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The Old-Fashioned Fairy Book

by Mrs. Burton Harrison · English · Gutenberg #37348 · 391,921 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Old-Fashioned Fairy Book

Author: Mrs. Burton Harrison

Illustrator: Rosina Emmet Sherwood


        
Release date: September 8, 2011 [eBook #37348]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Matthew Wheaton and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY BOOK ***




Produced by David Edwards, Matthew Wheaton and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









    THE OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY BOOK

    BY

    MRS. BURTON HARRISON


    ILLUSTRATED BY

    MISS ROSINA EMMET


    LONDON

    SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, AND RIVINGTON
    CROWN BUILDINGS, 188 FLEET STREET


    [_All rights reserved_]


    Dedicated

    TO

    FAIRFAX, FRANK AND ARCHY




    CONTENTS.


    INTRODUCTION

    THE PRINCESS EGLANTINE

    DAME MARTHA'S STEP-DAUGHTER; OR, THE GRANDMOTHER OF THE GNOMES

    THE ADVENTURES OF HA'PENNY; OR, THE DWARF, THE
    WITCH, AND THE MAGIC SLIPPERS

    SYBILLA, MYRTILLO, AND FURIOSO

    ANNETTE; OR, THE MAGIC COFFEE-MILL

    JULIET; OR, THE LITTLE WHITE MOUSE

    THE FAIRIES AND THE FIDDLER

    ETHELINDA; OR, THE ICE KING'S BRIDE

    DEEP-SEA VIOLETS

    THE WILD WOODSMAN

    THE FROZEN HEARTH-FAIRY

    ROSY'S STAY-AT-HOME PARTIES

    BLONDINA; OR, THE TURKEY-QUEEN

    TIMID AGNES

    THE OGRESS AND THE COOK

    MISS PEGGY AND THE FROG

    THE LEPERHAUN: A LEGEND OF THE EMERALD ISLE


        ROMANCES OF THE MIDDLE AGES.


    THE TRIALS OF SIR ISUMBRAS

    BISCLAVERET

    ROSWAL AND LILIAN

    ELIDUC AND GUILLIADUN

    THE FALCON-KING

    SIR EGLAMOUR AND CRYSTABELL




FAIRY DAYS.


    Beside the old hall-fire--upon my nurse's knee,
    Of happy fairy-days--what tales were told to me!
    I thought the world was once--all peopled with princesses,
    And my heart would beat to hear--their loves and their distresses;
    And many a quiet night--in slumber sweet and deep,
    The pretty fairy people--would visit me in sleep.

    I saw them in my dreams--come flying east and west,
    With wondrous fairy gifts--the new-born babe they bless'd;
    One has brought a jewel--and one a crown of gold,
    And one has brought a curse--but she is wrinkled and old.
    The gentle queen turns pale--to hear those words of sin,
    But the king he only laughs--and bids the dance begin.

    The babe has grown to be--the fairest of the land,
    And rides the forest green--a hawk upon her hand,
    An ambling palfrey white--a golden robe and crown;
    I've seen her in my dreams--riding up and down:
    And heard the ogre laugh--as she fell into his snare,
    At the little tender creature--who wept and tore her hair!

    But ever when it seemed--her need was at the sorest,
    A prince--in shining mail--comes prancing through the forest,
    A waving ostrich-plume--a buckler burnished bright;
    I've seen him in my dreams--good sooth! a gallant knight.
    His lips are coral red--beneath a dark moustache;
    See how he waves his hand--and how his blue eyes flash!

    "Come forth, thou Paynim knight!"--he shouts in accents clear.
    The giant and the maid--both tremble his voice to hear.
    Saint Mary guard him well!--He draws his falchion keen,
    The giant and the knight--are fighting on the green;
    I see them in my dreams--his blade gives stroke on stroke,
    The giant pants and reels--and tumbles like an oak!

    With what a blushing grace--he falls upon his knee
    And takes the lady's hand--and whispers, "You are free!"
    Ah! happy childish tales--of knight and faerie!
    I waken from my dreams--but there's ne'er a knight for me;
    I waken from my dreams--and wish that I could be
    A child by the old hall-fire--upon my nurse's knee!

                                 W. M. THACKERAY.

[Illustration: The Faithful Comrades.]

[Illustration: Old-Fashioned Fairies.]




INTRODUCTION.

    _To my Young Readers._

              _Children Dear_:


Not long ago two little boys, who shall be nameless here, came to their
mother's side at that pleasant hour of the twenty-four called by the
English "blind-man's holiday," and by the French, "between dog and
wolf." The lamps had not been lighted, and the room was full of shadows;
but a strip of western sky, seen through the bay window, hung like a
pink veil behind which a few pale stars were beginning to show above
the dark line of hills. All that bright summer's day long, four little
busy feet had been in motion. Directly after breakfast they had raced
down the meadow-path, pursued by Colin Clout, their faithful Scotch
collie, between grass and daisies so tall that little could be seen of
the dog and his younger master, beyond a brown back and white-tipped
tail curveting around a scarlet fez that bobbed up and down like a buoy
upon the water. Soon the three companions had reappeared for a moment
under a low arch of fringy boughs at the entrance to the grove, and then
had descended a bank to the edge of a babbling brook, where, on the
grassy margin, the children played every day for hours, inventing a
hundred devices of boats and dams and waterfalls, whilst Colin lay at
ease among the ferns, and from time to time emitted a bark of pure good
fellowship. For them this shallow streamlet has a charm hardly to be
resisted, even for a summons to drive "over the hills and far away"
through the lovely country-side, or to assist in the delights of the
season when their pretty meadow grasses are laid low, tossed into
fragrant piles, and carted away by merry haying-folk--though sometimes
these water-elves pause to forage the neighboring woods for "hocky"
sticks and sling-shot crotches, to "shin up" the tall forest trees, or
pluck wild strawberries from the sunny slopes beyond their favorite
haunt.

On the especial evening of which I write, the faithful comrades had
returned, tired, and scratched by the briers of this work-a-day world,
from a tramp of some miles in search of live bait for a fishing
excursion projected with their father at Lily Pond upon the morrow. The
doomed little fishes had been put into a bath-tub full of water, where
they were expected to suppose themselves still in their native pool. The
boys had been washed and fed--an astonishing supper, even for those
cormorants!--and now had elected to seek rest and refreshment at the
maternal knee. Colin, observing that everybody else was satisfactorily
adjusted in affectionate attitudes, had retired under the fringe of a
table-cover close at hand, and lay where only his loving eyes and open
mouth could be seen, breathing in short quick pants, or, as the boys
called it, "ha-ha-ha-ing at the company."

"And now, mamma, until your tea is ready, we know what you must do,"
said the children, in a breath. "Tell us a story--a 'real, truly' fairy
tale, about a giant and a dwarf, lots and lots of fairies, a prince and
a beautiful princess with hair to her very feet, a champion with a magic
sword, a dragon-chariot, a witch dressed in snake-skin--and, if you can,
an ogre. Don't punish anybody but the witch and the ogre; and _please_
don't have any moral, only let everybody 'live in peace and die in a pot
of grease,' at the end of it."

"To be sure, we know most of mamma's stories by heart," said the sage
elder of nine. "If she could only make up some new ones that aren't in
any of our books! Or else, mamma, tell us something you heard a little
bit of, long, long ago, from your nurse, and then make up the rest. But
whatever one you tell, we'll be sure to like it anyhow."

The stories told, the mother fell to musing, and the result is the
little book here presented to the judgment of children other than her
own--a few new fairy tales, on the old, old pattern!

In every country of the habitable globe are found the same myths,
variously dressed and styled. Let the ethnologist frame what theory he
will upon this subject, my own private belief is that once upon a time a
good fairy who loved mankind put on the wings of a stormy petrel and
flew over many lands, carrying in her hand a sieve full of tiny seeds,
and shaking it upon those spots where there appeared to be most
children. The seeds, falling to earth after this fashion, sprang up and
bore many-colored fairy tales, to rejoice all hearts for evermore. Since
then, the fables you and I love have been told from father to son among
nations living remote from each other and isolated. The Hindoo toiling
under the tropic sun, and the Lapp in his smoky hut banked in snow; the
English cottar resting in his ivy-covered porch, and the Russian peasant
stretched at length upon the stove which forms his bed; the Persian
stroking his gray beard beneath the archways of Ispahan, and the
Norwegian carving bits of wood under his rafters of illuminated
pine--all know and repeat versions of our favorite tales. In France, in
Spain, in Germany--mother of myths--in Italy, where they drop red from
the wine-press of Boccaccio--are these stories to be heard. The North
American Indian weaves them with his beads and wampum; our southern
negro croons them over the corn-cake baking in the spider upon his cabin
hearth; the poetical Chinese envelops them in the language of flowers;
and the distant dweller by the Amazon embalms them in his legendary
lore. So much for the fairy with the sieve!

But great as is the enjoyment had in perusing the fairy tales of
different nations, to the child of Anglo-Saxon descent can come no such
pleasure so deep as that to be derived from the old romances of our
mother country. To me this delight was first revealed by a little fat
book that used to be found in our nurseries--the one containing
Cinderella, immortal maid--unprincipled Puss in Boots--and Jack, the
splendid champion!

Of late years, fairy tales seem to have suffered from their increase of
dignity at the hands of grave scholars, who have so dressed them in fine
language, and hedged them with innumerable notes and references, that
the child shuns the fruit for fear of thorns about it. For my own part,
I prefer the older specimens of ancient fairy literature known as
chap-books. These were odd little yellow pamphlets, sprinkled with
abundant capital letters throughout the text, and "Illustrated with many
diverting cutts!" They were carried around the country-side in England
by peddlers, who sold them (with such other catch-penny wares as
ribbons, lace, and trinkets) indifferently at castle gate or cottage
lattice; and if you wish to see the sort of fairies your
great-grandmothers believed in, look at the three pictures that
accompany this preface, copied from a famous chap-book.

There, quaintly depicted, first, appeared Jack in a funny full-bottomed
coat, diligently climbing a bean-stalk, where the ogre's castle was
perched atop like a bird's nest; lucky Ali-Baba, too; Bluebeard--mighty
and pitiless--with Fatima and sister Anne, their back hair down,
pleading to him on dislocated knees, their brothers, with drawn swords,
galloping to the rescue; and the husband in The Three Wishes, standing
agape before his fireside, while his wife danced a jig of rage in her
efforts to rid her nose of a pudding little smaller than a feather-bed!
There, also, was displayed that pushing suitor, the Yellow Dwarf, who
insisted on attaching to his lady-love's finger a ring made of a single
red hair, so fastened that she could not get it off. There was the
Desert Fairy, guarded by two lions which the wandering queen endeavored
to appease with "a cake made of millet, sugar-candy, and crocodile's
eggs." (How we children yearned to taste that cake!) And there were the
fascinating White Cat, seated side by side with her enamored prince in a
fine calash of blue embossed with gold, the Sleeping Beauty, the Babes
in the Wood--hapless cherubs--the Girl who dropped pearls and diamonds
when she spoke, dear Graciosa and ready Percinet, gallant
Riquet-with-the-Tuft, and Goody Two Shoes--the latter a little of a
prig, I fear--clever Hop o' my Thumb, Beauty and the Beast, Little Red
Riding-hood--the long procession of charmers to whom even now my heart
bows in salutation as I write their familiar names!

Chap-books of ancient date have been recently reproduced in England;
from one of them, I have taken the substance of a story I never chanced
to see elsewhere, and under the title of "Juliet; or, the Little White
Mouse" have given it to you in language of my own.

After the chap-books came other cheap fairy publications, notably those
of Mr. Newberry, a good old gentleman who, in the last century, sent out
numberless sixpenny booklets, many of them reaching America to give
pleasure to the infants of the colonies. Washington Irving goes so far
as to say that if George Washington had not read Newberry's
publications in his youth, especially "Whittington and his Cat," he
would not have been the first and greatest President of the United
States! The grave Benjamin Franklin, while a printer in Philadelphia,
emulated Newberry in publishing nursery tales, and no doubt devoured
them himself with relish.

Many a pen of the great in history or literature has found a theme in
these favorites of ours. Of Cinderella, the famous Canning, premier of
England, wrote in glowing rhyme:

    "Six bobtailed mice transport her to the ball.
    And liveried lizards wait upon her call."

And Thackeray has thrown around fairy lore the rays of his noble genius,
not only in the lines already here quoted, but in a Christmas story so
enchanting that, if you are unfortunate enough not already to have made
acquaintance with Valoroso and Gruffanuff, Bulbo and Angelica, I urge
you to try at once the magician's art and coax "The Rose and the Ring"
out of the pocket of your nearest relative. By the giant Thackeray, when
entangled in the meshes of Fairydom, one is reminded of Gulliver under
bonds to the Lilliputians, yet wearing his bonds so easily!

And now, I leave my new-old Fairy Book to you, my little critics. I am
sure you will accord a generous welcome to the pictures. What would our
benighted great-grandmothers have said to Miss Emmet's charming
illustrations?

                                                          C. C. H.




THE PRINCESS EGLANTINE.


A certain queen had twin children, a boy and a girl, both as beautiful
as the dawn of a summer morning. As the mother was one day hanging over
the double cradle, shaped like two silver lilies growing on one stem, an
old aunt of hers, who knew a good deal about magic, arrived from the
country to see the babies and to spend the day.

The old lady took the Princess Eglantine in her arms, and kissed her,
and joggled her, and clucked at her, after the fashion of all good
aunties.

"That's a girl to be proud of, my dear!" she said, handing the baby
back to her mamma. "And she looks as good as she is pretty, too."

"They are both _wonderful_ children, nurse says," replied the young
queen, modestly. "And the doctor thinks them the _finest pair_ he has
ever seen. Only the boy is _a little_ high-tempered. He kicks and snaps
at his attendants the whole time he is awake; so take care, aunty dear,
and don't disturb him for the world. We always let him sleep as long as
he will."

"Hoity-toity!" cried aunty, "as if I came out of the woods to be
frightened by an owl. _I_ know how to manage _all_ children!" and the
boy opening his eyes at that moment, she lifted him from his crib, and
laid him on her lap.

Sad to say, he behaved like an infant tiger. Never was there seen such a
tempestuous baby. He wriggled, and howled, and fought, and plunged,
until the poor mother and nurses turned red with mortification. But the
old aunty held on to him bravely, and examined him from top to toe.
Nothing could she find, till she came to the sole of the right foot, and
there was a tiny red mark like a burning torch. As soon as aunty saw
this she sighed, and whispered a word in the baby's ear, when he became
as quiet as any lamb.

Aunty sent away the nurses, and told the poor queen there was no doubt
about it; her boy was bewitched, and when he grew up he would try to
devour his sister. The only thing was to keep them apart, and this the
queen told her husband; and he sent for a wise man, who confirmed what
aunty had said. The wise man added that all would go well so long as the
princess was kept apart from her brother, and as the brother was the
heir of the kingdom, there was nothing left but to banish the
unfortunate princess. The king built for his daughter, in the remotest
corner of his kingdom, an ivory tower. Around the tower was a crystal
moat full of gold and silver fish. Around the moat were lovely
flower-beds, and around the flower-beds was a thick and thorny hedge. In
this tower there was a room lined with tufted blue satin, like the
inside of a bonbon box, and all the furniture was made of fine carved
ivory. Here the princess was shut up for life, under the care of an old
dame, Madame Veloutine by name, who once had kept a boarding-school for
duchesses, and was very respectable indeed. Poor Eglantine was gradually
forgotten at court, and her cannibal brother grew up without knowing he
had ever had a sister.

[Illustration: THE PRINCESS EGLANTINE.]

Like all other captive princesses, past, present, and to come, Eglantine
was beautiful and accomplished. She could speak in every language, work
in silk and crewels, paint china plaques, make mince-pies, sing like a
nightingale, and play anything on the piano at sight with her eyes shut!
Her skin was milk-white, with a rosy flush on the cheeks, while her
glorious golden hair never came out of crimp, but rippled from the roots
to her very feet.

One day a prince, cantering by upon his palfrey, looked up at the tower
window, and there saw this lovely creature, surrounded by a flock of
pretty white doves. Prince Charming gazed and gazed, and the longer he
stood there, the more enraptured he became. When he heard from the
country people that no one knew who or what was this mysterious beauty,
excepting that once a year, by night, a grand gentleman and lady visited
her, and looked at her while asleep, the ardent young prince made a vow
to solve the secret without delay. He engaged his old tutor to make love
to Eglantine's governess, and this plan succeeded so well that the tutor
was, ere long, invited to take a cup of tea at five o'clock, in the
ground floor apartment of the tower where Madame Veloutine kept house.
Madame Veloutine was very much fluttered by the attentions of the
tutor, a gloomy-looking individual with savage dark mustache and
deep-sunken eyes. The poor old thing, who had been reading novels
without any intermission for eighteen years, was very sentimental, and
the idea of a suitor coming to woo at some period of her existence was
never wholly absent from her thoughts. She dressed herself in one of the
Princess Eglantine's white robes, put a blue sash around her waist, and
covering her little red nose with rice powder, sat in a darkened corner
with a guitar upon her knees. The tutor flattered her, and soon she grew
confidential and told him the story of her charge. When the tutor took
his leave, Madame Veloutine sighed deeply, and pitied the poor man who
had fallen a victim to her charms. She did not see the fat purse of gold
the prince bestowed on him, upon learning the true state of the case
about the enchanting captive!

Prince Charming rode, day and night, till he reached the king's palace.
"Give me your daughter for my wife," he said. The king turned pale at
hearing that the secret was betrayed. "For pity's sake speak lower,
young man," said the anxious father. "Only suppose her brother should
hear of it." With that he told the whole story to Prince Charming, who
forthwith rode to ask a wise man what he should do to set the princess
free, with safety to herself.

"Ride as far as you will, and as fast as you will with her, you may not
escape the curse," said the wise man.

The prince went off heavy hearted, and visited a witch he knew. She was
knitting a stocking, which ravelled every night as fast as it grew by
day.

"I have been knitting this stocking for fifty years," said the witch,
taking a pinch of snuff out of the soup-tureenful that she always kept
beside her. "I could as soon make it whole in one night as keep away the
curse from her."

The prince groaned as he rode away. Across his path was a green bough,
half covered by a huge cobweb. In this a tiny being, no bigger than a
fly, was entangled, and was making desperate struggles to be free.
Travelling toward it, with tremendous strides, came an enormous red
spider, with white spots and great protruding eyes. The prince, not
without a shudder, for, like most of us, he hated the nasty things,
killed the spider with a blow, and set free the pretty captive, who
proved to be a fairy. She tidied her iridescent frock, and thanked him
very nicely.

"You have saved my life, dear prince," she said. "Pray let me do
something in return for it."

"Perhaps you can help me," said the prince, eagerly. "If you can't,
never mind," he added, politely, when he had finished telling her the
sad story of his doomed princess. "I don't expect much of a person of
your size, you know; but really it's the greatest _relief_ to talk about
the dear darling!"

"A person of my size!" said the little lady, with a shrill sniff. "I'd
have you to know, prince, that I'm the fairy Buz-fuz, the discoverer of
the celebrated invisibility powder. It is _never_ known to fail, is made
from a fern-seed that _I_ alone can pluck, and is _not_ for sale at
_any_ druggist's! As to lifting the spell from that poor young creature,
the princess, I can't undertake to do it, on any terms; but with the aid
of my powder, one pinch of which sprinkled on an object will make it
disappear from sight in a moment, I believe you can manage to keep clear
of the cannibal brother."

The prince thanked the fairy, took the powder, and galloped off,
light-hearted, to his Eglantine. She, poor thing, had thought of nothing
but the prince and his beauty, and his kind glances and smiles, since he
left her. She wearied of the society of poor old Veloutine, and sighed
for change. Veloutine was in despair. To comfort the princess she
promised to allow her a single meeting with the prince, should he ever
come that way again. "That I am sure he will!" said the princess. "If
you had only seen his eyes when he looked at me! They were so kind, so
true! Oh! Veloutine! he _will_ come back!"

So Eglantine settled down to her embroidery. This was a gown of white
damask with large white satin flowers outlined with real pearls. She had
been at work on it for several years, and a few stitches more would
finish it. She now wrought busily, until the last stitch was set, and
then, with trembling fingers, put it on. Around her neck and waist she
wrapped great chains of pearls, and left her long hair rippling to her
knees. When her toilet was complete she went to the window. It was the
sunset of a summer's day. Around her tower grew vines heavy with
deep-red roses; the shining surface of the moat beneath was streaked
with color from the western clouds. Along the path beyond the hedge rode
a horseman gayly clad in green and gold, who, smiling, doffed a cap with
a single long white plume, and bowed to his saddle-bow. Behind him came
a splendid cavalcade of courtiers and knights on horseback, surrounding
a golden coach in which sat the father and mother of Eglantine, who had
given consent to her marriage with the prince. The poor king and queen
were dreadfully frightened at the rashness of this proceeding. They had
sent the cannibal brother off on a hunting excursion in a distant part
of the country, and had come in fear and trembling, bringing with them
the most trustworthy of their people. They could not resist Prince
Charming, who, in addition to his other attractions, had just lost his
father, the old king, and was now the sole owner and ruler of a
neighboring kingdom, and just the match for their lovely daughter. He
had sworn to them that their child should be kept so securely guarded
that her brother could never reach her.

Eglantine came down from her bower, to be introduced to her father,
mother, and lover all at once. The marriage took place without delay,
and the new king started with his bride for the sea-shore, where they
were to embark for his home.

They set sail in a ship of which the sides were plated with beaten gold.
The sails were of pink satin, and the ropes golden threads plaited
together. The young king and queen sat upon cushions of velvet on the
deck, and talked of their happy future, when suddenly the sky was
darkened as by a cloud, and, riding upon a vulture, the cannibal brother
came after them. He had been hunting, and a wandering breeze carried to
him the story of his sister's escape. Although he had never before heard
he possessed a sister, the first whisper of such a thing was sufficient
to rouse in him the dreadful cannibal instinct to drink her blood. From
where the king and queen sat they could distinctly hear him smacking his
lips with joy at the prospect of his horrible meal. Queen Eglantine,
fearing she knew not what, shuddered from head to foot, and closing her
eyes cast herself upon the king's breast for protection.

The king, bidding her be calm, sprinkled the deck of the ship with one
of the fairy's powders, which he carried in a little crystal box. At the
moment the huge foul bird of prey hovered above them and gave a fierce
swoop downward, the ship and all its contents vanished utterly from
sight, while the vulture with his rider plunged into the sea.

The cannibal prince was a good swimmer, and although his vulture was
immediately drowned, managed to keep up, until he found a dolphin and
got astride its back.

"Now, carry me in pursuit of yonder ship, and mind you swim fast and
well," he exclaimed.

"Master, I obey," said the dolphin, who recognized in him a magician.
"But, look for yourself--blue sky above, blue water below, and not a
sail upon the sea."

The prince looked, and in truth there was no ship to be seen; so,
ordering the dolphin to convey him to the nearest landing-place, he soon
reached the shores of a beautiful country, where flags were flying, and
all the inhabitants were dressed in holiday clothes. Over the wharf was
an arch of most lovely flowers, and five hundred little girls were
strewing the roads with orange blossoms.

"What is taking place?" asked the cannibal brother of the people around
the wharf.

"Where have _you_ been, pray?" said they scornfully, "not to know that
our king brings home his bride to-day!"

Then the ship came in sight and the rejoicings began. The cannibal
brother had no sooner laid eyes upon his sister than a new longing to
drink her blood came over him; and he set about plotting how he could
get hold of her, no easy matter, since the palace was guarded night and
day by twenty white bull-dogs of the fiercest sort, besides the usual
soldiers and attendants. So he took service with a butcher near the
town, and made a bag full of little meat-balls, each one containing a
drop of deadly poison. One day his master sent him to the palace to
carry Queen Eglantine's sweetbreads and mutton-chops. "Now," thought the
brother, "I shall get inside;" but he was mistaken, for the sweetbreads
and mutton-chops were taken from him at the gate, and passed on through
twenty different hands till they reached the cook. As no outsider
whatever was allowed to penetrate the inner palace walls, behind which
the new queen lived surrounded by every luxury, the cannibal brother had
to wait many days for an opportunity to get a sight of her. Meantime his
appetite was gaining terribly, and he went to the blacksmith and had all
his teeth framed in iron, the better to enjoy his horrid meal.

At last King Charming was summoned to meet a neighboring monarch about a
right of way for his armies across a certain peninsula; and, with many
injunctions to the queen not to admit any stranger during his absence,
he reluctantly set out. No sooner was he out of sight than the pretended
butcher's boy hastened to assume his own princely clothing, and, ringing
boldly at the castle gate, told the servants to announce to the queen
that her brother had arrived, bearing messages from her father and
mother. He sent in a golden locket containing likenesses of both the
king and queen, his parents, which convinced Queen Eglantine that his
tale was true. So, joyfully, she ran forth to meet him, and would have
cast herself upon his neck, but that the trained bull-dogs rushed
between, growling most horribly.

"Come here, pretty fellow, nice fellow," said the cannibal brother,
coaxingly; but the dogs only opened their jaws wider than before and
growled defiance.

"Give them these little dainties, sister," said the wily prince,
producing his poisoned meat-balls. "They are some that I always carry
for my own pets."

The innocent queen called the dogs one after another to her side, and
fed them with the fatal balls, which they ate, licking her white hand
gratefully. At once, as the poison began to work, they all lay down in a
row, and became as quiet as they had been before ferocious. The queen
led her brother into an inner room, and bade him sit upon her silken
couch. The prince laughed to himself, for now, thought he, the hour has
come for my coveted meal. But he was seized with the notion to go into
another room in order to file his teeth, which were becoming rather
dull.

"Will you not play for me upon the piano, sister?" he asked lovingly.

The amiable queen, who never waited to be asked twice, sat down to play,
while her brother hid within a closet and began to file his teeth. Up
jumped the queen's cat, in great excitement, and sat on her mistress'
lap.

"Mistress dear," said the affectionate creature, "fly, fly, as fast as
your feet will carry you. Your brother is at this moment getting ready
to make a meal of you, and as he is a magician no one in the castle is
strong enough to defend you from him. In the stable you will find the
king's gray steed. Jump upon his back, and be off, while I play the
piano in your stead."

The terrified queen took to her royal heels, weeping as she stumbled
over the dead bodies of her faithful dogs, and the clever cat sat
playing beautifully so many runs and trills that the prince, admiring
his sister's brilliant execution, made no haste to leave his task until
it was finished to his entire satisfaction.

And now, mounted upon the good gray steed, away flew Queen Eglantine in
search of her beloved spouse. Pretty soon she heard footsteps, and
there, swifter than any horse, swifter than wind, on flew the cannibal
brother after her.

"What shall I do, dear steed?" said the alarmed queen.

"Drop your cloak into the road," said the gray horse, who was the cat's
own cousin.

The queen obeyed, and the cloak became a broad lake, across which the
cannibal brother took a long time to swim. The gray horse got a good
start, but presently the prince came nearly up with him.

"What shall I do now, dear steed?" said the queen, almost ready to fall
fainting from his back.

"Drop the veil from your head," said the horse.

This was done, and the veil became a thick fog, causing the cannibal
brother to lose his way and stumble dreadfully. But he got out of it at
last, and came nearly up with them.

"What shall I do next, dear steed?" said the queen, trembling in every
limb.

"Take your scissors and cut a long lock from your hair, and throw that
behind you."

The queen lifted the scissors that hung at her girdle, and in a moment,
snip! they went into her beautiful golden hair. The hair became a jungle
of tall reeds, and through it the cannibal brother had work indeed to
travel. While he was puffing and blowing and struggling in the reeds,
oh, joy! the queen saw her king riding swiftly to meet her.

Just as the cannibal brother, by a desperate effort of magic strength
had freed himself from the jungle, and emerged in swift pursuit, he had
the mortification of seeing the queen rush into her husband's arms. His
dreadful hunger was now increased until it drove him to desperation.
With a roar of baffled rage he darted toward the royal couple, swearing
that both of them should be his victims; and this no doubt would have
been the case--since the monster was endowed with the strength of fifty
men--but that the king, bidding his queen have no fear, quickly
sprinkled them both, and their steeds, with a pinch of the fairy
fern-seed. Immediately they disappeared from sight, and the cannibal
brother, coming with full force upon the spot where they had been,
beheld only empty space. This disappointment, combined with his now
really appalling appetite, made the miserable wretch fall in a fit upon
the ground.

The king would have killed him where he lay, but the queen pleaded for
her brother's life, so the attendants bore him, insensible, back to the
palace. There, the queen's clever cat advised that he should be left to
her to deal with. She shut herself up with the patient in a tower
bedroom, and during sixty days and nights not a morsel of food passed
the sufferer's lips, except the cat's magic castor-oil--a cupful every
ten minutes--each tasting more nauseous than the one before! In the
morning he was lifted from bed, and put into an ice-cold bath, and then
whipped soundly until his circulation was restored. At the end of the
second month the cat stopped his bath, whipping, and medicines, offering
him instead a handful of parched peas and a dry crust. This diet seemed
to him so delicious that never again could he be tempted to vary it.
Until he reached a green and virtuous old age this prince was never
known to look upon so much as a rare beefsteak without shuddering! His
father, mother, sister, and brother-in-law united their tears of joy at
this happy reform, and who should the clever cat turn out to be, but
aunty, who had taken this means of watching over her favorite Eglantine!
The gray steed was aunty's first cousin upon the mother's side; but when
peace was restored he preferred to go back to his own country to live,
although the grateful King Charming offered him every inducement to
remain, in the way of marble stalls and silver mangers, rose-water to
quench his thirst, and golden oats to eat. Aunty, too, retired to her
own distant castle, and the reformed cannibal lived quiet and happy
until the time came to reign in his good father's stead.

As for Eglantine and King Charming, they never again found use for the
fern-seed powder. Even the faults of one were invisible to the other.

Nothing occurred to disturb the serenity of their entire reign but a
suit for breach-of-promise of marriage, brought against the king's
former tutor by the queen's former governess, Madame Veloutine; and this
was settled speedily by the tutor announcing that, rather than make any
fuss about the matter, he would marry the old lady and be done with it,
although he really could not imagine what there had been in his past
conduct to put such an idea into her venerable head. So at last
Veloutine got a husband, and nobody could be surprised at anything after
that.




DAME MARTHA'S STEP-DAUGHTER; OR, THE GRANDMOTHER OF THE GNOMES.


Dame Martha lived at the foot of a high mountain. Her cottage was large
enough to give shelter only to herself and two young girls, one of them
her own child and the other the child of Dame Martha's late husband,
who, about six months before this story opens, slipped down a fissure in
the rocks and had nevermore been seen. Dame Martha did not bear a very
good character in the neighborhood, as she was known to be violent in
temper and dishonest in her dealings. While her husband lived, she had
quarrelled with him from morning till night, and after he disappeared,
people used to hint that Dame Martha knew better than any one else how
the poor man came to his sudden death. But nothing was ever proved upon
her, and as the dame's cottage stood in a desolate valley, overshadowed
by a frowning cliff on which grew a single lightning-blasted pine-tree,
children shunned the lonely spot, and few grown people found anything to
attract them in that direction. Margaret, the dame's own daughter, was a
handsome haughty lass of about nineteen, so spoiled and self-willed that
she bid fair to rival her mother in temper, in the course of time.
Hilda, the step-daughter, was a fair and gentle little creature, sixteen
years of age, who bore with patient cheerfulness all the unhappiness of
her lot. Sometimes, for days together, she would be left alone in the
house, while Dame Martha and Margaret dressed themselves up in all their
finery, and went off to fairs and merrymakings in the neighboring town.
Melancholy were the hours spent in a solitude unbroken save by the rush
of the waterfall leaping from cliff to cliff, or the hootings of owls
after nightfall, and the unceasing wail of the wind through the forest.
But Hilda was at least spared the sound of Margaret's taunting voice and
laugh, and the cruel scolding tongue of her step-mother. These two
wicked women were heartily tired of Hilda, and cast about in their
minds how they could get rid of her, and take possession of a little bag
of gold pieces coming to her from her father. Then, thought they, the
old house could be shut up and left to the rats and bats, while they
might set out on their travels and enjoy life.

One day, when Hilda was bleaching the linen on a patch of grass near the
brook, her step-mother called out, "Hilda, the red cow has strayed away,
and I hear her bell over by the old stone quarry. Be quick, and you may
head her off."

Hilda secured her linen, and with nimble steps, ran up the steep
mountain side. She did not fancy the idea of going by the old stone
quarry, for there it had been, six months before, that her dear father
was last seen in life. Near that spot his hat and shepherd-staff had
been found. But Hilda was accustomed to obey without remonstrance, and
away she ran, climbing as lightly as a mountain goat. She too, could
hear the tinkle of the little bell far up among the bushes, and guided
by the sound, she drew near the dreaded scene of her greatest sorrow. A
thick screen of fir bushes lay between her and the red cow's place of
refuge. Interwoven with evergreens, grew masses of alpine-rose, whose
tough branches became entangled in Hilda's feet, and hid the path from
sight. At last, she found herself in a dense thicket, not knowing how to
emerge. As she paused for a moment to look about her, the red cow's bell
tinkled again--a strange uncertain tinkle this--immediately behind the
bushes at her left.

"There you are, good-for-nothing!" cried Hilda, struggling bravely
forward through the undergrowth in the direction indicated by the bell.
She heard a low mocking laugh. Surely that laugh could come only from
her step sister! "Margaret!" she called. No answer, and poor Hilda,
uttering a wild shriek for help, plunged headlong down a hidden opening
in the ground, into a fathomless abyss, where no foot of man might
follow her.

Wicked Margaret stood on the brink of this treacherous pit-fall, known
only to her mother and herself, and laughed, holding in her hand the
little red cow's bell, with which she had lured Hilda to her doom.

"Rest there!" the wretched girl said, kneeling down to peer into the
darkness of the rocky pit. "At any rate, you have found a burial-place
for your bones, alongside of your father, who was never heard to groan
after my mother and I pushed him over the brink here, last autumn! And
now, I will go home, and tell the old woman that we are rid of all our
burdens. Ha! ha! Won't we spend the father's gold, and revel! This very
night must we steal away, and seek our fortune in a distant country."

Hilda fell, unharmed, upon a hillock of soft green moss, so far, so far
beneath the ledge whence Margaret had pushed her, that the opening above
looked no bigger than a star. The poor girl was overcome by her terrible
fate, and for a long time she lay weeping as if her heart would break.
Then, looking about her, she saw the opening to a cavern in the rocks,
resembling an arch of crystal, so bravely did it glitter.

Around the hillock where she lay was a small courtyard with turf as
smooth as velvet, and upon the rocky walls encircling it were trained
vines of roses, myrtle and jasmine, covered with lovely blossoms. Hilda,
who knew best the alp-rose and the corn-flower, the hardy violet and the
rock-seeking columbine, had never seen such rare and radiant flowers as
these, and their rich perfume intoxicated her with delight. Stealing
down the side of the cliff, trickled a sparkling rivulet, its stream
caught in a basin of gleaming pearl. Hilda, enchanted by the lovely
scene, forgot her grief, and felt a longing desire to follow the path of
many-colored pebbles leading beneath the crystal arch. Without a token
of fear, she tripped along this pretty path winding through a gallery
supported by pillars of frosted silver. Here and there glowed a lamp of
pink, blue or crimson, fashioned like a flower. Strains of sweet music
were heard in the distance, and at last Hilda reached a gate of golden
trellis-work, beside which slept a tiny old man, whose beard and hair
fell over his red mantle to the very ground.

"He is very old, and no doubt needs his rest," said Hilda; "I won't
disturb him, poor old man." So she sat down on the ground at his feet,
and every time his head nodded to his knees, she would pick up the queer
little red cap that fell off of it, and put it on again. After a long,
comfortable nap, the old fellow woke up, and saw Hilda sitting at his
feet.

"You are a kind maiden," he said, for he was of a race that know
everything without waiting to be told--the Gnomes. "Since you have been
so good to me, I will let you pass the wicket. Six months ago your
father came this way, and if you can but make friends with our mistress,
you may be allowed to see him."

"My father! My dear father!" cried Hilda, overjoyed. "Oh! you good, kind
gateman, do lead me to where he is."

"Hush! not a sound," said the Gnome, looking about him in alarm.
"Everything has ears and tongues too in this place. One warning will I
give you. Answer not when spoken to, serve faithfully, break nothing,
show no surprise; and when you can capture the bird that bathes daily in
the fountain of life, save the drops from off his plumage. Now go on;
and farewell, as no one who passes me comes back this way."

Hilda was frightened by the mystery of the warning, but continued on her
way, through a long and winding passage in the rocks, dimly lighted here
and there by hanging lamps of alabaster. Reaching another little
wicket-gate of golden trellis-work, she summoned all her courage and
rang the bell. Out came a hideous crone, whose ears, grown to an
enormous size, hung down upon her neck, and who, without asking her
business, opened the gate.

"If ears grow like this," thought Hilda, "I had, indeed, better hold my
tongue and say nothing to give offence." So, pretending to be dumb, she
curtsied to the crone, and made signs that she wanted food and drink.
The old woman led Hilda along the path of a neglected garden, to a house
built of gray lichen from the bark of trees, and thatched with hoary
moss. The windows were barred, and in the open doorway sat a cross old
dame, at her knitting. She had a hump, ears larger than those of the
lodge-keeper, and claws hooked like an eagle's.

"What! another of those foolish mortals fallen down our pit!" she cried,
angrily; "I have half a mind to kill her on the spot." But Hilda looked
so meek and imploring, standing there and saying not a word, that the
Grandmother of the Gnomes relented. "Well, well," she grunted,
"although she is decidedly overgrown, and has ridiculously small ears, I
suppose I may as well try her for a nurse-maid. If she proves
unfaithful, there will be plenty to tell of it, and she will soon go the
way of all the rest."

Hilda was pleased at the idea of being a nurse-maid, for she always got
on well with children. She followed the G. G. (really, if you will
excuse me, it will save a great deal of trouble sometimes to abbreviate
the old lady's title) inside the queer little house, and there was a
room full of owls, bats, toads, mice, and spiders, who came flocking
around the new-comer, with every expression of delight.

"Oh! you pretty darlings!" cried the old woman, kissing them
rapturously, "here is a new nurse for you; and mind you keep her busy."

When Hilda found that she was expected to bathe, and clean, and walk out
with, and sleep with these loathsome creatures, she felt that she had
rather die. But fear of the terrible G. G. kept her silent, and setting
about her task, she soon had them ready for an airing in the garden.
Here she beheld many strange sights, but nothing more curious than to
see all the bushes and plants and trees bearing large ears, which, as
she drew near, became erect and fixed in an attitude of attention.
Remembering the caution of the friendly gnome to express no surprise,
Hilda drove her little flock before her along the garden path, then
returning to the house, fed them and put them to bed in the most orderly
fashion. For reward, she found, on a bench outside the door, a nice bowl
of milk with fine white bread and butter, and after devouring it
eagerly, she fell asleep. When she awoke next day, Hilda found herself
in another garden. This one was most beautiful. All the rose-bushes had
gold or silver leaves, and flowers made of jewels. She longed to twitch
off one of the shining leaves, but dared not, contenting herself with
watering their roots and neatly clearing up the paths, as the Gnome
Grandmother had directed her. For reward, she had a bowl of delicious
hot soup, and a cup of amber jelly, and falling asleep, she awakened
next day in still another garden. Here sported birds of radiant hue and
plumage, singing delightfully, as they flitted about the brim of a great
marble fountain on a grassy lawn, surrounded by blooming flowers.

"Here, children, I bring you a new nurse-maid," said the Gnome
Grandmother, presenting her to the birds; and immediately, the lovely
creatures surrounded Hilda, perching on her arms, her head, her
shoulders, and caressing her with evident pleasure.

"Now that you have successfully met my three tests--the first, of your
fidelity, by doing your duty toward the creatures you abhorred;
secondly, by passing through my jewel-garden without plucking a flower
or leaf; thirdly, by showing no surprise at the wonders you have
seen--you have proved yourself worthy to be the keeper of my birds,"
said the old woman. "It is well for you that the ears have heard no
grumbling. And mind you go on as you've begun."

Hilda thanked her with beaming glances, but would not venture to speak,
although she longed to ask news of her dear father. "To those who wait,
all things come in time," she remembered her father used to say, and
determined not to break silence yet a while. The Grandmother of the
Gnomes disappeared, and Hilda set herself to the task of caring for her
new and lovely pets. Around the garden were bowers of sweet-smelling
honeysuckle, and in each of these hung a silver cage. Hilda's duty was
to cover the bottoms of the cages with sand of broken diamonds, to
gather fresh sprays of flowers to stick between their bars, and to fill
the jewelled drinking-troughs with dew from the cups of flowers. Day
after day passed in attendance upon the birds, who all became devoted to
her, in return. Each morning the Grandmother of the Gnomes came into the
garden, and sometimes even smiled on Hilda, her grin making her ugliness
and deformity seem to increase, if possible. Still Hilda dared not speak
the words that were always trembling on her tongue. When night came, the
young girl retired to rest in a delightful little house shaped from a
bush of growing box, out of which doors and windows had been cut. Within
was a bed of moss like velvet, and a coverlet made of the woven wings of
the butterfly, with blankets of swansdown. Her meals were served by
unseen hands. Punctually at breakfast, dinner, and tea-time, there
sprang up in the bower house a little table shaped like a huge mushroom,
covered with dainty food in dishes of gold and silver. New clothes were
prepared for her, and laid across the foot of her couch while she slept.
Among them were gauzy gowns that seemed to have been cut from the clouds
after sunset, cobweb handkerchiefs, shoes made of mole-skin, and
necklaces of petrified dew-drops. Hilda might have been quite happy but
for the continual thought that her father was imprisoned somewhere near,
and her longing to find him and tell him she was there. One night, while
she lay thinking, apparently asleep, footsteps came to the side of her
bed, and stopped. Somebody held a lamp close to her face, but Hilda
pretended to be in a deep slumber, and soon the G. G., for she it was,
went away, pattering about the bower, and talking to the old
lodge-keeper, who followed her.

"She is sound asleep, so come along. We are already a little late for
our round among the prisoners. Foolish creatures! Why hadn't they, too,
the sense to restrain themselves as this child did, and they might all
have been working in the gardens, to this day. But no! Each one must
needs twitch off a leaf here, or a rose there, and stare, and chatter
over what they saw, or else go into convulsions over the work given them
to do for my pretty toads, and bats, and serpents. That silly father of
hers, for example! He seemed an honest fellow, but what should he do,
when he thought no one was looking, but pluck one of my choicest ruby
roses to carry back to Hilda. Hum! much likelihood there is that Hilda
ever finds out where he is hidden, after a crime like that!"

The Grandmother of the Gnomes seemed to have worked herself up into such
an angry state, that Hilda dared not give any sign of waking. So she
lay, still as a mouse, till the old couple had laid across her couch the
new robe for next day, and trotted off. Then, gliding swiftly from her
bed, the girl followed them, down a long green alley of the garden, to a
grassy bank she had often noticed. There, putting her hand upon a
trap-door, half hidden from sight by a mass of vines, the old crone
knocked thrice, saying, "Open to the Grandmother of the Gnomes!"

The door opened, and behind it was a narrow passage-way guarded by two
dwarfs in red. No one spoke, and the dwarfs, prostrating themselves upon
their faces, remained motionless while their sovereign lady passed in.
Hilda seized this opportunity to follow, and crept unnoticed to the
mouth of a circular vault of gray granite, hung with curtains of black
velvet and lighted by swinging lamps of lurid red. In the centre was a
long row of white marble tombs, and on each one of these tombs lay a
human being apparently asleep, enclosed in a crystal casket. With a
thrill of emotion, Hilda recognized in one of these placid sleepers her
beloved father. The Grandmother of the Gnomes walked past each bier,
sprinkling it with the liquid from a vial in her hand. At once the
sleepers aroused and sat up, rolling their eyes and extending their arms
to her with a beseeching gesture. The G. G. sternly shook her head, and
proceeded to open a little door in each casket, through which the old
lodge-keeper gave food and drink to all the prisoners in turn. The poor
wretches ate and drank in silence, then turning over on their sides, the
crone waved her wand above them, and instantly they fell again into a
trance-like sleep.

"Sleep now, till this day week!" said the Grandmother of the Gnomes,
solemnly, retiring as she came. Hilda hid in a nook of the wall of rock,
and followed her guides out, noiselessly and unnoticed by the prostrate
dwarfs in red.

And now her sole thought was how she might get possession of the
reviving liquid. Alone and unprotected as she was, at the mercy of her
gnome mistress, Hilda knew not where to turn for help. In the extremity
of her distress, she thought of what the friendly gnome at the outer
gate had said to her. "When you can capture the bird that bathes in the
water of life, save the drops from off his plumage." But although Hilda
racked her brain for a solution of the mystery, none could she find. All
day long her birds came and went among the branches of the beautiful
garden, and at night returned to their silver cages in the honeysuckle
bowers. The only bath she had ever seen them take, was in the wide
marble basin on the grass-plot beneath the fountain. At last, lying down
to rest one day upon a bank of lilies, she fell asleep, and in her
dreams, heard two of the birds talking on the bough above.

"To-morrow, our friend, the little brown wren returns from his travels
to the Spring of Life," said one of them.

"Yes, he has been gone longer than usual, this time," said the other.
"What a lucky creature he is to have gained our mistress's favor, and to
be allowed to take those baths, which have the power to make him know
everything, live forever, and sing more sweetly than the nightingale."

"There is something mysterious about that wren, undoubtedly," sighed the
first bird. "Nobody knows whether it is fear or favor that gains so many
more privileges for him than for the rest of us. Do you know that if he
should ever drop the single golden feather in his tail, he will become
like the rest of us again, a slave and captive? And the lucky person who
finds it, will be able to see all the hidden treasures of the caves
beneath the mountain, pierce his way through solid rock and iron, and
even defy the authority of our Sovereign Lady herself!"

Hilda listened, her heart beating high with hope. Next day, indeed,
there came a new bird among her charges, a little brown wren, who sat
upon the topmost twig of the highest tree in the garden, and dried and
smoothed his feathers, singing so exquisitely that all the others
gathered around him in delight, while the disconsolate lark and
nightingale, canary, mocking-bird and wood-robin, retired to a thicket
of green leaves, and wept for jealousy.

Spite of all Hilda's blandishments and wiles, the little brown wren
would never come near enough for her to handle him. She could see him,
flying amid the upper branches, the single golden feather in his tail
shining splendidly, but nothing secured his presence within reach or
touch. Even the Grandmother of the Gnomes was powerless to control the
wilful creature.

Weeks passed and Hilda was always on guard to follow the Gnome
Grandmother and her attendant upon their expeditions to the crypt where
the prisoners were kept. By means of the stratagem she had first
employed, she never failed to be present when her father was so
mysteriously recalled to life, and then dismissed again into the shadowy
border-land of death. Although she could not speak to him, or tell him
she was near, it was some comfort to see him arise up strong and well.
Oh! if the day should come, when she might capture that tantalizing
little brown bird! He had become less shy with her of late, and more
inclined to perch upon the branch above her head, and, while keeping a
safe distance, observe her motions closely. At last, one evening, quite
disheartened, Hilda went within her own little bowery house, and sat her
down and wept. For the first time since her arrival in the gnome garden,
she spoke aloud.

"Oh! I can bear it no longer. My heart will break! My heart will
break."

To Hilda's utter astonishment, a voice came from the foliage around her
window, in reply.

"Cheer up, dear maiden; the sound of a human voice has broken the spell
cast over me, and I now see you as you are. I am he whom you have known
as the little brown bird, in reality a mortal prince, bewitched by that
wicked old woman, the Grandmother of the Gnomes, who makes everything
within her kingdom subservient to her power. She is my deadly enemy,
because I once discovered the secret of her fountain of life; and, when
on a journey thither with my followers, I was captured and changed into
my present shape, while they, poor creatures, were carried prisoners to
her crypt. Should I regain my shape, it can only be done by the help of
a being brave and true like yourself."

"But why, why did you not make friends with me at first?" said the
joyful Hilda.

"The spell cast upon me forbade my recognizing one of my own kind,
unless she or he spoke, and you know how human speech is punished in
this place. For three long years I have lived in solitude, compelled by
the crone to fly back and forth to fetch her the water of life for her
magical incantations; what I receive upon my own plumage, while drawing
the water for her, has, however, secured my immortality. As for my
golden plume it is the magic blade presented to me at birth, by a
wonderful old wiseman, who said that it would point me to the treasures
beneath the earth, defy the powers of evil, and pierce its way through
solid rock. This sword, the Grandmother of the Gnomes was unable, much
as she wished to do so, to deprive me of. The utmost she could
accomplish was to transform it into a golden plume. Should I ever be so
unfortunate as to drop it, the finder will be my conqueror. See what
confidence I have in your goodness of heart, when I thus give my life
into your hands."

"Never could I be so base as to betray you, dear prince," said Hilda
joyfully.

"Oh! speak on, loveliest of maidens," cried the disguised prince. "Every
syllable you utter brings back life and hope to my sad heart. Strange
that I should have watched you come and go without knowing what you are.
It was the first utterance of your silvery voice in lamentation that
awakened my benumbed senses. Now, shall we not work together for our
deliverance?"

Gladly did Hilda pour forth all the story of her woes to her newly found
confidant. The prince bade her to be of good cheer, for it was his
intention to set forth on the morrow upon his monthly journey in search
of the water of life.

"A week hence I shall return, and although it would be impossible for me
to secrete any of the precious fluid so that our mistress would fail to
find it out, yet I will take care to saturate my plumage with the water,
so that you can obtain enough to free your father and the other
sufferers. That done, we can proceed to stronger measures. Only be
guided by me, and obey all I tell you to do, and I promise you release
and happiness."

Hilda promised and the brown bird took his leave. Next day he was no
longer to be seen in the higher tree-tops, and after a week's absence,
he arrived at nightfall dripping wet, and perched upon Hilda's window.

Carefully did Hilda collect every drop that fell from his plumage, and
when next she followed the Grandmother of the Gnomes into the fatal
crypt, it was with joyful footsteps, for in her hand she concealed a
leaf-cup full of the elixir of life. Not even Hilda noticed that the
little brown bird also entered the crypt when she did. On this occasion,
she waited as usual to see the prisoners aroused and fed, then cast
again into sleep; but instead of following the two crones on their
return, she remained concealed in her crevice of the rock, and saw close
upon her the doors of this living tomb. Now a sudden terror overtook
her, and her knees trembled.

"Oh, dearest little bird, were you but by my side!" she whispered
imploringly.

"I am here, Hilda," came in a well-known voice. "Remember that all
depends upon your courage and obedience. Go up to the crystal caskets
and sprinkle a drop upon each in turn."

Hilda did so, and in a few moments had the inexpressible joy of seeing
about twenty brave knights and other captives arise from their couches
of marble. Last of all came her beloved father, who clasped her to his
breast with rapture unspeakable.

"Now there is not a moment to be lost," said the brown bird, flying to
Hilda. "Here, brave maiden, pluck the golden feather from my tail."

Hilda obeyed, and found that she held a shining sword within her hand.

"Quick, stab me to the heart!" said the bird.

Hilda burst into tears and pleaded with him to spare her; but the brown
bird reminded her that, because of the water of life, he could never
really die; so the young girl, trembling in every limb, plunged the
blade into his breast.

As the warm blood rushed forth, a cloud of vapor arose, filling the
cave; and blowing presently away, it revealed to all present the face
and figure of a gallant youth, who, proud and smiling, knelt at Hilda's
feet.

"Now is the enchantment banished!" he cried, as his friends,
recognizing their master, came flocking around him in delight. "But we
must not again venture into the precincts of the gnome's garden, for who
knows what might befall our lovely lady here? Come, my brave sword,
point us a way of exit."

Swinging it in the air above his head, he brought the blade into a
horizontal line in front of him. At once the sword pointed to a fissure
in the walls of the crypt, and as the rescued band approached, it slowly
widened to an opening through which a man might pass.

This was not a moment too soon, for the dwarfs on guard had discovered
their attempt to escape, and a shrill whistle sounded in their ears.
Swift as the lightning flash arrived the Grandmother of the Gnomes, this
time in her worst aspect, fire darting from her eyes. Behind her came an
army of angry little men in red, with hammers in their uplifted hands,
prepared to do battle to the death. What was their fury to find the
biers empty, and a long line of stalwart men, led by Hilda, escaping
through a doorway in the solid rock! The last to depart was the prince,
and advancing upon him with a horrible yell and glare of defiance came
the Grandmother of the Gnomes. The prince met her with extended sword,
and the enchanted blade pierced her to the heart. The frightened gnomes,
surrounding their dead chief, laid her upon the marble slab from which
Hilda's father had arisen, and then flew in pursuit of the avenger. But
it was too late. The rocky wall had closed upon the retreating party,
and the Grandmother of the Gnomes arose no more from her final
resting-place.

The divining-sword led Hilda and her companions straightway to the
surface of the earth, taking care, as they passed it by, to point out
sufficient hidden treasure to enrich every man of the party. As for the
prince, as he was already the owner of one of the richest kingdoms of
the world, all he desired was to regain it, in company with his beloved
Hilda, who by this time had pledged herself to be his bride. Hilda's
father accompanied them to the palace of the prince, and was by him
ennobled and enriched. The marriage took place, and just as the guests
were enjoying the festivities, the new queen saw her servants turning
away from the door a miserable-looking pair of beggar women. Bidding
these pitiful creatures draw near to receive her alms, the queen
recognized in them Dame Martha and her daughter. Such was the generosity
of her nature, that Hilda could not resist disclosing her self to them,
and assuring them that the _accident_ of her fall had been the means of
securing her wonderful good fortune.

She ordered fine clothes and fine rooms to be prepared for the couple,
and would have forgiven them entirely, but that her father and the
prince, interfering, ordered the wicked schemers to be driven from the
house and kingdom.

Some time after, Dame Martha and Margaret reappeared in the neighborhood
of their old home. They were very sullen and close-mouthed, and were
last seen hovering around the mountain-side in the direction of the old
stone quarry, after which they were lost to human view.

The facts in the case are that Dame Martha's envy of her step-daughter
led her to the desperate resolve to herself descend into the pit in
company with her amiable child. Upon reaching the dwelling of the late
Grandmother of the Gnomes, they were immediately seized and made to do
duty in the cellar with the toads, mice, serpents, owls, and bats, where
in all probability they are still enjoying life in congenial
companionship.

Hilda and her prince lived a long and happy life. The bright sword hung
unused upon the wall, as no enemies appeared against whom to unsheath
it, and the prince never again felt tempted to risk a visit to the
kingdom of the gnomes.




THE ADVENTURES OF HA'PENNY OR, THE DWARF, THE WITCH, AND THE MAGIC
SLIPPERS.

[Illustration: Ha'penny Watching the Witch in the Underground Garden.]


Once upon a time lived a poor, little, crooked dwarf named "Ha'penny."
When he was born he was so small that his nurse exclaimed, "Why, he is
no bigger than a ha'penny!" and thus the nickname settled upon him, as
ugly nicknames often do upon very worthy people. His father was not very
kind to the unfortunate child, who, finding himself pitied and avoided
by children of his own age, soon learned to go off to the woods alone,
and to spend the days with birds and animals, over whom he had
extraordinary power. The most beautiful birds of many-colored plumage
would flutter away from their boughs in the forest to perch upon
Ha'penny's finger, and take sugar from his lips; shy little brown
squirrels would scamper down the trunks of the great trees to nestle
against his cheek; bees buzzed around his head without offering to sting
him; pretty striped snakes glided from under their stones and stumps at
his call; while all horses, and cows, and dogs, and cats loved to rub
against him, and let themselves be stroked and petted at his will. This
friendship with the world of animals and insects was Ha'penny's greatest
joy, and during the summer time, when he could live abroad, the little
creature was happy enough, after his fashion. In winter he had to
content himself with feeding the birds, and visiting the stables to hide
in the hay of the horses' manger, where the grooms would find him,
mouthing and chattering in an unknown tongue. They would often scold
him, and put him out of the stable, for Ha'penny was no favorite with
his father's people. His mother had died when Ha'penny was a little
fellow of five, and when he reached the age of fifteen (although looking
much younger) his father married a second wife, who proved a cruel
step-mother.

"If that ugly, little, twisted fright were out of the way, I could
really enjoy life," the unkind woman would say to herself; and she lost
no opportunity to make Ha'penny's life a burden to him, by all sorts of
petty tricks and persecutions.

He bore all in silence, creeping away to his attic bedroom, and lying
for hours on the floor sobbing bitterly. His only comfort was in his
pets, and a queer lot they were. Among them were a dog, who had had both
fore-paws cut off by the mowing-machine, a chicken with a cork leg, a
blind cat, a land-terrapin, a dozen white mice, a number of birds which
he had rescued from freezing and starvation, some trained fleas, a
squirrel that had lost its tail--everything that was maimed, or
homeless, or unfortunate. These he treasured in a little empty chamber
opening out of his, and no one but himself ever approached it. All the
poor dumb creatures loved him, and would swarm around him when he opened
the door; and, in return, he spent upon them all the passion of love he
had never bestowed on any one of his own kind.

One day when Ha'penny had gone off to the woods to search for some ripe
partridge-berries for his birds, the step-mother found her way to his
hidden menagerie. One instant she looked about her, with disgust and
fury in her face, and then calling her maids she gave them cruel
orders. Ha'penny came in from his walk, opened the door of his
treasure-house--and alas! what a sight met his eyes! In two corners of
the room hung his pet dog and cat, his terrapin was crushed under a
heavy piece of iron, his birds were dead, his chicken's head was cut
off, his mice were drowned in a pail; not one living thing remained to
greet him but the trained fleas, who had taken refuge in the rafters
overhead after biting the wicked mistress and her maids until they
capered about in their misery!

Ha'penny gave one glance at his beloved pets thus wantonly sacrificed,
and fell upon the floor sobbing with helpless rage and despair. He lay
there all day without being inquired for, and when night came he stole
out to the orchard and buried his poor dead favorites under the light of
the stars. He would not go back to the house, and, forgetful of cold,
hunger, everything but his burning sense of wrong, he wandered away,
away, into the forest. A few berries and a crust he had carried for the
birds were his only food until the evening of the next day, when he came
in sight of a queer little hut, half hidden from observation by the
trees that grew over it. Starving and desperate, Ha'penny was gaining
courage to knock at the door. All at once a little lattice window
opened, and an old woman poked her head out saying:

    "Come and eat, the table's spread
    With sweetest milk and whitest bread.
    Good cheer, enough for all I've got,
    And more is cooking in the pot."

At this Ha'penny pricked up his ears and licked his chaps like a hungry
cur; and just then a number of handsome cats and dogs came running out
of the woods and toward the cottage door, which the dame had by this
time opened. As no animal ever avoided Ha'penny, these creatures all
fawned upon him, refusing to go in; and the dame, perceiving the
new-comer, asked him, with an angry air, what was his business.

"A little food and shelter, madam," said poor Ha'penny, the tears
running down his cheeks.

"Begone, you rascal!" cried the angry woman; "I don't believe a word you
say. I believe you are a spy sent here to tempt away my pets. See how
they hang around you. You must be a magician, for in general they will
have nothing to do with strangers. Get you gone, sorcerer!"

Ha'penny turned meekly away, but the dogs and cats followed him with
every show of affection. Faint with hunger as he was, his legs tottered
under him, and he soon fell to the ground. Then the cats and dogs
surrounded him, licking his face and hands in spite of all their
mistress's endeavors to coax them away.

The old woman's anger ceased when she found the grotesque-looking little
stranger had really fainted from exhaustion. She lifted him in her arms
and carried him in to the fire, and rubbed his cold limbs, putting
spoonfuls of hot broth between his lips. By and by, when Ha'penny came
to himself, he told her all his sad story, and when he reached the part
about the killing of his pets, his heavy eyes flashed fire.

"She is a horrible wicked woman!" he exclaimed.

The dame answered by striking her staff on the floor. "See here, boy, if
you are honest, you may stay here and mind my animals."

She took him into the next room, and there--what a funny spectacle!
Twelve cats and twelve dogs lay upon cushions before the fire. The
cushions were made of satin, and the covers were of velvet worked in
gold. Twenty-four silver bowls stood in a row, and every cat or dog had
its separate comb and brush, and bath-tub and towels, and sponge and
soap, and perfume bottle, on a shelf. In the middle of the room played a
fountain of rose-water, and at the windows hung pink silk curtains,
which were drawn when the creatures went to sleep. All in this room was
rich and costly, while the dame's own quarters were as plain as those of
any other cottager. _She_ was content to sleep in a big feather bed, to
be covered by a clean patchwork quilt, to eat on a deal table off blue
crockery, with a well-scoured pewter spoon. Ha'penny's eyes sparkled at
the idea of waiting on the cats and dogs. He made friends with them at
once. The dame gave him a clean bedroom under the roof, and every day
after feeding and combing his charges he took them for a walk in the
woods.

"So long as you wait on my darlings faithfully, and mind your own
business," the dame said, "no trouble will come to you. But on no
account ever go near the little closet in the peak of the roof. Should
you do so, evil will happen, and your life may pay the forfeit."

Ha'penny suspected from this that his mistress was a witch; but it
troubled him very little, as he was an honest lad and intended never to
disobey her.

One day the dame brought home a new cat, a large, white Angora, a beauty
to look at, with pink eyes and flowing hair, fine and silken as spun
glass. From the moment of that cat's arrival the happy family was
completely upset. Felisette, for so she was named, proved to be vain,
selfish, and greedy; she fought for the best of everything, ate up her
neighbor's bowl of milk as well as her own, and actually bit and spit at
Ha'penny. Felisette soon became jealous of Ha'penny's affection for the
others, and determined to do him an evil turn. One day the dame was
going to the Witches' Sabbath, and said to Ha'penny, "Now mind and take
especial care of my lovely darling, Felisette. If she gets into any
trouble I shall hold you to answer for it, as I see the dear creature is
not your favorite."

The dame went off riding on a broom-stick, and Felisette invented a
thousand spiteful tricks to make the time pass unpleasantly to the
others. At last she disappeared, and presently Ha'penny heard her crying
pitifully upstairs. He rushed to see what was the matter, and discovered
her with her tail caught in the door of the forbidden closet, up in the
peak of the roof. She seemed about to die of the pain she was suffering,
and, eager to set her free, the kind lad, without a moment's
hesitation, lifted the latch while stroking Felisette's fur, when lo! as
the door flew open, out came a skeleton hand, seizing poor Ha'penny in
its grip! Up jumped Felisette, laughing heartily at the success of her
trick, and ran away.

[Illustration: Ha'penny opens the magic closet.]

Ha'penny found himself held close in the embrace of two skeleton arms.
In vain he struggled; the dreadful clasp only grew closer. He knew that
this was a trap the witch had set to catch any one visiting the
forbidden closet, so he made up his mind to die when his mistress should
return. While he was in this sad way, the oldest of the dogs came up and
licked his hands. Tears were running from its eyes, and to Ha'penny's
great surprise the dog spoke.

"My poor friend!" said the oldest of the dogs, "I am afraid your fate is
sealed. Know, then, that there is but one chance left for you to escape
the witch's power. In this closet she keeps the magic slippers and the
magic staff. Wearing the slippers, you may run faster than the wind;
holding the staff, you may discover all the hidden treasures of the
earth."

"But how can I get free of this horrible trap?" said Ha'penny.

The oldest of the dogs looked around to see that no one was listening,
and then whispered:

"You must know that we twelve dogs were once twelve princes, and the
twelve cats were princesses--all of us having turn by turn fallen into
the power of the witch. She is bound to treat us according to our rank,
but there is no hope of ever regaining human shape, I fear. Still, we
may be able to help _you_, who have been so good to us."

He gave a little short bark, and up the stairs came running all the dogs
and cats, who wept when they saw the sad plight of their friend. Up on a
high shelf over the skeleton's head were the magic staff and slippers,
and the thing was to get them down without touching the skeleton, which
held fast every living thing that touched it. One of the cats ran nimbly
up the wall and let herself hang; the next cat hung to her tail, and so
on till a bridge was made, over which the oldest of the dogs scrambled,
and got the coveted treasures. He put the staff in Ha'penny's hand, and
fitted the slippers on his feet. Ha'penny gave a kick, and struck the
ground with his staff. Instantly the arms of the skeleton relaxed their
grip, and he was free. He bade a fond farewell to his dear friends,
promising to come back to help them whenever he could. He set out to run
from the house, and speedily the slippers carried him off at such a
tremendous rate of speed that he was faint for want of breath. Vainly he
tried to stop, but no; on, on he went with a fearful rush. He heard the
cries of the old witch, who pursued him on her broom-stick. On, on, went
poor Ha'penny, more dead than alive, and now the witch seemed gaining on
him. He could hear the gnashing of her teeth. He struck out with his
staff, as he passed by a rock, and instantly the rock became a mountain
as high as the moon. The witch took some time to clamber over this, and
meantime Ha'penny got far ahead of her. Reaching a city, he dashed into
the midst of a funeral procession that was going through the street, and
hid himself under the pall of the coffin, kicking off the slippers as he
did so. Immediately he could walk as other men do, and when the old
witch arrived she saw nothing but the funeral creeping slowly along--no
sign of Ha'penny, who, hidden under the pall, clasped his magic slippers
to his breast, and held tight to his magic staff. The disappointed witch
flew homeward and whipped the cats and dogs soundly--excepting
Felisette, who, of course, had been the tell-tale on poor Ha'penny.

The funeral train reached the cemetery, and Ha'penny thought it his duty
to cry as bitterly as the rest of the mourners; but after the coffin had
been put in the grave, and as they were turning away, he asked a
bystander whose funeral it was.

"The king's messenger, to be sure, you simpleton," said the man.

"Could I get the place?" asked Ha'penny.

"You, the king's messenger!" said the man, scornfully. "Why, he must be
the swiftest runner in the country. Look at your cork-screw legs! Look
at your hump-back and your big head! As well expect a snail to carry
our king's messages."

Nothing daunted, Ha'penny went to the king's chamberlain, and proffered
his request. The chamberlain laughed until his head nearly dropped off,
and then called the first Goldstick-in-waiting, who called the second,
and soon the whole court was roaring over the absurd request of this
poor mannikin to be the king's messenger.

"All I ask is that you try me," said Ha'penny, stoutly holding his
ground.

"Stop! An idea occurs to me," said the jolly chamberlain, holding his
aching sides. "To-morrow we shall have a running-match between this
champion and the swiftest runner of the kingdom. In truth, my lords,
this will be sport worth having," and he looked around at the courtiers,
who all set to laughing anew.

Next day the match was held in a lovely grassy field. On a green mound
in the centre was pitched a white satin tent, under which sat the king
and queen and their children. An immense crowd assembled. Two bands of
music kept playing all the time; there were free Punch and Judy shows on
the outskirts of the crowd, and booths where lemonade was given away,
with peppermint sticks and molasses taffy, to all who asked for it.
Banners waved, trumpets blew, and then the race began. Side by side with
Ha'penny, little and insignificant and forlorn as he was, started the
king's swiftest runner, a man of beautiful light form and splendid
muscle. Once around the field they ran, the dwarf lagging; but on the
second round Ha'penny settled his feet well in his magic slippers, when,
see! like an arrow he sped past the athlete, and was in at the goal so
easily that the spectators hardly had time to wink their astonished
eyes! Hurrah! hurrah! A mighty cheer went up for the successful
Ha'penny, and the king called him to receive the purse of gold, which
was the prize. Ha'penny knelt at the king's feet, and again asked to be
made his messenger.

"That shall you be, my mannikin!" said the pleased monarch. So Ha'penny
had a gold chain round his neck, a fine velvet coat to wear every day,
and a page to serve his meals. The king grew so fond of his new servant
that the rest of the courtiers became jealous. Soon Ha'penny again had
no friends but the animals around the palace. They, as usual, followed
him everywhere, and caressed him fondly.

Once when the little dwarf was walking in the king's paddock,
accompanied by a train of young deer who loved to be near him, he felt
the staff in his hand give a loud thump on the ground. At the same time
all the deer formed in a circle round the spot, seeming by their eyes to
implore Ha'penny to remain there. At first he could not understand this,
but at length occurred to him what the oldest of the dogs had said about
hidden treasure. Ha'penny had no spade to dig with, but at once the deer
went to work with their hoofs, and soon they had made a deep hole, at
the bottom of which lay a large iron ring fastened to an iron door.

Ha'penny was not strong enough to pull this up; but the magic staff,
when passed through the ring, lifted it easily. Below was a flight of
steps, leading to a gallery. Ha'penny went down the steps, followed the
windings of the gallery, and reached a second door. Touching this with
the magic staff it yielded, and flying open disclosed to view a lovely
garden, where roamed all sorts of strange shapes--men's and women's
bodies bearing the heads of bears, lions, wolves, foxes, dogs, cows,
horses, and cats. Instantly these creatures came flocking around
Ha'penny, calling him their deliverer, and telling him that they too
were victims of the witch, although by an accident she had only had time
to change their heads before her spell expired. To this garden the witch
was in the habit of coming once a week, to see how her victims were
getting on, and to-day was the day of her visit. Ha'penny took the magic
slippers from his pocket and put them on; and keeping firm hold of his
trusty staff he hid behind a lilac-bush.

Soon, in came the witch, riding her broom-stick. Ha'penny had never
before seen her in her true witch dress. It was a black, tight-fitting
gown, made of scaly snake-skin, and she had a necklace of live coals.
Around her high-peaked cap were twined two living serpents, and a toad
formed her brooch. Under one arm she carried her familiar spirit, in the
likeness of a black cat, with a single emerald eye. She wore a mantle,
made of cobwebs and studded with large venomous red spiders. Oh! she was
a terror to look upon, and no mistake! Ha'penny's teeth chattered with
fear, and so would yours at sight of her! She rode sweeping her broom
down the garden path, and instantly all the animals with human bodies
came running to do her homage. She made them kneel before her, and, with
the three-thonged whip of live snakes she carried, whipped them all
cruelly, till they groaned and cried for mercy. Then, feeling tired, she
lay down on a bank to sleep, guarded by her familiar, who kept watch
with its single eye of flame; and on closely observing the horrid
creature Ha'penny made no doubt that it was none other than his enemy,
Felisette, in her rightful shape.

When the witch was fairly snoring, Ha'penny crept up behind, and
summoning all his strength prepared to smite her with his staff.
Suddenly the black cat spit and hunched her back. The serpents around
the witch's hat began to writhe and uncoil. They knew an enemy was near.

Ha'penny saw that he must lose no time, so aiming a fierce blow at the
witch's back, he broke her spinal column, just as you would break a
stick of sugar-candy. Then the dying witch uttered a shrill command to
her watchers, and instantly Felisette and the two serpents set upon the
audacious Ha'penny. "This time you shall not escape me!" cried
Felisette, spitting fire. The cat's breath was deadly poison, and the
serpents' fangs no man might feel and live. Ha'penny struck, swift and
sure, right into the middle of the cat's single eye, and pierced her
brain. As Felisette fell dead beside the groaning witch, the serpents
reared their full length from the ground, and prepared to strangle the
dwarf. The good staff proved true, and cut them both in two with a
single well-aimed blow. What was his horror to find the mangled remains
of the snakes change into four living ones, stronger than the first.
There was nothing for it but flight, and Ha'penny took to his heels. The
magic slippers carried him on and away, so swiftly that nothing could
catch him. He passed through the gallery and went out at the iron door,
finding himself safe, but a little out of breath, in the paddock with
the king's deer.

Ha'penny told nobody of this exciting adventure, but could not sleep for
thinking of all the poor bewitched people down there in the underground
garden in the power of those dreadful snakes. He now suspected that
these two fighting serpents were of the multiplication variety. (This
means that if they were cut in two they would become four, from four
become eight, from eight sixteen, from sixteen thirty-two, and so on
indefinitely; and this, we are told, is the very worst species of snake
known to travellers!)

Ha'penny got up early, went out again to the paddock, and found the deer
in a great state of excitement and agitation. They seemed to be waiting
for him to come, and led the way to the secret passage in the earth.
Ha'penny went down, staff in hand, and easily passed through the first
iron door. As he neared the second door, he heard a confused noise
beyond it of cries and lamentations. He opened the door softly, and
crept into the garden unobserved. There he saw the dying witch, who, as
witches always require twenty-four hours to die in, was lying on the
ground writhing horribly, groaning, and shrieking to her snakes to
multiply, which they did until almost the whole garden was one seething,
wriggling mass of the horrible creatures. The poor people in the garden
had climbed up the trees, and were every moment expecting to fall to the
ground poisoned by the breath of the serpents, which rose in a thick
vapor.

In this terrible moment Ha'penny's heart almost failed him; but,
mustering all his courage, he sprang upon the witch, and tore from her
the mantle of cobwebs, to which he noticed she was clinging. Instantly
the witch set up a shrill shriek.

"Give me back my mantle," she cried pitifully; "if I die with that
around me, I can be sure of rest in the grave. If you take it away, I
shall have to fly about like a bat forever."

"If you order the snakes to shrivel up and die, and restore all your
victims to their natural shapes, I will give you the mantle," said
Ha'penny firmly.

"Children, come home!" cried the witch, in a failing voice. Immediately
the snakes began rolling and gliding into each other, and in a short
while nothing was left but the two fiery serpents, who wreathed
themselves quietly around the witch's hat again, as if nothing had
occurred.

"Children, be dust!" she said again--this time in a weaker voice--and
the snakes curled up and fell away, leaving behind them only two little
shining skins.

"Be once more men and women, you accursed things!" she said spitefully,
making a sign at the transformed beings who were now flocking around
Ha'penny with delight and gratitude. As the witch spoke, the ugly
deformities melted away, and in their place were seen the heads of
handsome men and beautiful women, who wept for joy when they found
themselves restored.

Ha'penny now threw the cobweb mantle over the witch, who, clutching it
in her arms, gave one long shudder and expired. They made a grave for
her then and there; and Ha'penny led his companions out of the magic
garden, which they were glad to leave, into the long passage-way. There
they showed him caverns filled with gold and silver, which it had been
their business to dig out of the earth and to pack away for the witch.
Ha'penny and his friends divided the spoil, although they told him it
was all his by right. When they got up into the light of day once more,
the bewitched people scattered in all directions to go to their various
homes, and Ha'penny was again alone in the world, although now very
rich. He persuaded the king to discharge him from the royal service, and
his first thought was to journey to the cabin in the woods. This, by aid
of the magic slippers, he did in very quick style, and there he found
the twelve dogs and the twelve cats living as before. This distressed
Ha'penny, as he had hoped that the breaking of the witch's spell would
set them also free. "What did I tell you?" said the oldest of the dogs
sadly. "We are doomed _never_ to regain our shapes; but, now that
Felisette has gone, we are comfortable here and don't repine. Only,
there _should_ be somebody to cook for us, and our hair has not been
decently brushed for a week."

Ha'penny felt a sudden thrill of joy. Here, at last, was something to
depend on him, something that he might live and care for. He warmed the
water forthwith, and gave all the dogs and cats a bath apiece, and then
he combed and brushed them nicely. He made the fire and heated their
broth, and fetched fresh cream and white bread for their breakfast.
Nothing was heard but little barks and purrs of enjoyment. Ha'penny
waited till all were asleep on their cushions, and then he mounted the
stairs and nailed up the skeleton cupboard, so that it might never again
be opened. He could not take it quite away, you see, as every one must
have a skeleton of some kind in his closet, and this was the only one he
had. Ha'penny had never felt so happy and light-hearted as now. He had
found friends, and might remain alone with them in peace.

So there he continued to live, and I am almost sure that if you would
visit that forest, you might, even now, succeed in finding the cottage,
the cats, and Ha'penny himself!




SYBILLA, MYRTILLO, AND FURIOSO.


A certain king had a beautiful golden-haired daughter named Sybilla,
whose suitors came from every country, though with small success, since
the princess had vowed to remain single until one proving to be the
mightiest hero of the world should appear.

At no great distance from her father's country lived a horrible giant,
every hair of whose head could change, at will, into a fiery serpent. He
had one eye, the size of a mill-wheel, and his teeth looked like rocks
in a mighty cavern. His name was Furioso, and his strength was known to
surpass that of an army of ordinary men. What was the dismay of
Sybilla's father when this monster sent to request the lovely princess
for his wife! The king turned pale, and walked up and down his palace
floor all night, for he knew what it meant to refuse the request of
Furioso, who, up to this time, had lived at peace with his neighbor's
country. The queen-mother, hearing of the giant's offer, took to her
royal bed in kicking hysterics. As to the proud little princess, she
curled her pretty red lips scornfully and tossed her head. "I'd like to
see him do it, the fright!" was what she said.

In a few days what the king feared had come to pass. The giant Furioso,
on receiving the beautiful diplomatic letter the king's secretary had
written him (after consultation with all the lords and lawyers of the
realm), frowned, scratched his head, which instantly bristled all over
with flaming serpents, and opening his mouth sent forth a blood-curdling
yell of defiance that resounded in the farthest part of the king's
dominions. Without a moment's delay he changed himself into a fearful
hurricane, and swept over the country and the palace of the Princess
Sybilla. Fences and iron gates, stone walls and marble palaces fell to
the ground like card-houses. Forests were uprooted, suspension bridges
snapped like cobwebs, villages entire rose up into the clouds and
disappeared, with their inhabitants looking in astonishment out of the
windows! Cows and horses, dogs and elephants were seen whirling about
in the air like Japanese day-fireworks. The king and queen found the
roof lifted from above their heads, and went sailing out the open space
in their nightcaps. They met all the court blowing wildly about up
there, and for some time it was like a mad dance without any bottom to
it. Dizzy and terrified, the royal couple at last fell down to earth
again, the queen lighting on the fat cook, so that she was not seriously
injured--the king falling on a tennis net, which the force of the wind
kept suspended like a hammock without any ropes.

Picking themselves up, the first thought of the royal couple was for
their beloved princess. As fast as different members of the court and
household fell down from the clouds, which they continued to do all the
evening and night, the king sent them in search of the princess. Nobody
remembered having seen Sybilla anywhere in the air, and her
waiting-maid, who dropped somewhere about nine o'clock A.M., next day,
wept as she told how she was combing the princess' golden hair with the
ivory comb she still held in her hand, when the breeze came which
separated them. One thing was certain, the princess had disappeared.
When things settled down a little, and people began taking their
breath, a peasant turned up who reported seeing the princess flying
along at a fearful rate of speed in the arms of a tall, white-haired man
wrapped in a mantle, who hid his face as he passed. "It were just at
that moment, your honors," said the peasant, overwhelmed by the
questions that rained on him, "I were myself tooken, unexpected-like,
and turned upside down by the wind; and when I cum to, there I were
atop a haystack in Farmer Grimes' field, five miles from home as the
crow flies, a-standing on my head."

The king and queen exchanged horrified glances.

Each remembered to have heard that one of the tricks of Giant Furioso,
when he wished to be particularly wicked, was to change to the semblance
of a venerable white-haired man. No doubt about it, the whole calamity
to court and nation was the work of Furioso, and _he_ had got the
princess.

The distracted king set out at the head of his army to visit Furioso's
castle. To his surprise, under the giant's name, upon a visiting card
inserted above the speaking-trumpet at the gate, were pencilled these
words: "Out of town till further notice." The windows were closed, and
green shades hung behind them. No smoke came out of the chimneys, and
the doors were chained. Evidently the giant had retired to some one of
his retreats, where he could not be followed. The king and his army
marched back again in gloomy silence.

For six months nothing was heard of the unfortunate Sybilla, till one
day three young princes, travelling from a distant country in search of
adventure, found a wounded carrier-pigeon on the road. Under its wing
was a note, written in pale red ink, on a bit of torn linen cambric. The
note gave them considerable trouble to read it, but, at last, the
youngest prince, Myrtillo, who had always been the cleverest at school,
managed to decipher these words:

     "I write this with blood taken from my finger, on a fragment of
     my only pocket-handkerchief. I am the wretched Princess
     Sybilla, daughter of the King Rolando, and I pray any kind
     mortal who finds this to come to my aid, in the dungeon of
     Furioso, under the fifth mountain of the Impassable Range. Once
     in twenty-four hours this mountain cleaves asunder to let my
     oppressor take the air. Watch, and rescue me, in the name of
     humanity."

The Impassable Range was far away, but the princes journeyed thither
without delay. They found the fifth mountain easily, and hid under the
rocks at its base, to await developments. Exactly at sunrise a rumbling
sound was heard, and the cliffs shook. The mountain split apart from
summit to base, and between two yawning jaws of rock issued forth,
first, a head covered with flaming serpents, then a frightful purple
face, and lastly, the gigantic form of Furioso. Following him came the
wails and shrieks of his captives within the mountain, to which Furioso
paid no attention; he only turned his back and shouted:

    "Close you, mountain, fierce and grim,
    Open but to Banbedrim!"

The princes fancied that this last was the password, and when the giant
had disappeared they tried to make the mountain open by repeating it;
but in his excitement each one forgot how to pronounce the magic
syllables. So there they stayed till sunset, when the giant came home
from his hunting expedition. He had a pouch slung over his shoulder, and
in it were crowded the new men, women, and children he had caught. The
poor creatures were half dead with terror and rough treatment. The
princes watched the giant, and listened with all their ears for the
password. "Banbedrim!" thundered Furioso, and instantly the mountain
yawned to let him and his miserable prisoners pass in, when it closed,
as before.

The three princes laid each his hand on his sword, and swore to be
avenged of the brutal treatment of their fellow-beings. Next morning
when the giant issued forth, hurling the password at the mountain, then
disappeared from sight, the oldest prince declared that he should be the
first to enter the mountain, that his brothers should wait twenty-four
hours for his reappearance, and that should he fail to come back the
second brother might come to his assistance.

Bravely the young man sprang up the mountain-side, and called aloud the
password. Instantly amid thunderings and lightnings the ground split at
his feet and swallowed him from sight. They could see the tip of his
bright sword held aloft, as he sank into the gloomy abyss.

Twenty-four hours passed, and the oldest prince failed to return. Then
the second brother set forth, and he, too, vanished from sight. A long
day and night of waiting had the youngest prince. Then he ascended the
mountain where there was every reason to fear his brothers had found a
horrible fate. Uttering the password, Myrtillo saw, through the opening
earth at his feet, a pit whence came fire and smoke; and he plainly
heard the cries for help of many human voices.

Myrtillo fell a great distance, landing on his feet in a desolate
cavern. The smoke cleared away and he beheld a huge iron door before
which were four trumpets--one of copper, one of silver, one of gold, and
one of brass. Over them these words: "He who would enter here, choose
between us four."

At the foot of the golden trumpet lay the mangled remains of his oldest
brother, who had perished in trying to blow it. At the foot of the
silver trumpet the corpse of the second prince had fallen; and now
Myrtillo must choose between the two remaining trumpets! Without a
moment's hesitation he put his lips to the copper trumpet, and gave a
loud, clear blast. At once the iron door flew open, and he was in a hall
surrounded by dungeons, through whose gratings he could see prisoners in
every stage of misery. They called to him frantically, and hailed him as
their deliverer. Alas! what could the poor prince do to save them. He
looked about and saw a long tunnel, ending in a massive gate of stone
and iron. As he gazed into the darkness of the tunnel something coiled
up at the end of it seemed to stir, and a hideous snake darted toward
him, opening a pair of jaws as wide as an ordinary fireplace, and
sending out a flaming tongue. Myrtillo charged upon the beast, and after
a desperate fight drove his sword down its throat, the point coming out
at the back of the neck. As he stooped to free his sword the serpent
gave a convulsive struggle and died. Myrtillo found a chain around its
neck on which was fastened a golden key. He took the key and put it in
the great key-hole of the iron door before him, and to his joy the door
opened. There, in a dismal dungeon within, lay a beautiful maiden in
chains. Myrtillo set her free, and found that she was the Princess
Sybilla, whom the giant treated with especial cruelty because she
persisted in refusing his love. She told him that the little pigeon was
one of many kept for the serpent's food, and that she had hidden it, and
helped it to fly out one day when the giant left her cell. "And now,"
said the princess, when Myrtillo had in turn told her his story, "let us
be quick, and lose no time. In the court beyond my cell are two
fountains. One of them contains the water of strength, the other the
water of weakness. From the former fountain Furioso gains all his power.
A little of its water sprinkled upon the dead recalls them to life, and
we may save your poor brothers yet."

Myrtillo and the lady hastened to the fountains; but to their dismay a
roaring noise and the groans of the wretched prisoners, who were
chastised daily upon his return, announced the arrival of the giant.
"Quick!" said the lady, pointing to the water of strength; "drink once
of this, and you will be strong enough to change the fountains, putting
each in the place of the other."

Myrtillo obeyed, and at once felt able to move a mountain at command. He
seized the solid stone basins and changed them, and hardly had he done
so when the giant came rushing in. "Where is that insolent
whipper-snapper of a prince who has dared to kill my faithful serpent?"
roared he.

"Here he is, at your service," said Myrtillo, stepping forth with a
gallant bow, and holding his glittering sword in hand.

"Just wait till I quench my thirst," said the giant disdainfully, as he
stooped down to what he supposed to be his fountain of strength, and
drank a long, deep draught. Suddenly a strange trembling came over the
monster's huge bulk. His face turned pale, his eyes stared, his jaw
dropped, he sank to the ground.

"Why, this is the water of weakness my prisoners drink," he cried. "What
trick have you been playing me, you scoundrel?"

Myrtillo again drank of the water of strength, and now he felt as if he
could defy an army, single-handed. Swift as a lightning flash he
descended upon the giant, and severed his wicked head from his body. The
Princess Sybilla uttered a wild shriek of delight, which was heard and
understood by all her fellow-captives, and the dungeons echoed with
sobs and cries of joy. Myrtillo and the princess filled goblets with the
water of strength, and hastened to sprinkle all the prisoners, who,
paralyzed by their chains and wasted with hunger, could in many cases
barely stir upon the ground where they lay. Soon, a host of strong men
and women filled the main hall of the dungeon, and then Myrtillo had the
joy of seeing his two brothers return to life under the action of the
magic water, in which he bathed their limbs. As Myrtillo only had
_drank_ of the water of strength, he remained the strongest champion in
the world; and when Sybilla was taken back to her father and mother, she
told them that she had promised to take the Prince Myrtillo for her
husband. From the giant's stronghold Myrtillo brought away gems and gold
enough to enrich him for a lifetime, even after all the giant's victims
had been sent home with a bag of gold apiece. His brothers found brides
in two lovely fellow-sufferers they had led out of the giant's cavern to
the light of day; and so all were satisfied, and in a short time the
Giant Furioso was forgotten. No more hurricanes visited the kingdom of
Sybilla's father, where things continued to jog along in the old-time
peaceful fashion.




ANNETTE; OR, THE MAGIC COFFEE-MILL.


A poor woman and her daughter, who were on the verge of starvation, saw
a little green bud of a plant growing through their cottage floor. They
watered it, and in a day or two it sent forth long shoots, and became a
vine, fine and delicate to look at, but tough as an iron wire. The vine
put forth leaves, soon covering the inner walls of the cottage. The
tendrils waved longingly toward the sun, and so the mother and daughter
set their lattice window open, when, lo! the vine escaped as if it had
wings and grew quickly heavenward. Lovely flowers bloomed on it, in
shape like morning-glories, and rare birds came to drink the honey of
their chalices. The maiden leaned out of her window and looked up.
Higher, higher climbed the vine, till it was lost in the blue sky above
them. The girl was seized with a yearning desire to climb up and see
what could be seen. Her mother gave her leave, and she set out. Up, up,
she went, and the mother watched below till the clustering green and
many-colored bells hid her child from sight. At last the girl reached a
wonderful new country, and stepped off the vine upon a shining silver
path, which she followed through a green meadow till she came to a house
made of honey-comb that glittered, oh! so beautifully. The columns of
the porch were sticks of lemon-candy, and there were little benches to
rest yourself upon, made of maple-sugar and cushioned with gingerbread.
Annette, for so the girl was called, ventured to open the door of the
house and peep in. There she found more beautiful things than I can tell
you of--toys and books and pictures--and all the furniture was made of
cake with raisins in it, so that, if one sat down to read, one need only
turn around and nibble a knob off the chair, or pick raisins out of the
arm of the sofa. Annette played a little and read a story-book, then she
fell asleep on a couch made of apple-dumplings. Suddenly in came three
goats, who were the servants of the fairy to whom this house belonged.
"Let us butt her to death," said the oldest goat. "Let us trample on
her, and bite her," said the second goat. "Let her alone," said the
third goat, who was a kind little fellow with golden horns. "If she
holds her tongue, and if she don't find out the secret of the golden
coffee-mill, our mistress will let her stay here and work for her."

Annette heard this while pretending to be asleep, and when the fairy
came home, she jumped up and made a nice little courtesy, begging to be
allowed to do the housework. "Well," said the fairy, after looking at
her sharply, "I will try you; only don't undertake to grind my coffee
for me, and don't gossip with the goats."

Annette lived there for six months, and learned to make all kinds of
goodies; for the fairy was the queen's confectioner in that country. You
might eat all you pleased, provided you didn't talk; and not a word
spoke Annette, and not a word spoke the goats. Every day the fairy went
into a pantry and there ground her coffee; and every day she carried two
or three bags full of something heavy, and put them in her chariot, and
drove off with them. The coffee-mill looked like any other one, and
Annette wondered vainly what its secret was. At last curiosity overcame
her, and she stole into the pantry and began to grind the mill. Down
fell a stream of pure gold-dust, and it powdered Annette all over till
she looked like a golden image. "How shall I get rid of this?" she said,
trying to shake it off, but the gold dust stuck fast. She cried and
sobbed, for she knew that now the fairy would certainly find her out. In
came the friendly goat. "Cheer up," said he. "That was the way my horns
came to be gilded, because I yielded to my curiosity about the mill,
when I first came here to live. The fairy wanted to kill me, but she let
me off when I vowed to serve her faithfully for seven years. The time is
just up, and so I propose that we escape together. Take the magic mill
under your arm and get upon my back, and we will go down to your world."

Annette joyfully obeyed the friendly goat, and carrying the coffee-mill
they set off from the fairy's house. Unfortunately she did not know how
to stop the mill from grinding, and it left a path of gold-dust behind
them as they fled, which showed the way to the fairy. The fairy followed
them, riding on a silver broom-stick; but the goat was swift as the wind,
and Annette clung to his golden horns, and held the magic mill tight
under her arm. By good luck they reached the opening, near which the
vine was growing, and, just as the furious fairy got near enough to
stretch out her long arm after them, down went Annette, goat, and
coffee-mill, through a rift in the clouds, to a land where their enemy
could not follow them. The faithful vine caught them as they fell, and
held them up stoutly. When they had climbed down, and touched the earth
in safety, Annette was astonished to see her goat turn into a handsome
young prince, with curling golden locks and kind blue eyes.

"You have freed me from my enchantment, beautiful maiden," he said,
kneeling upon the grass at her feet. "Long years ago I and my wicked
brothers were captured by the fairy and became her slaves under the form
of goats, as you saw. For fear that they may find out some way to
follow us, we must cut down this vine, and then we shall be free forever
from all dread of disturbance."

Annette's mother came running out, kissed her child, and listened with
wonder to the tale of her adventures. All this while the mill had gone
on grinding, and before they knew it the cottage floor was knee-deep in
gold-dust. "We shall be smothered at this rate," cried the prince
laughing, and he hastened to make a magic sign he had learned from the
fairy. The mill ceased to flow, and then the prince took an axe and cut
the beautiful vine at its root. Annette wept to see the lovely leaves
and blossoms shrivel up, but in a short time they vanished entirely from
sight. The prince married Annette, and every day the mill ground gold
enough to pay all the expenses of their palace and servants and horses,
and also the expenses of Annette's mother, who had a separate palace for
herself over the way.

The country people, for years after the time when Annette and the prince
came down the magic vine, showering gold-dust along their way, continued
to talk about the wonderful rain of stars they had seen in the sky that
moon-lit night.




JULIET; OR, THE LITTLE WHITE MOUSE.

[Illustration: _The Queen & the Princess in prison._]


Once upon a time there lived a king and queen who loved each other so
dearly that they were an example to all the married couples in their
kingdom. In an adjoining country lived a wicked king, who spent his life
in envying the happiness of his neighbors. He was a sworn enemy to all
good and charitable people, and his chosen companions were robbers and
murderers. His air was stern and forbidding. He was lean and withered,
dressed always in black, and his hair hung in long elf-locks over his
fiery eyes. This wicked wretch, determined to end the happiness of his
neighbor, raised an immense army and marched to attack the kingdom of
the Land of Sweet Content, for so the good king's country was called.

The king of Sweet Content made a brave defence, but it was all in vain.
The immense numbers of the adversary overpowered him and his troops.
One day when his poor queen was sitting with her infant daughter in her
arms, waiting for news from the battle-field, a messenger on horseback
galloped up to the door, and entered the room where she was, with every
sign of terror.

"Oh! madam," he cried, "all is lost. The king is slain, the army
defeated, and the ferocious King Grimgouger is even now marching to take
you prisoner."

The queen fell senseless on the floor; and while her attendants were
making every effort to provide a means of flight for her and the little
princess, the army of the foe, with banners flying and with music
playing, marched into the city. Surrounding the palace, they called on
the queen to surrender. No answer was given, and the horrid King
Grimgouger instantly ordered a file of his most blood-thirsty soldiers
to march through the palace and to kill everybody they met, except the
queen and princess.

Now nothing was heard but shrieks and lamentations from the doomed
attendants of the queen. When all were sacrificed, the tyrant Grimgouger
walked into the apartment where the terrified queen stood, clasping her
child in her arms, and prepared for death.

"You won't die now, madam," he thundered, seizing her by the long hair,
and dragging her after him down the stairs and over the stones of the
courtyard to his chariot. She was all bruised and bleeding, and knew
nothing more till she found herself in a tower-room, where dampness
dripped from the walls, and the light of day could scarcely reach
through a small grated window. She lay upon a little heap of mouldy
straw, and her child cried for food beside her, while over her stood a
wicked fairy to whom King Grimgouger had given the prisoners in charge.
The fairy threw her a few crusts without any butter on them, and the
baby seized one eagerly, and stopped crying as she sucked it.

"That is all either of you shall have to-day," said the fairy.
"To-morrow they will decide what to do with you. Probably you, queen,
will be hanged, and your daughter be saved to marry the son of our good
King Grimgouger."

"What! That ugly little reptile of a prince!" screamed the queen. "Hang
me, if you will, but don't give my beautiful angel to a husband like
that!"

"Then she, too, will be hanged," said the fairy, grinning maliciously,
and flying away with a fizz of flame, leaving behind her the smell of
sulphur matches.

Next day the fairy gave the queen three boiled peas, and a small bit of
black bread, and the next, and the next, until the poor queen wasted to
skin and bone, and the baby looked like a wax doll that had been left
out in the rain all night.

"In a few days it will be over," thought the poor queen. "We shall be
starved to death."

She fell to spinning with what strength remained to her (for the fairy
made her work, to pay her board, she said), and just then she saw,
entering at a small hole, a pretty little mouse as white as snow.

"Ah! pretty creature," cried the queen, "you have come to a poor place
for food. I have only three peas, which are to last me and my child all
day. Begone, if you, too, would not starve."

The little mouse ran about, here and there, skipping so like a little
monkey that the baby smiled, and gave it the pea she had for her
supper.

The instant she had fed the mouse, what was the queen's surprise to see,
start out of the prison floor, a neat little table, covered with a white
cloth, having on it silver dishes, containing a roast partridge, a
lovely cake, some raspberry jam, and for the baby a big bowl of fresh
bread and milk, with a silver spoon! How they did eat! I leave you to
imagine it!

Next day the mouse came again, and devoured the queen's three peas, her
whole day's supply. The queen sighed, for she did not know where
anything else was to come from. She stroked the little mouse, and said
gently, "Pretty creature, you are welcome." Immediately the same little
table sprang up out of the floor. This time there was broiled chicken
and ice-cream, green peas, marsh-mallows and custard, with a fresh bowl
of bread and milk for the baby. "Oh! you dear little mouse," said the
queen. "This must be your work! If you could only help me to get my baby
out of this dreadful place, I would thank you forever."

The mouse ran up to her with some straws in its mouth. This gave the
queen an idea, and taking them she began to weave a basket, for she was
a clever queen, and knew how to use her pretty white hands in a variety
of useful ways. The mouse understood her, and brought her more straws,
until she had made a nice covered basket large enough to hold the baby.
Then the queen cut her petticoat into strips, and plaited them, till she
had a long and strong cord. She tied the basket to this, and wrapping
the beautiful little smiling princess in the only covering she had, laid
her in the basket, crying all the time as if her heart would break. Then
she climbed up to the window, and (the little white mouse watching her
with a very friendly air) looked down to see if she could attract the
attention of any charitable person who might be passing in the street
below.

There she saw an old woman leaning upon a stick and looking up at her.

"Pray, goody," said the queen, "have pity on an innocent babe, and save
it from destruction. Feed and nurse her, and heaven will reward you, if
I cannot."

"I don't want money," said the old woman; "but I am very nice in my
eating, and I have a positive longing for a nice, little, fat, white
mouse. If you can find such an one in your prison, kill it and throw it
out to me. Then, right willingly, will I take your pretty babe and nurse
it carefully."

When the queen heard this, she exclaimed to herself, "Oh! the dreadful
old thing!" and began to cry. "There is only one mouse here, madam," she
said aloud, "and that is so pretty and engaging that I can't find it in
my heart to kill it, even to save my child."

"Hoity-toity!" said the angry old creature, thumping her stick on the
ground below. "If you think more of a miserable little mouse than of
your child, keep them both, and be hanged to you!"

So saying, her staff changed to a broom-stick, and with a fizz and a
bang the old hag shot up into the sky like a rocket. And there was again
a strong smell of sulphur matches in the air!

The queen, seeing that this was, without doubt, the wicked fairy come to
try her, gave way to new grief. She kissed her hapless little one, and
just then the mouse jumped into the basket. The baby's rough clothes
changed to finest linen and lace, and a pillow of down was under her
head, while a gay silver rattle was put into her hand.

More surprises! As the queen watched, the mouse's paws changed to tiny
hands with jewelled rings upon them. The little face grew into the image
of a smiling old woman's, and a figure of a pretty old-time fairy stood
before her. As these fairies have been rather out of fashion lately, I
will tell you just how she was dressed. She wore a chintz gown, looped
up over a blue silk quilted petticoat. A lace ruff was around her
throat, and her long-pointed bodice was laced with silver. Over her
mob-cap she had a high sugar-loaf hat tied on with pink ribbons, and her
feet were clad in the prettiest black silk stockings and high-heeled
black satin slippers, with big diamond buckles. When you remember that
she was just of a size with the baby princess, you will agree that you
would have liked to see her.

"What is the baby's name?" said the fairy.

"Oh--Juliet; I thought I had mentioned it," said the queen,
apologetically.

"I have never heard anything but 'pecious wecious,' and 'mother's
blessing,' and things like that," said the fairy. "You may stop crying
now, for I will save Juliet. If you had given me to the wicked fairy,
she would have gobbled me up in a minute, so you see I owe my life to
you. Henceforth I will take Juliet under my protection. She shall live
to be an hundred years old, and never have an illness or a wrinkle."

Fancy it, children! No mumps, no measles, no whooping-cough, no
castor-oil! What rapture in the thought!

The queen kissed the fairy's little hand, and begged that Juliet should
at once be taken away. So the weeping princess was put into the basket,
and carefully let down to the bottom of the tower. Then the fairy
resumed the shape of a mouse and ran after her down the string, which
the queen still held in her hands. Suddenly she came running back again.
"Alas! alas!" she cried to the terrified queen, "our enemy, the fairy
Cancaline, was hidden below, and seized upon the child, and flew away
with it. Unfortunately she is older and more powerful than I am, and I
don't know how to rescue Juliet from her hands."

At these words the queen uttered a loud cry, and in came running the
jailer of the tower, his men, some soldiers, and after them, gnashing
his teeth with rage, the horrid Grimgouger himself.

"Where is the child?" he said, stamping.

"Alas, I know not, king," said the mother. "A fairy has taken it off."

"Then you shall be hanged at once," he cried in a fury. "Seize her,
guards."

They dragged the poor queen by the hair of her head to the gallows. Just
as the executioner was about to tie the rope around her neck, the
gallows fell down beneath him and knocked out all his front teeth, while
invisible hands carried the queen through the air to a safe retreat in
the mountains. She found herself in a beautiful castle, where all her
attendants were white mice. Here the queen lived for eighteen years,
surrounded by luxury and tender care. But she always thought of her
little daughter, and dreamed of her by day and night. The mouse fairy
made every attempt to find news of the lost princess, but failed to do
so.

At this period the son of the wicked King Grimgouger had grown up, and
everybody was talking about his strange fancy for a poultry-woman's
maid-servant, who had refused to marry him in spite of his rank and fine
clothes. The story went that the prince sent her, every day, a new gown
of silk or velvet, and that the girl would not look at them. So the
little white mouse fairy determined, through curiosity, to have a peep
at this strange damsel. Accordingly she visited King Grimgouger's
capital, and entering the poultry-yard found there an extremely
beautiful young creature dressed in a coarse woollen gown, with her feet
bare, and a cap of goat-skin on her head. Lying by her side were
magnificent dresses, embroidered with gold and silver and ornamented
with precious stones; the turkeys and other fowls that surrounded her
trampled on them and spoiled them. The poultry-girl sat upon a stone in
the yard when the king's son arrived; he was crooked, and hump-backed,
and horrible to look upon.

"Do you still refuse to marry me, fair maiden?" he asked. "If so, I
shall have you put to death immediately."

"I am not afraid of you, prince," the girl replied, modestly. "I
certainly should prefer death to marriage with you. And I like the
society of my chickens and turkeys better than yours, if it please your
highness."

The prince went off in a rage, and the mouse fairy appeared, in her real
shape as a little old lady.

"Good-day, fair damsel," she said. "I respect you and admire you--let me
be your friend."

"Willingly, good madam," said the girl. "I am greatly in need of
friends, as you may see."

"Have you, then, no father or mother, my child?"

"None, madam; I am an orphan, and this poultry-yard is my refuge from
the cruelty of the only protector I have ever known. The fairy
Cancaline, who had charge of me, used to beat me until I was nearly
killed. Weary of suffering I ran away from her at last; and while
wandering in a wood I met the prince, who promised to befriend me, and
placed me here as poultry-girl. Alas! now that I find he is in love with
me, I must leave this place, and where to go I know not."

"And what is your name, my dear?" asked the mouse fairy, affectionately.

"Juliet, madam."

"Then, kiss me, my dear; I knew you before you knew yourself," the fairy
cried, joyfully. "I am delighted to see you so sensible. But your
complexion is a little dark. Bathe in yonder fountain. And you should be
better dressed. Put on one of these dresses, and then let me see you."

The girl obeyed. On taking off her cap of goat-skin her long golden
curls fell nearly to her knees. After bathing in the fountain she
revealed a complexion more bright and transparent than the choicest
pearls of India. Roses bloomed in her cheeks, and her eyes shone like
the brightest diamonds. Her figure was light and graceful as a young
fir-tree. The fairy gazed at her in wonder and delight. Her next thought
was to restore the lost child to her mother.

"Stay here one moment," she said, "while I fly back to your mother, and
prepare her for this happiness, lest she should die of joy."

The son of the wicked King Grimgouger went back to his father, and cried
and groaned dreadfully. His boo-hoo might have been heard for miles, and
the king naturally desired to stop it.

"What in the world are you roaring about?" asked the father.

"I'll roar as much as I like," said the spoiled prince. "If I can't
marry the poultry-girl, I'll roar for a week without stopping."

"Good gracious!" cried the alarmed king; "guards, go and fetch her here
at once."

The guards went to the poultry-yard, and found the princess Juliet,
dressed in gorgeous attire, and looking more beautiful than the new
moon.

"Whom do you seek, my good men?" she said in a soft voice.

"Madam," they answered humbly, "we are looking for a vile creature named
Juliet; but you would never have stooped to notice her."

"I am she," the princess said, proudly.

Upon this the guards seized her, bound her hands and feet, and roughly
carried her into the presence of the king.

"So you won't have my son, miss," shouted the king. "Don't love him,
hey? Stuff and nonsense! Love! Gammon and spinach! Marry him at once, or
I'll have you flayed alive! Here, you rascal (addressing his son, who
had now roared himself quite black in the face), stop that racket, for
goodness' sake, or you'll split my head."

But the princess held out firmly. They sent for a chaplain, but the
princess said "no," instead of "yes," and when they shook her till she
couldn't utter a syllable, she nodded her head from side to side. So,
finding it quite a hopeless matter, the king ordered the prince put to
bed with ice upon his head, and the princess to be shut up for life in a
high tower, where she would never more see the light of day.

At this moment the good mouse fairy returned in her flying chariot, and
with her was the queen mother, who was almost crazy with delight at the
prospect of embracing her child. When they heard the sad fate of Juliet,
the queen wrung her hands in agony; but the fairy bade her cheer up, as
she would find a way to help the captive.

King Grimgouger had gone to bed in a rage, and the little white mouse
ran up on his pillow. First she bit one ear, and made him turn over in
his sleep. Then she bit the other, and made him turn back again. Now the
king woke up, and howled for his attendants. They came running in, and
while they sought to stanch the blood that flowed from his royal ears,
the little white mouse ran to the chamber of the sleeping prince, and
served him exactly the same way. The prince, who, to the great relief of
the household, had fallen asleep in the very act of crying, now woke up
and began again, this time with a vengeance.

"Confound that fellow, he's at it again," said the king, smarting from
his wounds. "Stop him, somebody; and get me the court-plaster, and the
arnica, and the Pond's extract, and the chloroform; and send for all the
surgeons."

While the attendants ran hither and thither the mouse returned to visit
the king. She bit his nose, and bit his toes, and bit his fingers; and
when he opened his mouth to scold and yell, she bit a piece of his
tongue off, so that he could not articulate, but could only make absurd
mouthings, at which everybody wanted to laugh, yet dared not.

Then she ran back to the prince, and ate out both of his eyes, which
sent him flying out of bed. He seized his sword, and ran storming and
swearing into the apartment of his father, who, on his side, had taken a
sword, and vowed to kill everybody around him if they did not catch the
mouse who had done this mischief.

The prince could not understand what his father said, and as he was
blind, attacked the king furiously. The king made a violent cut back at
him, and in ten minutes they were in the thick of an awful fight, which
ended in both being mortally wounded at exactly the same moment. Seeing
them fall, their attendants, who hated the wicked tyrants, made haste to
tie them hands and feet, and tumbled them into the swiftly flowing
river.

Thus ended the horrible King Grimgouger and his son. The good fairy now
took her own shape, and, leading the queen by the hand, opened the door
of the tower where Juliet was confined. Juliet flew into her mother's
arms, and all was happiness.

The kingdom of Grimgouger and that of Sweet Content, which he had joined
to his, were now without a sovereign, and the people, by universal
consent, chose Juliet to reign over them. Juliet became their queen, and
in due time married a young king, who was rich and handsome, and wise
and witty, and brave and modest--all that a young husband ought to be.
The little white mouse continued to be their chief friend and
counsellor.




THE FAIRIES AND THE FIDDLER.

[Illustration: Simon's Benefactor.]


In the pretty little village of Hayfield, not far from the borders of a
thick forest, lived a good-natured, idle fellow, named Simon, who
supported his wife and two children by trapping or shooting in winter,
and by fishing or doing odd jobs of harvest work in summer. Simon could
play upon the fiddle in a way to make the tears come into your eyes; or
if he chose to be merry, his tunes would set every foot in motion, as
the wind starts the leaves upon an aspen tree. This accomplishment
caused him to be much in demand among the young people of the village,
who dropped many a bit of silver into his worn old hat; and at all the
weddings and barn-dances, Simon might be seen with a huge bunch of
flowers in his buttonhole, and his fiddle under his arm, footing it in
the procession. Then, too, Simon was the best man in the village to
coax stories from, especially the old-time gossip about the little folk
in green, for whom in former days Hayfield had been famous. Simon knew
how the fairies dressed, what they ate and drank, how they punished
saucy human beings who offended them; and could point out the smooth
rings of short fine grass where they had held their midnight revels.
That the fairies really had haunted Hayfield and its surrounding woods,
nobody in the village doubted. They had heard too many things to prove
it from their grandparents, whose parents were said to have lived on the
best of terms with the little people--setting pans of cream by the
hearth-stone at night for them to skim--leaving, when the holidays came
around, a cheese and bag of nuts in a hollow tree at the entrance of the
wood--and getting all sorts of kind offices from the fairies back again.
Although it had now been a long time since any one could testify to
having actually seen a fairy (as it was well known that the band were
frightened out of Hayfield when the first stage-coach, with its noise
and clatter, took to dashing along the village street), many people
believed the men in green to be still lurking in the neighborhood. What
else could account for the trouble some of the good wives had with
their butter and their bees? What could it be but fairy thumps and
pinches that kept the lazy folk from sleeping soundly, when their houses
were not to rights before they went to bed. And what could explain the
silver penny often found in the shoe of a tidy housekeeper, when up she
jumped at break of day to set her maids to work? For fairies never show
by day, and it is only when the people of a house are fast asleep and
snoring, that they glide in by key-holes, through cracks and broken
panes of glass, and swarm over the rooms, spying out everything amiss,
and leaving tracks on the dust of shelves or tables, scattering the
ashes of an unswept hearth, and bewitching the inside of a dirty iron
pot, so that it never more may cook sweet porridge!

Of all the villagers, as I have said, Simon alone professed to have any
recent acquaintance with the little folk, and the wonder was how they,
who were known to be sworn enemies to idleness, could keep him in their
favor.

Simon's house was a poor little cottage on the outskirts of the town.
His wife, once a pretty, rosy lass, had taken to drink, and the husband
and children led a dog's life within doors. Consequently, their one
pleasure was to roam the woods and fields, and the children were growing
up brown and barefoot as two young gypsies. They were a boy named
Timothy and a girl named Bess, of whom Simon was very proud, their fresh
young faces making a strong contrast with his wizened visage, crossed
with a hundred lines, and topped with a sunburned mop of hair. As they
grew old enough to understand, their father instructed them in all the
arts of woodcraft. There was no tree or plant for which he had not a
name or a virtue. The habits of all birds and fishes and animals were as
familiar to him as their haunts. In this way, the vast green forest,
with its great tree-boles and twisted boughs, its verdant moss-carpet
and hidden streams, became to them an enchanted world, through which the
children strayed like a sylvan king and queen. A sad change it was to
come back to the dirt and confusion of their miserable home, where the
mother received them either with grudging welcome if they brought
berries or a string of brook trout, or with blows and drunken curses if
they came empty-handed. As his wife's intemperance increased, Simon
stayed less and less at home, and the children dreaded lest some day
their poor father would be driven to desert them altogether. So they
resolved to keep a close watch on his movements, and to follow him
should he go away.

One night the harvest moon was riding her glorious way across the
heavens, and the little village of Hayfield lay steeped in silver light.
Not a lamp or a taper glimmered in the hamlet, and every one of the
brown thatched cottages was buried in profound repose. Not even a
watch-dog barked; and the forest-leaves yielded to the universal spell,
and ceased to rustle.

There had been held a harvest-home that day, and Simon had been hard at
work with his fiddle, playing jigs and reels for the dance in the
squire's great barn. Between every dance, he had quenched his thirst at
the cider-barrel, or quaffed the big brown mug of beer they kept
brimming at his side. Naturally, Simon's brain was a little the worse
for such free potations; and when the last strains of the "Wind that
Shakes the Barley" had died upon his fiddle-strings, and all the gay
company had gone their homeward way, Simon with his pocket full of
silver pennies staggered out into the field, and lay down under a
haystack to take his well-earned rest.

There, just before midnight, his two children, who had come in search of
him, found their father peacefully sleeping, his fiddle on his breast.
Not wishing to disturb him, the children decided to have their own
night's sleep in the same fragrant nest of hay; and curling up at some
little distance from the slumbering fiddler, they whispered together for
a while, and then were about to drop asleep. Just as their eyes were
closing they heard an odd sound, as of hundreds of little pattering
feet, and out from the shadow of the wood came into the unbroken argent
of the field a long train of little men, women, and children, dressed
magnificently in cobweb gauze and green, bespangled with glittering
gems, and wearing each a tiny crimson cap with a golden bell upon its
peak. The two children were broad awake in a moment, for they knew that
these were the fairies they had so longed to see, all dressed in holiday
costume, and proceeding to their famous midsummer festival. The
procession wavered like a gleaming snake across the field, and, when
passing near the haystack, came to a halt. To the children's surprise,
two queer little old men, holding carved ivory wands, came straight up,
and tapped the sleeping fiddler across the bridge of his nose.

"Nay, I will play no more for you, you light-of-head and light-of-heel,"
said sleepy Simon, believing himself to be still perched upon the barrel
that served as the fiddler's throne.

"Aye, but play you shall, at his Majesty's command," said the little old
man, thumping him more sharply. "Isn't that part of your bargain with
us, if we allow the trout to haunt your brook, and the hares to run into
your traps? Come, mortal! Up with you and follow. Here's the bandage to
blindfold your eyes, as usual; and remember that, if you peep, you are
our prisoner for life."

By this time thoroughly awakened, Simon stumbled upon his feet, and
stood making abject bows before the angry little fairy chamberlains. He
let his eyes be bound with a green silk ribbon, and leading-strings were
passed around his waist. At the blast of a golden trumpet, the
procession moved forward with a sound of tripping feet and whirring
gauzy wings and tinkling bells most lovely to the ear.

Last of all came Simon, in fairy leading-strings, and the two children,
unable to resist the impulse, followed noiselessly.

Their way led again into the forest, through the dense underwood, to a
smooth circle of velvet sward, set around with hundreds of little
mushrooms, on which the fairies took their seats. In the centre was a
hammock of silver cobweb, swinging by jewelled chains from the crossed
stems of two tall white lilies, under a bower of maiden-hair ferns.
Sweet blue violets were sprinkled in the grass, making a path where the
king and queen of the fairies marched to take their places on the
cobweb-throne. Dew was handed around in acorn-cups, of which the fairy
guests sipped daintily, followed by bark trays containing every variety
of fairy refreshment. There were delicate fried butterflies,
marrow-bones of a field-mouse, snail soup served in nutshells, and wild
strawberries in baskets made of moss.

When the banquet was at an end, the chamberlains gave notice to Simon,
who had been bound with ropes made of plaited grass to the trunk of a
wide-spreading oak; the fiddle struck up a tune, and at once the dance
began. Such a mad and merry dance the wondering children had never seen
before! Old and young joined hands and trod a circle, then, breaking the
chain, formed into a hundred fantastic figures; and at each touch of a
light footstep, the earth opened to give birth to a flower, until the
entire fairy ring was enamelled with fragrant blossoms. Fast flew the
fiddle-bow, but faster flew the tiny feet; and when the mirth was at its
height, Simon who, as we know, had taken a drop too much, was suddenly
inspired to tear the bandage from his eyes, and crying, "It's my turn
now," capered right into the middle of the magic ring.

The honest fellow had meant no harm, but his offence was a mortal one!

Instantly, he was surrounded by a swarm of the furious little men in
green, who, without waiting for an excuse, stabbed out both his eyes,
and taking away his fiddle and bow, bound his arms behind his back.
Again the procession--this time sad and silent--was formed, and the king
striking the nearest tree with his wand, it flew open; the whole party,
leading Simon behind them, entered the aperture, and before the children
knew where to turn, it had closed upon their father.

And now, in what a distressing condition were the unhappy Timothy and
Bess! Not knowing what better to do, they sat down at the foot of the
great oak-tree which had swallowed up their father, and from sheer
weariness fell asleep. When morning came, and the birds piped upon the
boughs, the children awoke and looked in wonder about them. All was
dewy, green, and fragrant in the deep woods, but no sign remained of the
fairy revel, except a fine fringe of newly sprung grass, growing in a
circle where their ring had been.

The bark of the great oak tree was unbroken, and above stretched a broad
canopy of dark-green leaves, which whispered in the morning breeze, but
told no tales of what the children longed to know. Hunger drove them to
retrace their steps homeward; and when they reached the cottage, their
mother was so cross at her husband's failure to fetch her the usual
stock of silver pennies earned at the harvest-home, that she beat them
both soundly, and gave them but a dry crust apiece for breakfast.

Still the children hoped their father might return; and, not knowing to
whom to confide their wonderful tale, they kept silence. When it was
found Simon had disappeared in earnest, all the wise heads in Hayfield
decided that he had run away to escape from his good wife's tongue, an
act of independence which had the bad effect of making more than one
married man in the village unduly restless.

A month passed, and the two children were again wandering in the forest
trying to find a few berries to appease their hunger (for things at home
were now worse than before), when they fancied they heard a child crying
close at hand. They searched everywhere, and at length the sound was
renewed, seeming to come from a thicket of tall ferns. Falling on their
knees, the children worked their way under the bushes and through the
brakes, until they came in view of a lovely chubby elf sitting forlorn
upon a mushroom on a hillock of soft green moss, beneath a screen of
ferns and wild flowers, and letting fall a flood of tears from his big
blue eyes. He wore no clothing, if we may except a pair of drooping
wings, and in his hand he held a stalk of snowy lilies.

"Who are you, dear little one, and how came you here?" they asked.

"I am a fairy," the tiny creature sobbed. "Last night was the monthly
revel, and we sported till the moon set. But I saw these lilies growing
over in yonder swamp, and I wanted them so; and as I ran, they seemed to
run too. I had such hard work to gather them; when at last I succeeded,
my red cap dropped off; and without it I am as helpless as a mere
mortal. While searching for the cap, which I have not found, a cock in
the village crowed, and the fairies all fled away and left me. The door
of the mound is closed, and for a whole long month there is no hope of
my getting in again. Oh! I wish I could find my cap."

"If we help you to find the cap, will you stop crying?" said the
children.

The shivering sprite wiped his eyes and promised that he would weep no
more. The girl wrapped him in her apron, and then all three of them set
out in search of the missing treasure. At last Timothy saw in the water
around some reeds a red object which a bull-frog was opening his mouth
to swallow; and, wading into the stream, he was able to rescue the magic
cap, dry it in the sun, and restore it to its happy little owner.

"And now," said the smiling elf, who appeared to have suddenly grown old
and wise, "as for a whole long month I am without a home, what do you
say to taking me to yours? You will never regret it, that I promise
you."

The children told their new friend what a poor place their home was, but
the elf smiled and shook his head as if he knew what he was about. He
bade the children lead him to their cottage, and once across the
threshold of the wretched place, where the drunken mother was sleeping
heavily on a pallet of straw in the loft above, the elf took his perch
upon the mantel-shelf.

"Next, since I am obliged to live with mortals, let me see what the
magic cap can do."

He put on the cap and immediately disappeared from the children's sight.
When night came, Timothy fell asleep, but Bess watched; and at midnight
she saw her new friend appear upon the hearth, conducting a perfect
army of little workmen and workwomen. He waved his cap thrice around his
head, and at once little carpenters set to building up the
cottage-walls, little whitewashers made the ceilings wholesome, little
painters covered all the woodwork with a coat of yellow. By sunrise what
a change! The broken bricks of the floor were transformed into pretty
blue and white tiles, lattice windows took the place of their old and
dim ones, the pots and pans were scoured until they shone, roses looked
in at the outer door, where rows of larkspur and of gillyflower, of
bachelor's-button and "Love-in-a-mist" were growing on either side of a
neat flagged walk to the garden gate. Instead of Timothy's old straw
mattress, the boy lay on a clean white bed; and his sister, who had kept
awake all night in utter wonderment, falling asleep at dawn, because her
eyes refused to stay open any longer, found him shaking her arm, and
begging her to come and share in the nice hot breakfast that--wonder of
wonders!--their mother, sober, and clean, and smiling, had made ready at
the fire.

It was a day of marvels! The mother seemed to have entirely forgotten
her past degraded life, and was once more the brisk and rosy woman
Simon had fallen in love with. A dozen times a day she paused in her
spinning, or weaving, or baking, to run to the gate and wonder when dear
father would come back. Timothy worked in the garden, Bess sewed and
helped her mother, not daring to tell what she alone knew of the magic
change. That night Bess slept, and Timothy kept watch. At midnight the
fairy appeared upon the hearth, leading a dozen little bakers in white
caps and aprons.

"Now make ready fifty loaves of your best white bread, that the goodwife
may sell them on the morrow!" the fairy ordered; and at once the tiny
men set to work mixing and kneading and baking, and at daybreak there
were fifty of the sweetest white loaves money could buy. The fame of
Simon's widow soon spread through the village, and every one was eager
to see the wonderful reform worked in her, no less than in her cottage.
Her bread was bought up as fast as she could furnish it, and next night
Bess watched while Timothy slept. Then Bess saw the fairy appear at
midnight, followed by a swarm of bees like a cloud.

"Make fifty pounds of your clearest honey, that the goodwife may sell it
on the morrow."

The bees flew out of the door, and next morning the hives were found
overflowing with luscious honey that smelt like a bed of clover all
a-blow.

Next night came the bakers, and next night again the bees. Money flowed
into the widow's purse as rapidly as it had once flowed out. Now was
there lacking but one thing to complete their happiness, and that was
the return of Simon to his family. Bess and Timothy together planned
what they should do, and when the month had passed away, and the night
of the full moon had come once more, neither went to bed, but both hid,
watching for the coming of the sprite. Exactly at twelve o'clock, their
kind little friend made his appearance, and summoning cooks and bees,
ordered them to keep up their service on alternate nights, until the
dame's coffers should be full to last a lifetime. Seeing him about to
take leave, out rushed Timothy and Bess, threw themselves on their knees
before the fairy, and, thanking him a thousand times over for his
goodness, begged for one more act of grace--their father's release and
restoration to his family. The fairy looked graver than they had ever
seen him, and his brows puckered in a frown.

"Your father has committed an offence we never pardon," he said, after
a short silence. "He has been punished according to our laws, and must
abide by the sentence, which is imprisonment for life."

The children burst into tears at this, and cried so that the fairy
sneezed several times.

"I believe I am taking cold in all this dampness," he said, shivering
slightly. "Come, dry up that deluge, and say good-by to me. The utmost I
can do is to look up your father when I get back again, and tell him you
are well and happy. I suppose you do not know that for some years past
he has been attending our holiday frolics as musician, since our own
best player broke his arm. Simon was under oath never to look at us, or
to betray us, and this was the first time he transgressed. But our laws
are very strict, and I am afraid to bid you even hope to see him again.
One thing I may tell you. The king's chief counsellor has a mantle of
red, worked with a device of six golden birds flying into a serpent's
open jaws. If you should ever find that mantle, walk boldly to the
oak-tree in the forest, knock three times, and cry, 'The King's Chief
Counsellor!' Then you may be able to secure your father's freedom, but
not else. And now, good-by to you."

The good elf vanished, and Timothy and Bess spent more time than ever in
the forest. They had now taken their mother into the secret, for she,
poor woman, had become as gentle and loving as she had before been hard
and cruel. The one desire of the entire family was to get possession of
the chief counsellor's mantle, but nothing seemed more unlikely.

A year passed, and Timothy had gone out to look at his rabbit-trap
without particularly thinking of what it might contain, when a
tremendous bustle inside attracted his attention. Cautiously he lifted
the door, and up sprang an angry little man in green, having a long
white beard, and a hump upon his back, who vanished from sight as
quickly as he had appeared. Timothy lamented the loss of such unusual
game, and then espied at the bottom of the trap nothing less than a tiny
cloak of red, embroidered with six golden birds flying into a serpent's
open jaws!

He made a joyful dive after the little garment, but, strange to say, it
stuck tight to the fingers of his right hand, dragging after it the
trap. Timothy shook it and pulled at it in vain; there it was, and not
to be dislodged.

He ran home and called Bess to his assistance. The little girl came
out, and no sooner had she touched her brother than she stuck fast to
him. The mother flew to the rescue, and became fastened to her daughter;
and there they all were, in a long string, not knowing whether to laugh
or cry at their strange predicament. The only thing was to make a
pilgrimage to the oak-tree in the forest. Timothy's dog followed them,
and rubbed against his master's coat. He, too, stuck fast, and so did
Bessy's cat. Everybody they passed upon the way was attracted to the
queer family party, and before long a little army of curious people were
compelled to walk along in the direction of the forest.

Timothy did not know the secret of the little cloak, which had power to
attract everything to it, drawing even people's thoughts out of their
hearts, as a magnet draws the needle. Only in fairy-land could the
objects so attracted be set free.

When they reached the oak-tree in the forest, Timothy struck upon it
three times and called with a bold voice, though not without a trembling
of the legs, for the king's chief counsellor. The bark of the great tree
cleft slowly open, and out came the same old white-bearded fairy he had
captured in the rabbit-trap. Bowing with mock humility, the old fellow
asked what his visitors would be pleased to have.

"I demand my father, and also to be rid of this wretched little rag,"
said Timothy hotly.

"Step inside, step inside," said the elf with a malicious smile, for he
knew that, once within, he might get the audacious mortals in his power,
and force them to work his gold mines.

"Not a step will I go inside until I see my father," said Timothy
firmly.

"Then here may you abide!" cried the old man, turning white with rage.

Timothy put one hand _within_ the tree, holding the magic mantle at
arm's-length.

"I demand my father," he cried in a loud voice.

The power of the mantle did not fail, for, rising from the darkness
within, came poor blind Simon, stretching his arms toward his child, but
holding tight his fiddle. At the moment Timothy's hand had come inside
the fairy kingdom, the spell of enchantment was broken, and all of the
strangely linked people were set free. Simon's wife and children threw
their arms around him, and welcomed his return, while his neighbors
shook his hand in warm congratulation. As for the old fairy, he fairly
danced with rage. With the mantle in Timothy's possession, half the
chief counsellor's power and reputation for wisdom would pass away. He
offered rich bribes of gold and jewels, he threatened, he howled, he
grinned, he hurled curses on their heads, but Timothy was firm.

"Then name your price, you wretch!" cried the angry fairy.

"It is that you shall restore my father's eye-sight," said Timothy.

This went very hard with the wicked old elf, who had been congratulating
himself that Simon would bear away at least one mark of fairy vengeance.
But he had met his match in Timothy, and there was no escape for the
chief counsellor, who, diving down into the cavern beneath the hollow
tree, reappeared fetching a box of magic ointment, which, rubbed upon
Simon's eyes, made them better than ever.

When Simon saw not only the light of day, but his two dear children, and
his wife looking as he had known her in her blooming youth, he uttered a
cry of delight.

Then, to relieve his feelings, he struck up the old "Wind that Shakes
the Barley," when, behold, not only all the people there assembled, but
a score of little green folk, who had been in hiding, enjoying the
discomfiture of the cross old counsellor, began to foot it on the
greensward. Simon himself danced, and the old counsellor, sorely against
his will, was forced to skip until his legs ached, for Timothy still
held the mantle in his hand.

At last, when all were out of breath, the elf received his mantle. With
a storm of angry words, he disappeared from sight. Immediately the sky
darkened, a cold wind blew, and a shower of hail-stones fell upon our
friends, sending them scampering and laughing away from the region where
the fairy's spite prevailed.

Under the spell of the kind little sprite who had been their guest, the
cottage was never approached by any unkind visitors. Simon fiddled and
grew fat, his wife remained as sweet as fresh cream to the last day of
her life, and their children came to be the pride of all the village.

So far as I have heard, that is the last visit Hayfield has had from the
little men in green.




ETHELINDA; OR, THE ICE KING'S BRIDE.


Ethelinda lived alone with her father, Count Constant, in a quiet
country place, which had always been her home. Her mother was dead, and
her father had long before fallen under the displeasure of his king, and
was sentenced to exile for life in this lonely spot. Their castle was
gray and venerable, half of it in ruins, and near by grew a grove of
melancholy pine-trees; while only some stunted rose-bushes, and a black
pool of water, in which swam a few antiquated carp, relieved the
monotony of the grounds within the broken walls surrounding their
dwelling.

One day a train of liveried servants on horseback, escorting a splendid
carriage, stopped on the road near the castle.

Some accident had happened to the springs of the vehicle, and the two
passengers inside were forced to take refuge in the house of Ethelinda's
father.

Count Constant himself, dressed in a faded court costume, but looking
handsome and stately, came forth to receive his unexpected guests. He
aided first a tall thin girl to descend from the broken carriage, and
then, an elderly dame, richly dressed, who, throwing back her veil,
revealed to him the face of his greatest enemy--the vindictive Duchess
Amoretta. This person, whom he had not seen for years, had once been in
love with Count Constant, and it was because he preferred to her the
young lady who afterward became his wife, that the Duchess had poisoned
the mind of his sovereign against him. To her he owed his banishment
from court, and the loss of his estates. During his wife's lifetime he
had heard nothing of the Duchess, and now to have to give her the
shelter of his roof was a terrible ordeal.

The Duchess, however, was very kind and considerate in her manner to
him. She made many apologies for the accident which had brought her
there, and introduced to him her only child, the Lady Finella, who was,
truth to tell, the most ill-tempered, pert minx ever seen, and a
complete contrast to lovely Ethelinda.

During supper, which the poor Count's servants tried to make presentable
with a few eggs cooked in an omelette, a bottle of good wine, and a dish
of stewed pigeons, the Duchess Amoretta was pleased with everything. She
praised the cookery, she praised the tattered tapestries on the wall,
she praised the Count's youthful looks, and she praised Ethelinda, till
that modest maiden was quite overwhelmed.

When the two young ladies had retired (Ethelinda giving up her own
little tower bedroom to her visitor, and creeping off somewhere to lie
on a threadbare couch), the Duchess became confidential. She implored
the Count to believe that enemies had come between them. She said that
slanderers had arisen to tell him the wicked stories he had heard. She
told him that her one desire was to see him restored to rank and
fortune. And at last she drew from her pocket a paper signed by the
King, in which the Count Constant was promised a free pardon on
condition of his immediate marriage with the Duchess Amoretta.

The wily Duchess had planned the whole affair to get possession of her
old lover again, and at first the Count, seeing himself caught in a trap
as it were, was very angry.

Then the Duchess told him to think of his lovely young daughter, wasting
her youth in this desolate spot. She promised to Ethelinda a life of
happiness and prosperity. She worked upon the poor father with such
artful words and lying promises, that, at last, Count Constant signed
the contract, engaging to follow her in a few days to the capital, and
there to give her his hand in marriage.

Ethelinda watched the fine chariot roll away with their unwelcome
guests, next morning, and when it was out of sight, turned and threw
herself upon her father's neck and kissed him fondly.

"How glad I am to get rid of them, papa!" she cried. "The daughter was
so spoilt and haughty, and the mother was even worse; somehow I could
only shudder when she kissed me, in spite of the beautiful bracelet she
put upon my arm on taking leave."

"The Duchess means to be your best friend, my dear," her father said
gravely, and went off to his study with a care-worn face. In a few days,
he set out upon his journey to the capital, giving Ethelinda no idea of
what he meant to do there.

Winter had set in, and a great snow fell. All the country-side was
covered with a mantle of purest white. Ethelinda loved the frost and
snow, and every day she put on her little brown hood and cloak with the
scarlet lining, and set out for a walk in the forest, carrying a bagful
of crumbs, which she would scatter for her favorite little birds. One
day, while thus employed, she met an old woodman gathering sticks.

"Good-morning, daddy," said the girl in a pleasant tone.

"It's not a good morning with me, girl," the old man answered, crossly.
"I'm frozen and starving too, thanks to this accursed snow."

"Don't speak ill of my dear snow," said Ethelinda, helping him to make
his fagot. "Isn't it keeping the ground warm, and sheltering our roots
and seeds for the spring-time? Come to the castle, if you will, and you
shall have hot soup and a corner of the kitchen-fire. But you won't be
allowed to abuse the beautiful work of the frost, in my hearing, that
I'll promise you."

"Bravely said, fair maiden!" the old man exclaimed, dropping his bundle
of sticks, and vanishing behind a screen of closely woven fir-trees. A
moment later Ethelinda saw a sleigh containing a solitary traveller,
drawn by a fleet black horse, dash by her like the wind. The sleigh was
shaped like a silver swan and the bridle of the horse glittered with
gems. The traveller appeared to be a tall and stately youth, with long
fair locks and glowing cheeks. He was half hidden behind robes of snowy
down, and as he shot swiftly by, leaving in his wake a breath of icy
wind, Ethelinda fancied she heard him say, "We will meet again, dear
lady, we will meet again!"

When, wondering over this incident, she reached the castle, it was to
find there a letter from her father, commanding her immediate attendance
at court, and announcing to her his marriage, which had already taken
place.

Poor Ethelinda, full of astonishment, and fearing she knew not what,
bade farewell to her dear home and journeyed to the castle of the
Duchess Amoretta. Here she was received with tenderness by her father,
who commended her in loving accents to the care of her new mother.
Ethelinda could not help shuddering more than before when the dreadful,
painted old Duchess stooped down to kiss her. She dared not look her
father in the face, but it was easy to see that he was more unhappy in
his new splendor than ever he had been in exile and in poverty.
Ethelinda sighed deeply, and, looking around, encountered the snaky eyes
of her new step-sister, fixed on her with wicked triumph.

And now, how changed was Ethelinda's life. Little by little, her
father's companionship was withdrawn from her; his time was spent away
from home, and soon, a war breaking out, Count Constant made haste to
draw his sword in his king's service. A great battle ensued, and one of
the first to fall, while gallantly fighting, was Ethelinda's father. He
murmured a blessing on his child, and saying he was glad to go, died
upon the battle-field, in the arms of his attendant.

The Duchess Amoretta, who by this time was heartily tired of having
Ethelinda on her hands, now treated the poor girl with positive cruelty.
A few months after the Count's death, she made up her mind to marry
again, and in order to rid herself of her troublesome step-daughter,
consulted with her own child, who was skilled in all sorts of wicked
devices.

They built a summer-house extending over the river, and made in the
floor of it a trap-door covered with moss and flowers, while beautiful
vines grew around the pillars, and a fountain played in the centre. Into
this pretty spot they invited Ethelinda to wander when ever she wished
to be alone.

One day the poor girl went inside the summer-house, and began to weep
for her father. Suddenly, a hand was extended by some one concealed
behind the trellis-work of vines, and she was rudely pushed, so that
she fell with all her weight upon the concealed trap-door, and instantly
plunged into the rushing river below. One cry she uttered, and then to
her astonishment, although it was the morning of a balmy summer's day,
an icy breath blew over her, and above the surface of the river there
arose a bridge of glittering ice, which she was enabled to cross in
safety to the bank.

Making her way back to the house of her step-mother, Ethelinda was
received with anger and astonishment. How she could have escaped,
neither of her enemies could imagine. Ethelinda told nobody of the
wonderful ice-bridge, which at the moment of her setting foot on shore
had vanished like frost before the sun. A few days after, she desired to
take her usual bath in the marble bath-room assigned to her use. No
sooner had she entered the door than two strong women flew out from
behind a curtain, and, seizing her by the shoulders, thrust her into a
tank of boiling water they had prepared for the unfortunate girl.

Ethelinda saw that she was about to die a terrible death, and gave
herself up for lost, when suddenly the icy wind she had twice felt
before, blew over her. As the two furies plunged her into the tank, and
rushed away, leaving her to her fate, she felt, instead of the scalding
heat she expected, the delicious warmth of a tepid bath close round her
limbs.

Again was she saved from evil by some unseen power; but now she knew
what a terrible enemy was in pursuit of her, and determined to fly from
the castle that very night. She hid in a little closet on the staircase,
and, when night came, glided past the sleepy servants on guard, and
escaped through the great gate into the open country.

Swift as her feet could carry her, Ethelinda fled. Out of the city, into
the deep woods, under the cold glitter of the watching stars, the poor
girl ran, every moment fancying that she heard the messengers of the
cruel Duchess behind her. At last she fell down exhausted, saying to
herself, "Better to die here from cold and starvation, than to be foully
murdered by that wicked woman." She lay for a moment resting upon a bank
of soft moss, and felt a sudden blast of icy wind.

Then was heard the cracking of a whip, and out of the woods came a
sleigh driven by a solitary traveller.

Ethelinda had a vague idea that she had seen him once before, but
fainted away, and knew nothing more until she awoke to find herself in
the sleigh, gliding swiftly along, wrapped in warmest robes of snowy
fur.

"Save me, save me from the Duchess!" she murmured in a terrified voice.

"Sleep, poor child, you are safe now," a kind voice sounded in her ear.
"Are you warm? Are you comfortable?"

"Very warm, very comfortable," Ethelinda answered, a strange drowsiness
coming over her.

She slept again, and the black horse harnessed to the sleigh bounded
forward like the wind. And now they passed through vast forests of pine
and fir, into the regions of perpetual snow. For Ethelinda's guide was
the young monarch of the frozen zone, and ruler of all ice and frost.
Long had he loved the young girl secretly, and long had he vowed to make
her his bride.

They stopped once, and now the sleigh was drawn by a span of magnificent
reindeer, pure white, with collars of jewels, having their great antlers
tipped with sparkling gems. Over snowy mountain peaks they glided, past
chains of icebergs, with many a frozen sea shining far below like a
sapphire. It was piercingly cold, and yet Ethelinda did not suffer. The
only thing she could not control was her power of speech. Not a word
could she utter, and the stranger, too, spoke no more, but smiled on her
kindly, from time to time, as he drove ahead.

At last they reached a superb palace, built of ice, the roof fringed
with icicles. An arch of many-colored lights spanned the roof, and from
every door and window streamed forth a brilliant illumination.

"Welcome home!" said the stranger. "This is my palace, and you shall be
my queen, fair maiden; for I am the King of the North Pole, and never,
till now, have I seen one worthy to share my throne."

A train of milk-white bears with golden chains around their necks came
out to receive the king and Ethelinda. They entered the palace, which
blazed with splendid jewels on roof and walls. The throne was made of a
single opal, and the queen's crown, which was immediately placed on
Ethelinda's head, was composed of a circlet of diamonds, each one as
large as a robin's egg.

The marriage took place at once; and Ethelinda's husband proved so kind
and loving, that she soon forgot her early sorrows, and became as happy
as all queens are supposed to be. Her fame spread into many countries;
and after a time, some celebrated traveller, who visited her court, went
back to the city where Ethelinda's wicked step-mother still lived and
flourished, and gave the Duchess a message from the beautiful Queen of
the North Pole.

"Tell her that I forgive her all her unkindness to me," Ethelinda had
charged him to say, "since it was the means of securing to me my present
joy, and the love of my dearest husband."

Ethelinda even sent gifts to her step-mother and sister; to each a
jewelled necklace of immense value, and a robe woven from the down of
the King's own eider-ducks, which only sovereigns might wear. The
Duchess and Finella eagerly seized the presents, but they almost died of
spite to hear of Ethelinda's good luck. Night and day they wondered how
they, too, might have similar fortune; and at length the Duchess
determined to dress her daughter in coarse clothes like those Ethelinda
had worn when found by the King of the North Pole, and to make her sally
forth to the border of the forest.

Snow was falling fast when the young woman reached the wood. She was
dreadfully cold, and began complaining and quarrelling, as usual. She
did not hear the approach of a sleigh until it was close beside her.
There sat a handsome youth, driving a fleet coal-black steed. He
politely invited her to take a drive, and, with many groans over her
stiff limbs, she got in. They flew over the ground, and for not a single
minute did Finella cease finding fault with everything. She abused her
mother for exposing her to this dreadful cold, and vowed she should have
rheumatism and lumbago and pleurisy and influenza, all together, next
day. Her feet had chilblains already, and her hands were so chapped they
would never be fit to be seen. In this agreeable strain, she went on
till her companion, growing impatient of her whining tones, blew a
sudden breath upon her--when, behold! all the girl's conversation was
frozen on her tongue, a few cross words, like icicles, clinging to the
tip of it!

When they stopped at the palace door, the King of the North Pole (for he
it was who had picked up Ethelinda's step-sister), instead of having her
conducted in state to her apartments by a train of snow-white bears with
golden chains about their necks, gave the cross girl in charge to an old
brown bear of a housekeeper, with instructions to keep her locked up
until the Queen should choose to set her free.

Ethelinda's kind heart softened toward her step-sister; and, begging the
King to forgive her, the Queen hastened to set the prisoner at liberty.
Finella, dressed in the Queen's own robes, was taken into the royal
nurseries to see two splendid rosy babies, rolling upon soft furs, and
romping with a gentle little bear-cub, who was their playmate.

[Illustration: _The princes & their playmate._]

When the step-sister saw these treasures, she conceived a wicked scheme
of punishing Ethelinda through her love for them. So, pretending to
repent of her past follies and unkindness, Finella was allowed by the
King and Queen to live in comfort in their home.

On the night of some festivity (I believe it was a special illumination
by the Northern Lights), the King and Queen went off sleighing in style,
through their dominions, leaving the babies in charge of their deceitful
step-aunt, who always kissed them and caressed them, before folks, as
though she loved them fondly.

As soon as the parents had disappeared, Finella ordered another sleigh
to be harnessed, and taking the babies in her arms set forth. She
attempted to guide the reindeer, but, in an instant, the great creatures
were off like the wind, and soared up into the air, as the King himself
had trained them to do. And now, how terrified was the wicked Finella!
She knew no words with which to stop her fiery steeds, and presently
sank, breathless and giddy, into the bottom of the sleigh. Higher,
faster they went; the babies, like true sons of the frozen North,
crowing with delight in the piercing atmosphere.

The sleigh stopped upon an iceberg, and there in the centre of the
glittering blue pyramid sat the imprisoned older brother of the King of
the North Pole. This wretch had been sentenced to be shut up there,
because he had tried to kill his father, the late King. All of his body
was changed to ice, excepting his heart, which burnt like fire. The
reindeer Finella had taken were those accustomed to be driven by the
King whenever he went to visit his wicked brother, whose eyes sparkled
as he saw the little princes within his power. At last, he thought, he
had a chance to be even with his enemies. He gnashed his teeth, shook
his chains, and stretched out his long arms, inviting the travellers to
come into his castle.

"I have golden apples and many pretty things for boys in here," he said
deceitfully; but just as Finella, seeing her opportunity, was pushing
the children out of the sleigh into the grasp of their cruel uncle, the
reindeer set up a peculiar cry which could be heard half round the
globe.

Instantly a chill wind blew, and riding on the wings of a mighty
sea-gull came the King of the North Pole. Fire flashed from his angry
eyes, and his face was so terrible that the wicked sister and brother
cowered and cringed before it. Snatching his babies in his arms, he
replaced them unharmed in the sleigh. For a moment, he seemed about to
crush both culprits to fragments in his wrath; but, relenting, he
pronounced their sentence--and Finella was condemned to be the bride of
the imprisoned brother. "Your fate is just," said the King of the North
Pole, to the wretch within the iceberg; "I could not, if I tried, think
of any worse punishment than to give you a complaining woman to share
your exile."

And so Ethelinda was rid of her false step-sister, and from that day
forth nothing occurred to disturb the serenity of the King's household.

As for the old Duchess (whose daughter had got a bridegroom she had not
reckoned on in the northern country), she, like her hopeful child, lived
and scolded forever and a day.




DEEP-SEA VIOLETS.

[Illustration: Emma Carried Off by the Sea-King.]


In a modest hut upon the sea-shore, half-hidden from sight by an
enormous bank of drifted sand, lived a fisherman and his wife, with
their twin-children, John and Emma. Theirs was a hard life, and full of
privations; but the husband and wife loved each other tenderly and did
everything they could to provide for the little ones, who grew up, spite
of their poverty, tall and beautiful, and happy as the day was long.
Emma and John had a thousand pleasures that town-bred children covet.
They chased each other continually up and down the sandy beach, hard as
marble and glittering like silver in the beautiful patterns traced on it
by the tide. They ran barefoot into the surf, defying the mad onslaught
of the merry breakers, and dived fearlessly beneath the crested arch of
green waters to seize a bit of floating seaweed. They discovered
endless treasures in the rock-pools along the beach, and built with them
pretty grottoes, and mysterious caves, that none but themselves knew
where to find. Often their father would take them out in the
fishing-boat; for John had learned to manage the sail and the nets
almost as well as the fisherman himself. The two children thought it was
grand to feel the little boat answer to the wind, as a horse answers to
voice or whip. They liked to bound forward across the great green
billows, and to see the spray dash over them like a shower of jewels.
They would help their father to set his nets or lines, and wait
patiently till it was time to haul in the big shining fish that
sometimes lined the bottom of the boat, whiling away the hours by
munching bits of brown bread that served for lunch, and by telling each
other fanciful stories of the sea.

The ocean did not always smile upon them, for there were days of heavy
fog, of raw east wind, when the beautiful water ceased to sparkle, while
the surf boomed as if in warning of danger or sorrow to come. Then the
children would run inside the cottage, and pile on drift-wood till the
fire burnt cheerily. This was their time for taking down from the
mantel-shelf their stores of shells, corals, and other sea-wonders.
John and Emma had polished these shells until they shone beautifully,
and some tiny disks of orange and gold were strung in long garlands, to
loop around the brown walls and above the little looking-glass. Their
mother kept the inside of the cottage as neat as a ship's cabin, which,
in truth, it much resembled, the children's beds being nothing more than
broad shelves in a cupboard, with doors to close by day; while every
corner of the tidy place was made to do duty for some household
implement, tucked away in the oddest fashion, until it should be needed.

So the days passed on until the twins were about sixteen years old, John
a fine manly fellow, looking much older, and Emma a slender slip of a
girl, with floating locks of purest gold, and a voice in singing like a
carol of birds in a Maybush. Oftentimes when her father was steering his
boat homeward, after a day of toil, he would hear the piercing strain of
Emma's song come floating over the water from the rock where she stood
against the western sky, awaiting him. And he rightly thought this the
sweetest sound he was likely to hear before the angels should sing for
him in Paradise!

One day the fisherman did not come home. A storm arose, and all that
evening the wind howled madly above the beating of the angry surf. The
sky was pitch-black, and the wife and children walked the shore in
silent fear. When darkness fell, they lighted a huge bonfire upon the
rocks, and John, begging his mother and Emma to go home to rest, stayed
feeding the flames with drift-wood, till morning broke over the sullen
waste of waters. Still no sign of his father, and at midday the familiar
boat drifted ashore, bottom upward. Then great sorrow darkened this
happy little home; and nevermore the sea gave up her dead.

[Illustration: Emma Singing on the Rocks.]

The fisherman's wife did not long survive him--dying, she told her
children, because she could not live without her beloved husband. John
followed his father's calling, and Emma kept the house, as her mother
had done. She was very sad and solitary in the changed life, but people
who work hard have not much time to give way to grief. The busy maiden
toiled all day over her duties in-doors, and when evening came, would go
out on the rocks to await John's return. The greatest pleasure she now
had was in singing. Her voice grew strong and firm, and every day at
sunset it might be heard, in waves of melody, mingling with the sound of
the breakers on the shore.

One day, when John was later than usual in returning to his supper,
Emma wandered along the sands. It was a beautiful summer evening, the
sky painted with radiant colors, the sea reflecting them. Here and there
a sail dotted the horizon, but the shore was completely deserted. The
girl saw before her a rock-pool filled with sea-anemones and star-fish;
and, sitting down on the edge of it to study the lovely creatures, she
began, as usual, to sing, without knowing that she did so.

Suddenly, over the water came rolling toward her a wonderful chariot
formed of a single conch-shell all rainbow-hued within. It was drawn by
two dolphins, and the driver was a handsome young man, whose long
floating locks were of a changeable green color, tipped with curling
white. Before Emma could recover from her astonishment, the youth spoke
to her gently, thanking her for the song that had wooed him from his
home beneath the sea.

"I am the king of a wonderful country down there," he said, "and if you
will but sing for me once more, I shall give you gems and flowers from
my own garden, such as never an earth-born maiden owned."

Dipping one hand carelessly over the chariot's edge, the king brought up
a string of rare carved coral with a jewelled clasp, and, smiling at
Emma's wonder, dipped his hand a second time, when out came a garland of
exquisite flowers. Sea-lilies, sea-roses, sea-narcissus, sea-violets
there were, larger and more beautiful than any upon land, and all
glittering with the ocean brine. Emma stretched out both hands for the
pretty things, while a song of joy burst from her lips.

"May I crown your brow with my garland?" said the king. "For truly, I
have heard no voice to equal yours."

"Thanks--thanks," cried the innocent girl, her eyes sparkling with
delight. She leant forward to receive the chain which the king threw
around her neck, at the same time laying the garland on her hair. At
once, Emma fell into a deep sleep, and the crafty sea-king, with a look
of triumph, lifted her into the seat at his side and urged forward his
chafing steeds; the chariot flew like a stormy petrel across the sea,
disappearing beneath the arch of a gigantic wave!

John sought in vain for his cherished sister. The only trace of her, he
and the neighbors who helped him in the search, could find, was a little
gold cross, once her mother's, that Emma always wore. This lay in a
crevice of the rock, whence the sea-king had carried her away. The
neighbors believed her dead, but something within John convinced him
that he should see her yet again. Long and dreary were the winter months
without her. John forever wondered about Emma's disappearance; and, when
summer came once more, it was to find the youth still possessed of a
longing desire to go somewhere in search of her.

Sad and solitary, John was sailing his little fishing-smack along the
coast one day, intending to go out to the usual fishing-ground, when,
tempted by a creek he noticed now, as if for the first time, a fancy
took him to follow up the windings of this silver inlet from the sea,
running between banks as green as emerald. Looking into the water, as a
light breeze carried him along, John saw a bed of weed and kelp starred
with shells, where crabs of an unusual size passed in and out of a
circular opening. Determined to fill a basket with these desirable
dainties, which would fetch a high price in market, John fished for them
so skilfully as to haul up a hand-net brimful, at the first attempt.
These were no common crabs he discovered, one of them in particular,
having its flippers set with rings of beaten gold, and a gold chain
around its body bearing a golden key.

"My good sir," said the crab, speaking in a plaintive voice, "you
probably don't know that I am the keeper of the sea-king's summer
grotto, and these are my attendants. Only to-day, his majesty sent us
word to have all in readiness for a visit from him and his
bride-betrothed. We are in the greatest possible hurry, and if it is
quite the same to you, would take it as a friendly favor, if you will
let us go without delay."

"My good Mr. Crab," said John, laughing, "I should like to oblige such
an important person, but really my circumstances are almost as
particular as yours. I am in the greatest possible need of funds, and
the price you and your friends would fetch at the present market rates
is most desirable to me."

"Oh! if it is only gold and silver," said the crab, disdainfully, "you
should see his majesty's dominions. Our streets are paved with it."

John became interested at this, and entered into a long conversation
with the crab, who was a gossipy old soul and told him of so many
wonders of the sea-king's kingdom that the lad could scarcely contain
his astonishment.

What startled him more than all, was to hear of a sweet singing maiden,
from the upper world, his majesty had kept for a year past imprisoned
in a crystal cavern! His heart beat fast with excitement, as the crab
described Emma so exactly that it was impossible to mistake her.

"Until the present time," the crab went on, with importance, "his
majesty has not told the earth-maiden of his intention to make her his
bride. By the laws of our kingdom, no one of us can marry a mortal,
until she has lived for a year contentedly below, without uttering the
name of any friend she knew in her former estate. But the year is up
to-day, and they are to make a grand tour of his majesty's possessions.
I should not wonder if the wedding were to take place in our grotto, for
that is the king's favorite palace, although only one of the many he
calls his own."

"One thing is false! Emma will never marry him, if she is to do it by
forgetting those who loved her so tenderly," broke in John, furiously.

"You are very rough, my dear friend," said the crab, fanning himself
with his flipper. "I think you forget you are addressing a courtier.
What I tell you about the Lady Emma is undoubtedly true, since I have it
from my cousin the clam. He is a close-mouthed creature, little likely
to spread a false report. Lady Emma is happy as a queen in swansdown.
Once a day she sings, and then his majesty always presents her with a
bunch of fresh sea-violets, her favorite flowers. Under the
circumstances, it is hardly possible she would keep up any of the
foolish fancies for earth-born folk she may have brought there."

John pondered awhile, and finally promised the crab, who was growing
very impatient, to release that functionary and his companions, if they
would permit him to visit the wonders of the sea-king's grotto. The
crab, since he could not well help himself, said yes, and instructed
John how to dive into the round green hole, so like the nest of some
strange fish, he saw at the bottom of the stream.

John made fast his boat, and sprang overboard, having first emptied the
net full of captives, who went scuttling to the bottom in very
undignified haste. So sure was his aim, that he reached without
difficulty the passage-way indicated, which widened from its mouth into
a funnel-shaped cavern, lined with seaweed and ferns of the rarest
varieties. Following the crab procession, John swam along a crystal
streamlet, reaching at length a second opening, larger than the first.
Within this was a door formed of a single sapphire. The crab put his
golden key into the key-hole, and admitted John into a large and
brilliant grotto, the sides lined with the iridescent scales of fish.
The roof was encrusted with jewels, through which streamed many colored
lights, and clusters of phosphorescent flame gleamed at intervals
between pillars of glittering spar. Beneath an arch of blooming
sea-flowers, stood a throne made of snowy coral branches, and cushioned
with velvet moss. At its foot was a pillow of blue violets, another one
hanging at the back. A tiny stream of clear water ran down the cavern's
side, and shot up in a fountain in the centre. John's eyes blinked with
pleasure when he came into the pretty place, but the sound of
approaching music made the crab hurry him into hiding, with the order on
no account to risk showing himself in the presence of the king, who
would instantly have him hugged to death by a giant devil-fish. John
kept quiet, you may be sure. The crabs formed into double rows, bowing
and scraping, in token of their deep reverence for the king (they had
been selected to be courtiers in consequence of their facility in
walking backward), and the sight almost made John laugh aloud; but he
was soon reduced to silence, not only by the imposing entry of the
monarch of the seas, but because, in the bride-betrothed, he saw indeed
his own dear Emma.

Emma was greatly changed in appearance. She now wore a splendid robe of
some clinging white stuff, worked with little coral branches and sprays
of silver seaweed around the hem, and her neck, arms, and hair were
wreathed with row upon row of priceless pearls. She was pale, but more
beautiful than ever, and on her breast John saw a knot of big blue
violets. Emma was seated at the king's right hand, and lovely sea-nymphs
danced before her, to the music of unseen orchestras. Then his majesty
asked Emma to sing, pledging her health in a shell full of wine, that
shone and sparkled beautifully. Emma made no resistance, doing all that
she was bid, like a person walking in her sleep. Her eyes had a far-away
look and her voice, in singing, so unearthly a thrill, that John's
affectionate heart ached to seize her in his arms and tear her from the
spot. When Emma had finished singing, she appeared to be fatigued, and
two sea-nymphs bore her to a couch of pearl, laid her on purple
cushions, and combed her long hair with a golden comb, while other
sea-maidens interlaced their white arms above the girl's head, soothing
her to sleep.

"Let her sleep here till this day week," said his majesty. "Then I will
summon my subjects and relations to the wedding. All of you present
withdraw, now, and on no account disturb her slumber."

When the coast was clear, John seized his opportunity, and stealing
forth, knelt beside his sleeping sister, and whispered in her ear. Emma
moved, her eyes opened slowly, and uttering a deep sigh, she looked her
brother full in the face. But alas! she did not recognize him. In
despair, John seized her hand, and tried to urge her to fly with him. He
reminded her of her home, of their happy childhood, of their dead
parents, of everything that could touch the heart. All in vain! Emma
smiled sweetly, and stroked his head as, shedding bitter tears of
disappointment, he bent it upon her knees; but she knew him not.

"Leave me in peace," she said, "I am the sea-king's bride-betrothed, and
you are but a poor fisher's lad. What you say to me of earth and home I
do not understand. This is my home, and if the king should find you
here, he would take your head off. If you love me as you say, please
go."

Emma lifted to her face the cluster of purple violets, and at once her
lids drooped; and, sinking back upon her purple cushions, she slept
again.

In bitter disappointment, John retraced his way along the vestibule of
the king's grotto and emerged into the inlet where his boat was moored.
Carefully marking the spot, he returned to it the next night, but no
trace could he find of the submarine opening. The old crab had taken
good care to prevent another visit from a marauder, who might cost him
his life. John felt ready to abandon all hopes, when, leaning over the
edge of the boat, and dragging the water through habit, he felt a
violent struggling and fluttering within the net. Hauling it quickly in,
a swarm of silver-bright little fishes, each one wearing a pretty
maiden's head, escaped from the meshes, leaving behind but a single
token, and that John found to be a tiny golden harp. He drew his fingers
across the strings, and the sweet sound it gave out was echoed by a sob
from beneath a rock ledge close at hand.

"Who is there?" cried John.

"It is I--chief of the sea-king's minstrels," said a voice. "This
evening, I and my band were amusing ourselves by the light of the moon,
when your cruel net almost frightened us to death. Oh! what shall I do?
It's nearly time for the king's visit to his bride-betrothed in the
grotto; and if you will not restore to me my harp, I shall be
behind-hand, and in disgrace. Oh! if you only knew how strict the leader
of the court orchestra is!"

"Will you take me into the grotto, if I give the harp to you?" said
John, firmly.

"Oh! I dare not," cried the little mermaid, shivering. "Only yesterday,
his majesty found out that some rude outsider had found his way into the
grotto, and he has placed on either side of the entrance a double-headed
shark. For you to attempt to pass them would be certain death! Pray,
pray ask something easier; for every moment is precious to me, now."

"Then tell me what has caused Emma to forget all her life on earth?"

"That I can do, right easily," said the mermaid, coquettishly; "for I
have a sister in the band of especial hand-maidens set apart by the king
to wait on the bride-betrothed. The fresh violets sent every day to Lady
Emma by his majesty, have the power to make her forgetful, and
indifferent to all save her present surroundings."

"I knew she had not really grown cold," cried John, in a burst of
gratitude. "Here is your harp, pretty one, but answer me one question
more. How can I find the entrance to the grotto?"

The little mermaid stood on tip-tail to receive her harp, and, as she
once more clasped it in her arms, whispered, in a frightened tone:
"When the moon is at the full, its rays strike a white cliff over
against yonder dark coast-line. Steer your boat evenly along the path
traced by those rays upon the water, and you may see the wedding
procession go in at the state entrance. But, of all things, take care
not to let yourself be perceived, for on this occasion all the monsters
of the deep will be on guard, and your life would not be worth a broken
clam-shell."

John bade the mermaid good-by, and from that moment all his thoughts
turned upon how he might obtain admission to the wedding festival. He
cast his nets diligently, but with no success. All the fishes seemed to
have deserted their usual haunts; and no wonder, for the entire
population of the sea was in a state of preparation for the great event.

At last the night of the full moon came, and you may be sure John was
abroad and watchful, as he cast his nets in feverish anxiety. A sudden
pull made him haul in rapidly, and this time he was rewarded by a catch
that cost him the most tremendous struggle. What was his surprise to
drag into the boat a huge fish, six feet long, with a tall fin nearly
the length of its body. The most curious part of it was that the tips
of this fin, and also a patch on the creature's head, shone with
imprisoned fire. Along the sides of the body were a double row of
luminous spots. The fish made no further fight, and John gazed at him in
admiration.

"In the name of wonder, what have we here?" he said.

"My good sir," answered the fiery fish, "if you had the least idea of
the nature of my business, I am sure you would not interrupt me for a
moment. I am one of his majesty's torch-bearers, and the procession is
already forming to go to the grotto of the bride-betrothed."

"Hurrah!" said John. "If you will manage to take me with you, I will let
you go, but not else."

In vain the torch-bearer protested and begged. John was inexorable. In
the end, the torch-bearer demanded time for reflection, and at last
spoke as follows:

"I and four of my brothers lead the way, and by going with me you would
certainly be seen and punished. But at the very tail-end of the
procession, my old father and mother will jog along, accompanied by a
swarm of their younger grandchildren. These pretty little creatures, as
you may not know, are called Bombay ducks, and their whole bodies glow
with light. They are very good-natured, and if we can but win over the
other family who help to light the court festivals, the Chiasmodos, I
believe we might smuggle you in unobserved between the old people."

"Who are the Chiasmodos?" asked John.

"They are a tribe of deep-sea light-givers," said the torch-bearer, "who
consist entirely of a mouth and a stomach. The latter organ swells to an
enormous size, and floats beneath like a transparent balloon, while
above their great, wide-grinning mouth is worn a crown of light. They
are rather snappishly inclined, these Chiasmodos, and may give us
trouble; but we must run the risk, if you insist. So, come along, young
man, there's no time to waste in talking."

John did not hesitate, but overboard he went, swimming after the
released torch-bearer, who proved a friendly fellow after all. It was a
beautiful summer's night, and the moon shed a path of radiant light upon
the ocean, lying calm and serene beneath her spell. John and the
torch-bearer swam along a track of liquid silver, and opposite the white
cliff they saw a marvellous array.

The procession was formed, and about to take up its line of march. The
drum-fishes were already beating a roll-call; the fiddler crabs fiddled
wildly; while the sea-lions roared and rumbled, the whales blew their
trumpets, the porpoise puffed, and the electric eel, who was the court
jester, wriggled along the line, playing foolish tricks and giving
unexpected shocks to those who did not pay attention. Such a multitude!
To describe them all would fill many pages of this book; and besides,
you would never be able to remember the hard names. The pilot-fish
cruised around in front, the torch-bearers came next, then the mermaid
musicians, and a host of sea politicians with banners, preceding the
whales who sailed majestically ahead of the king's chariot of pearl,
drawn by twelve milk-white dolphins with jewelled harness.

After them, every conceivable kind of fish, in regular order, according
to their dignity. The octopus party was a sight to make one shudder, but
they were in a good humor for once, and comparatively beaming. The
sea-serpent swam alone, considering himself too much of a rarity to
associate with every-day folk. The sword-fish saluted, and the skates
tried to smile, but only succeeded in looking more hideous than before,
very much as if they had pains under their waistcoats. The brilliant
angel-fishes and the fairy nautilus made the most lovely show it is
possible to imagine; though it is hardly fair to single out one or two
for praise, when all did so well. Even the herrings from the public
schools, and the vulgar little porgies, had clean faces and were allowed
to tag after the procession. And, last of all, came the cross
Chiasmodos, fortunately swimming before the old father and mother
torch-bearers, who, between them, carried John along, and were followed
by a gleaming myriad of little Bombay ducks, true glow-worms of the sea.

Led by the moon rays to the white cliff on the coast, the procession
came to a halt; and immediately a pair of hidden doors flew back and
revealed a long tunnel glittering with lights, which opened directly
into John's well-remembered grotto.

There, within, stood Emma, decked in bridal lace, worked by ancient
mermaids thousands of years before, to be worn by the queen at her
bridal; and on her head was a fragrant crown of violets. She smiled as
the king approached, and gave him her hand; the wedding at once began.
John, hidden behind a projecting crag, saw, with despair in his heart,
the ceremony go on.

The entire walls were lined with ranks of octopi and sharks on guard. To
defy them would be death to Emma and himself. He leaned further forward
than he intended, and was seen by one of the Chiasmodos, who, flashing
her lantern in his face, at once informed on him to her neighbor.
Immediately a new monster swam toward John. This was another of the
deep-sea torch-bearers, the Chanliodus, appointed to act as chief sentry
to the cave. A more ferocious countenance cannot be imagined than was
his. The wide mouth bristled with sharp fangs, and his fins were tipped
with flame, while all along his sides extended a row of spots like
little windows in a ship, through which light was shining.

John saw that in another moment he would be lost. So long as the bridal
procession was going on, no one dared to speak; and, beckoning the
fierce creature to come behind the rock, John met it with an open knife,
aiming so skilfully as to cut the fish open its entire length. The idea
now occurred to him to place himself within the body of his dead enemy,
which he promptly did, and to his joy, could swim out unobserved, and
take his place at the bride's right hand. Just as Emma was about to say
"I will," the sentry-fish managed to place in her hand the little gold
cross that was once her mother's. The queen-elect looked at the cross in
surprise, and as all had passed so quickly, not even the king understood
why her head drooped forward, and she seemed about to faint. The
sentry-fish whispered in her ear:

"It is I--John--your brother; be brave, and find some excuse for putting
off the wedding, and we may yet be saved."

So long as Emma wore the crown of violets, she was unable entirely to
break the charm they cast over her. But the little cross was a powerful
reminder of her life on earth; and while she held it, she appeared to be
awakening from a trance. Excusing herself to the king on the ground of
illness, she was supported to her coral couch, and was surrounded by her
mermaidens. The king ordered the crowd to withdraw, and soon the
disappointed revellers went away, feeling blue and cross, while his
majesty himself was in a terrible way, tramping up and down, tearing his
green locks, and casting himself on his knees beside Emma, imploring her
to speak to him once more.

In vain! Emma's eyes were now obstinately closed, and her cheeks were
like marble. The faithful sentry-fish, whose duty it was to patrol the
grotto, swam up and down before the couch, and every time he passed near
Emma he whispered, "Be brave. I am here. Soon I will rescue you. Give no
sign of life."

At last the king took the advice of an old dowager mermaid, and left
Emma to herself, consenting to go outside the grotto and smoke a seaweed
cigarette, until his bride should be ready to go on with the interrupted
wedding.

John spied in the train of mermaidens the little creature whose harp he
had restored, and very cautiously, for fear of alarming her, he made
himself known. The pretty mermaid laughed and cried hysterically, when
she heard his story, and consented to aid him still further by removing
the crown of violets from Emma's head. Soon there was heard a great
whispering among the mermaid band, and one of 

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