing.
"That is not right," said others. "He would be emperor if that were true; but Punchinello is the greatest man in all the circus."
"But neither is that right," still others said. "For if he were, he would be owner of the circus. But Punchinello is the greatest clown in all the world." And on this all folk agreed.
Now on its way about the world, the circus chanced to journey to a city where a king and queen held court. These royal folk and all their court watched the gay procession from their balconies and were delighted. The king and queen sent heralds, saying on a certain night that they would grace the show and to be sure that Master Punchinello played before the royal box. Then as the pageant wound upon its way, with banners flying and with music of the fife and drum, they passed a building where the sick were tended. It was a hospital. No eagerfaces gave them welcome here, and lest they should disturb the sick, the fife and drum ceased playing. Punchinello fell to walking soberly along. Suddenly he chanced to spy a tiny, wistful face pressed to the window pane. Then Punchinello bounded lightly up the ladder, and leaping into the room, began to dance and twirl about to please this little child.
"And does my dancing please you, little one?" asked Punchinello when he paused.
"Oh, yes, sir!" cried the child. His name was Beppo. "Please dance again for me. It makes my pain grow better."
"Alas! I cannot, little one," said Punchinello, pointing to the circus that was passing. "I must make haste to join my friends again."
"Then would you come to-night when it is dark and dance for me?" begged little Beppo. "The pain is always worse when it is dark, you know."
"Indeed, I'll come, my little one," said kindly Punchinello, and his gayly painted face grew sad. "Just leave your window open, little one, and I'll steal in and dance for you and sing you to the land of happy dreams."
And that night, when the circus show was done and all the lights were out, while other tired players slept, this kindly Punchinello wrapped his cloak about him and stole out underneath the stars to visit little Beppo. The little lame child was delighted with his songs and dances, so kindly Punchinello vowed that he would come each night and do the same, while the circus remained in the city. Each night the child lay waiting for him eagerly, and how he hugged and kissed this Punchinello when at last he came!
"Last night I dreamed of running through the woods," cried little Beppo to him one night. "I saw tall trees that seemed to touch the sky and heard the birds sing in their nests. I never had a dream like this before, and your sweet songs did give it to me, Punchinello. Come, dance and sing for me."
Then Punchinello danced his best. His slippered feet like lightning flew; the bells upon his robes rang out, and he would twirl upon his toes until his many-colored baggy robes stood out and he seemed like a brilliant human top. He jumped, he twirled, he leaped high in the airand bowed before the little cot as though it were a royal throne. When he at last grew weary, he would stop, but then the child would beg for more.
"Oh, please, dear Punchinello," he would say, "just once again. It makes my pain grow less to see you whirl." Then Punchinello could not refuse, and he would whirl and twirl again until he was too weary to do more. Folding little Beppo in his arms, he sang him lullabies until the child fell fast asleep. And so the nights went on.
The nurses noticed that little Beppo's cheeks grew plump and that his eyes grew bright. He said his pain was better, and they thought it was the medicine. They knew nothing of this Punchinello. He entered each night through the window and departed the same way. The circus folk said Punchinello was not well and told him he must rest.
"Our show would be as nothing if it were not for you, Punchinello," they declared. "To-morrow the king and queen will come to see us play, so rest you well to-night that you may dance your gayest for them." Though Punchinello promised, late that night, when all the world lay sleeping, he stole away to dance for little Beppo.
"Oh, Punchinello!" cried the little lame child. "I'll tell you of my dream. I dreamed I wore a spotted satin robe like yours and pom-pom slippers turned up at the toes. I dreamed I danced and twirled as lightly as you do yourself. Now is that not a pleasant dream for one who cannot even walk?"
"It is, my little one," said Punchinello. "Come sit upon my knee and wind your arms about my neck. Now tell me, has your pain been less to-day?"
"Much less, much less, good Punchinello," said the child. "Indeed, I think your dances and your songs have charmed it all away. I think about my lovely dreams by day, and lie and wait for you by night, and have no time for pain, it seems. Come dance for me, my Punchinello."
"To-night I'll sing instead, my little Beppo," answered Punchinello. He was weary, and when he whirled his head grew dizzy. "I'll sing you a song of ships that sail through seas of clouds;and trees as sing the world to slow sleep when winds do blow."
But little Beppo wished to see him dance. "See, Punchinello," said he softly, "around your neck I tie my locket. It is my only treasure. They say my mother placed it on me when she died. It has a bluebird painted on it which is the only bird I've ever seen. Now wilt thou dance for me, dear Punchinello?" He kissed the clown's queer painted face, and Punchinello danced.
And never had he danced so well before. As though he heard afar the music that the fairies make at midnight, he waltzed and twirled faster and yet faster, pausing not at all. He pranced, he leaped and spun upon his toe as though he were a dancing doll wound up to dance so long. The little lame child watched him eagerly, and as he watched, as though he too heard magic strains from fairyland, he sprung up from his cot and straightway danced and whirled about in Punchinello's footsteps.
"Look, look, dear Punchinello!" little Beppo cried. "I am no longer lame but dance as well as you yourself."
"Look, look, dear Punchinello!" little Beppo cried. "I am no longer lame."—Page 116.
But Punchinello, whirling like a leaf, made no reply. He sang his gayest songs and leaped so lightly in the air, there seemed to be a thousand harlequins, and little Beppo followed lightly after. Suddenly the child stopped, for Punchinello was no longer dancing.
"Oh, my good Punchinello!" he exclaimed. "Why did you run away? I'll follow after you," and down the ladder he swiftly sped. He saw the white tents shining in the moonlight. "Indeed, I'll join the circus with my Punchinello," said he to himself, "and travel around the world with him."
But alas! Poor Punchinello had not stolen off, as little Beppo thought. For while in his wild dance that charmed the lame child's pain away, poor Punchinello felt himself grow ill. His head grew giddy, and at last he fell upon the floor, and there the nurses found him in the morning. They placed poor Punchinello on the bed where little Beppo had lain for so many years, and wondered whence the clown had come.
And so it was the king and queen who went next day to see the show were displeased because the famous Punchinello was not there todance and jest for them. No other clowns or harlequins would please their royal majesties, and so they left in anger. They bade the circus owner strip his tents and in that very hour depart, and when another morning came, our little Beppo found himself in a strange city with the circus folk. At first these circus folk were puzzled what to do with him, but as the child could dance and cut droll capers, they made for him a spotted satin suit and gave him pom-pom slippers turned up at the toes. They would have called him Little Punchinello, but this the child would not allow.
"Good Punchinello was my friend," said little Beppo. "And 'twas from him I learned to dance before I ever walked. I will not take his name, but I will seek him everywhere until I find him."
Some circus folk thought Punchinello had run off to join a show of traveling jugglers, and others thought perhaps he had grown tired of dancing and grimacing. Then by and by they ceased to talk of him, and all forgot him, save little Beppo.
Meanwhile poor Punchinello lay in a ragingfever. The nurses thought that he would die, for he was very ill. But after a long time the fever left him, and then they knew he would grow better. He asked one day for little Beppo, but they could tell him nothing of the child.
"We came to waken him one morning, but the child was gone and you were lying ill," said they. "We could not see how this could be, for little Beppo was too lame to walk; but though we searched the city, he could not be found."
Another day poor Punchinello asked about the circus, and again the nurses shook their heads.
"The circus folk have gone long since," said they. "The king was angry with them and bade them go in haste, 'tis said. We cannot say which way they went."
When Punchinello was all well at last; he rose and donned his many-colored robes that jingled when he walked. He had grown thin and pale, and they became him poorly, but he had not money to buy others. He wrapped his great cloak all about him and started out to earn his bread. Poor Punchinello was too weak to dance;he could not plow or dig; he had not been so trained. And so at last this famous Punchinello stood upon the highways and sang for pennies that good-natured people threw to him.
"I am the famous Punchinello," he would sometimes say. "Have you not heard of famous Punchinello of the circus?"
But those who heard him laughed in scorn. "If you be famous Punchinello of the circus," they would say, "why sing you then for coppers like a beggar, and where is the circus? You are not Punchinello, but a fraud."
Thus poor and friendless, Punchinello started out to seek the circus. His wanderings led him into many lands, and often he met folk who told him that the circus had passed there. But Punchinello, journeying afoot, could never travel fast enough to overtake the circus. His pom-pom slippers soon were torn by stones along the highway, and he went barefoot. His satin robe of many colors faded and grew worn. Punchinello patched here with yarn and there with bits of leather cloth or sacking, until the colors had all fled, and it was naught but rags sewn all together. Poor Punchinello danced no more,for ragged robes and dancing do not fit; but even so, his voice was sweet and clear as ever.
"So I am not yet poor, despite my rags," he would say bravely to himself. "For yesterday I caught a golden smile from one who flung a copper; and who knows? Perhaps to-day I may again be favored."
Then one day in his wanderings Punchinello awakened to the music of the fife and drum. He saw gay banners flying and hurried to the highway with the crowds. It was the circus he had sought so long, and as he saw his old friends marching by, poor Punchinello's eyes filled with tears of joy. The lion tamers with their roaring beasts strode by, the elephants in scarlet blankets decked, the jugglers next, and then a little dancing clown who stepped and pranced in drollest fashion.
"Oh, welcome, Beppo! Welcome!" cried the crowds, and Punchinello saw it was the lame child he had known.
He darted from the crowd and cried, "Oh, little Beppo, dost remember me? I am good Punchinello."
But here the circus folk protested. "Beoff! Be off! You bunch of rags!" cried they. "Our Punchinello was no beggar, and you are not he."
"I swear I am!" cried Punchinello. "Do you not know me, little Beppo?"
"When I was ill and could not walk," the child replied, "a clown called Punchinello cured me of my lameness by his merry songs and ways; but his face I know not. He came always in the night. When he danced, he danced so swiftly that a million harlequins there seemed to be about me: and when he held me in his arms, I hid my head against his shoulder, because I loved him dearly."
"Do you remember this, then, little one?" asked poor Punchinello, and showed the bluebird locket, "the only treasure you did own, and which you gave to me?"
"I do, and you are my good Punchinello!" little Beppo cried, and flung his arms about him. He kissed the shabby creature and wrapped him in his own fine scarlet cloak to hide the rags. "How I have sought the world for you, dear Punchinello, to tell you of my gratitude; but I could never find you."
The circus folk went running and crowded round the pair. "Oh, welcome! Welcome, Punchinello!" they exclaimed and shook his hand. "A thousand welcomes. We have missed you sadly and now you will be our clown again."
"But little Beppo is your clown. What of him?" asked Punchinello.
"Oh, we shall both be clowns!" declared the child, "like father and like son. Together we shall dance those dances that you taught me and sing those songs with which you charmed the world."
And so this Punchinello found himself once more in satin robes of many colors, all jingling merrily with bells, and pom-pom slippers turned up at the toes. His face he whitened and then painted it in grotesque fashion, and with his little Beppo he danced that night and made his old-time capers and grimaces.
"Well done! Well done! Good Punchinello!" cried the people. "We have missed you sorely, but enjoy you all the more for missing you." They laughed and cheered him wildly until the show was done.
"And now," said Punchinello, as he laid himdown to rest that night, "I am the richest man in all the world. A thousand golden smiles were mine to-night, and better still I have the love and gratitude of little Beppo whom I dearly love. What more than that could Punchinello ask? And so good night!"
Long, long ago, in the very far north, there lived a mammoth Brown Bear. Never in all the world was seen such a gigantic creature. Brown Bear was so tall his eyes looked over tops of trees, and his footprints were so deep that a grown man could stand full height in them. They were great pits.
Now Brown Bear owned a gold mine so rich that the king envied it. Also Brown Bear loved gold exceedingly, but as he had no hands he could not dig for it. Therefore he lay in wait for travelers journeying through the forest, and seizing them, he would carry them off to be his slaves and dig his gold. All folk suffered from this cruel custom,—the rich and poor, the high and low, the young and old. The king of that land offered rich rewards to the hunter whowould slay this monster or to the trapper who would snare him. But no arrow was made strong enough to pierce the hide of Brown Bear and no trap could hold him. So he continued to carry off all captured folk to his gold mine underneath the mountain side. 'Twas said that Brown Bear had as many slaves as there were subjects left in the kingdom. 'Twas also said, the walls of Brown Bear's cave were lined so thick with gold that they outshone the sun.
It happened one evening that a poor peasant returning to his hut missed his little child. His wife had lately died, and there was no one at home to tend the little one. He asked the neighbors of the child and learned that it had last been seen running toward the forest. In deep anxiety, the peasant hurried to the forest, but though he searched all night and called, he could not find his little one. When morning came at last and it was light, he saw the child's bright scarlet cloak beneath a tree and not far off the mighty footprints of Brown Bear.
"Alas!" the peasant wept, "my little one is carried off by this great monster. I do not wish to live!" He seized the little scarletcloak, and weeping and lamenting pressed it to his heart. Then when he could weep no more, he rose and began to follow in the path of Brown Bear's footprints.
"I'll seek this Brown Bear in his cave," thought he, "and if he make a slave of me, I shall at least be with my little one, and if he kill me, I care not."
For many hours then the peasant toiled through brush and bramble, and when night came, from weariness he stumbled and fell headlong into one of the mighty footprints of Brown Bear. He broke no bones, but for a long time he knew nothing. When he awoke at last, he found beside him a tiny baby bear that wept and shivered with the cold.
"You, little one, are not yet wicked," said the peasant; "and though your race has done me injury, still if I warm and comfort you, so may some good soul warm and comfort my own little one whom I have lost."
He wrapped the baby bear all in the scarlet cloak and fed it bread. Then when it slept he took it in his arms and climbed out of the pit and set upon his way once more. He had notgone far when he reached a cave all lined with gold, and this he knew to be the home of Brown Bear. Caring nothing for his life, the peasant boldly entered. When he was within, he saw the wife of Brown Bear weeping bitterly.
"Why come you here, O Peasant?" cried the wife of Brown Bear. "Do you not know that my husband makes slaves of all men? Hasten away before he returns lest he do you greater harm than even that."
"I care not if Brown Bear make a slave of me," the peasant answered. "Where is thy husband now, and why do you weep?"
"My husband, Brown Bear, is out seeking in the forest to find our little one, who wandered off and who, alas, I fear is dead. Therefore I do weep," she answered sobbingly, "and lest you know it not, O Peasant, let me tell you this; the loss of children is the greatest grief that ever parents suffer."
"Indeed! I know too well what grief is that!" the peasant cried, and bursting into tears, he told the tale of his own woes. Now as he told, the wife of Brown Bear fixed her great eyes on the bundle wrapped in scarlet that he carried.
"What have you there, O Peasant?" she asked eagerly.
"A tiny baby bear I found when I fell headlong into one of Brown Bear's footprints," he replied. "The little one did weep from cold and hunger, and so I fed and warmed him. And as I could not find it in my heart to let him die, I took him from the pit with me."
"It is my little one! It is my little one!" the wife of Brown Bear cried. She seized the baby bear and hugged and fondled it with joy. "But for your kind heart, Peasant, he must have died down in the pit; so wait you till my husband comes for your reward."
She raised her great voice in a mighty roar, and presently Brown Bear came crashing through the trees. He seized the baby bear and hugged it as his wife had done, and when he heard the story thanked the peasant warmly.
"Now for this service you have rendered me, I'll give you all my gold, O Peasant," cried Brown Bear. "For though I do love gold beyond compare, I love my little one far more."
"And just as dearly do I love my little one whom you did steal, O Brown Bear," the peasantcried. "And likewise do all parents love their little ones. Therefore if you will free all those you hold as slaves, ten thousand homes will be made happy as this home of yours to-night. I ask this boon, and you may keep your gold which you do love so dearly."
But Brown Bear would not have it so. "You shall have what you ask and all my gold beside," said he. "For while I mourned because my little one was lost, my gold brought me no gladness, but instead did mock me with its brightness." So saying, he flung open wide the door that led beneath the mountain side and bade his slaves go free. With shouts of joy these folk ran to their homes, and all the forest rang with their rejoicing. The peasant found his little one and held him to his heart.
"My little one! My little one!" he cried. "I wish no more reward than this, O Brown Bear."
"But you shall have more, even so," said Brown Bear, and gave to him the key of the gold mine. "Now you are richer than the king himself, and indeed, 'tis right that you should be. For what his thousand hunters with their poisoned barbs and cruel traps could never do, with your kind heart you have accomplished, Peasant. Go tell the king and all his subjects that they need fear me nevermore. Through mine own grief I know the sorrows I have caused, and from henceforth I'll live in peace with man."
The peasant thanked him and with his little one departed for his home, and there a multitude of grateful folk were gathered to greet him. And from that day the peasant was no longer poor. As owner of the rich gold mine, he now became a man of wealth. The king respected him and made him noble because he had done noble service for the kingdom. His title was Duke Kindlyheart.
In closing this strange tale, I too must say that Brown Bear kept his word and nevermore molested travelers journeying through the forest. Indeed, he grew so friendly with the king and court that he fought all their wars for them and brought them many victories. When Brown Bear died at last, as creatures all must do, the people wept for him, and all the kingdom put on mourning.
Once upon a time there lived a king who had great wealth and also many daughters, among whom he divided his kingdom before he died. That is, he gave lands and estates to all but his fourth daughter, the Princess Yvonne, who from her lack of fortune was forced to seek her living in the world. Having not a copper piece for her pocket and no gold save the gold of her hair, which, though it was very beautiful, nevertheless would not feed or clothe her, she was forced to beg her bread from door to door and became known as Yvonne, the Beggar Princess. And the reason of it all was this.
The king, being very wise, wished his daughters to wed none but princes from the most powerful thrones in the world. As soon as each daughter reached the age to marry, the king invited to his court the suitors for her hand. The first and second daughters married the princes of their father's choice and went off to their palaces rejoicing, and so likewise did the third daughter. Because of their obedience, the king was pleased and gave them land and great riches for their marriage portions. He then turned his attention to find a husband for his fourth daughter, the Princess Yvonne, the fairest and most charming of them all.
Now all unknown to her father, Yvonne, loved Prince Godfrey of the Westland Kingdom. They had often met in the forest, and there they had vowed their love to one another. Prince Godfrey had wished to ask for the hand of Yvonne, but she, knowing her father's iron will, begged him to delay.
"My father is a stern king and rules his daughters in all things," said the princess. "He would part us forever should it come to him that we had dared to do aught without his consent. Return, I pray you, to your kingdom and there await my father's summons, for I have heard him say that you would be bidden to his court as suitor for my hand."
Prince Godfrey, much against his will, consented to do as Yvonne asked. He kissed her farewell and departed that very evening for the Westland Kingdom. What befell him on the homeward journey, Princess Yvonne never knew, but she saw him no more. She carried his image in her heart and could love no other prince, though her father sent far and near for suitors to please her. Knowing nothing of her love for Prince Godfrey, at last the king placed her refusals to a stubborn spirit.
"My daughter, Yvonne," said he, after she had refused five princes in as many days, "how do you know whom you love or whom you love not? You, my fourth daughter, cannot pretend to know as much as I, your father. Where have you been to learn of this nonsense that you call love?"
To which the princess made reply: "That I cannot tell, my father, except that my heart bids me marry only the prince whom I shall love well, and of these princes you have brought hither I love none at all. I pray you now, turn your attention to the affairs of my younger sisters, who are anxious to wed, and leave me fora little longer in peace." She was so gentle in her speech and so winning in her manner that the king forgot his vexation and busied himself with seeking suitors for his younger daughters.
They married according to his wishes and pleased him exceedingly. With each marriage, the king gave portions of his kingdom, until at length there remained but two estates, and of his nine daughters there were but two unmarried. Again he sent for the Princess Yvonne, and this time he spoke sharply to her.
"Now, Yvonne, my fourth daughter, I have listened to your entreaties and given you your will in all things, and still you are not wed. I cannot compel you to marry if you do not wish to please me; but this I tell you. To-morrow there comes to this castle a prince who has both gold and lands, and who moreover is handsome and possessed of a sweet temper. If you wed not him, I will give the remainder of my kingdom to your youngest sister. Then you will be left portionless, and what disgrace that will be! A princess without a fortune is a sad creature, and I advise you to try my patience no longer."
Yvonne listened with tears in her eyes. She dearly loved her father and wished to please him, but her heart still treasured the image of the absent Godfrey.
The following day, at her father's commands, she dressed herself in her finest robes and bound her hair with the royal jewels. Thus attired, she went forth to the throne room to greet the suitor who awaited her. The king was well pleased with her appearance and smiled encouragement to her, but alas for his hopes! The Princess Yvonne burst into tears before the court, thereby offending the suitor and bringing down her father's wrath. He bade the weeping Yvonne withdraw and commanded his youngest daughter to appear in her place. So agreeable was this youngest daughter that the prince forgot his anger and fell in love with her before a single day had passed. They were married with great splendor and the king, as he had declared, gave them the remainder of his kingdom as a wedding gift.
Thus it was that the Princess Yvonne went forth from her father's castle without his blessing, without a fortune, without even a copperpiece for her pocket, and without riches of any sort save the bright yellow gold of her hair. She had been raised in a castle and therefore knew not how to spin or to weave or even to embroider, which three occupations were considered suitable for young serving women in that day, so she was forced to beg her bread from door to door; hence her title, Yvonne, the Beggar Princess.
She left her father's kingdom and by and by found service at a farm. The people were very poor, and she did the work of three, but they treated her kindly, and Yvonne worked cheerfully. Early in the morning she drew water from the well, and many a ewer she had carried to the kitchen before the sun rose. She served the table for the plowmen and took her own meal in the pantry while she tidied up after they had gone to the fields. All day long she baked and brewed, or scoured pots and pans until they shone like silver. In spite of her changed fortunes, the princess remained as sweet-tempered as in the days when she lived in her father's castle and had naught to vex her from morning until night. If the butter would not churn,she would sing instead of scolding as the other maids did, and presently the butter would come, and such butter as it was too! When the loaves burned, she did not cry out against the Brownies, who were said to play tricks with the oven, but received the scolding from her mistress with humility. At night, no matter how weary she might be from her long day, the princess went willingly to fetch the cattle, for the walk through the fields and forest cheered her.
It was in the forest she had first met Godfrey, and it was in the forest he had vowed to love her always. So as she sang her shepherd's song and called softly to the straying herds, she was with her absent prince in memory.
"He will come for me by and by," she would whisper to herself sometimes, when she waked suddenly from a dream in which Godfrey had seemed very near. Other times she would be frightened lest perhaps he might some day pass her on the highway. "In my peasant's dress, there is but little to remind him of the princess whom he bade farewell in my father's hunting forest," she would say. She had no mirror and quite forgot her lovely face andher golden hair, which a queen might well have envied.
One evening in autumn, when the night falls early and the darkness creeps on swiftly, the princess wandered through the forest in search of the cattle. She was tired, but as she walked among the trees she grew rested, and presently she began to sing. In the open spaces she called softly, but no creatures came to follow her. The wind sighed through the pines, and once she started, thinking she heard some one call her name. She stood quite still and listened, but the wind died away and the forest was silent. She wandered farther, and the trees grew more dense. There was no moon to guide her, and after a time, the princess perceived she had lost her way.
"For myself, it does not matter," said she, "I can find shelter in the hollow of some tree and there be very comfortable until morning." Never before had the cattle strayed so far but that at the sound of her voice they would come slowly down the paths and crashing through the brush. They followed her like pets. She resolved to call them once more and began to sing: