STORIES (continued 2)

It wasn’t long before the cow caught sight of Tom’s oak leaf hat, and thrusting out her tongue she took in poor Tom and the thistle at a mouthful. Tom was terrified. But while the cow was chewing the thistle he had time to collect his wits, although he was afraid every minute her monstrous teeth would crush him in pieces. So he roared out as loudly as he could, “Mother, mother!”

“Where are you, Tommy, my darling? where are you?” cried his mother, dropping her milking.

“Here, mother,” he shouted, “here, in the red cow’s mouth.”

At this his poor mother began to cry and wring her hands, looking helplessly at the cow. But what was her joy! The cow, surprised at the odd noise in her throat, opened her mouth and let Tom drop out. Quick as a flash his mother caught him up before he could fall to the ground, and she ran home with him.

TOM THUMB

How He Comes to Belong to the King

One day when Tom went into the fields to drive the cattle with a whip of barley straw his father had given him, he slipped and rolled into one of the furrows. A raven flying overhead picked him up and flew with him to the top of a giant’s castle near the sea, and there left him.

Tom did not know what to do. But this was not the worst of it. He heard a heavy tread, tramp! tramp! and out strode Grumbo, the giant who owned the castle. He saw Tom, picked him up and gulped him down in a twinkling, as if he were a pill. But in a minute he was sorry. For Tom began to kick and jump about so that the giant could not stand him in his stomach, but rushed to the castle wall and vomited him into the sea.

Well, the instant Tom struck the water a great fish swallowed him. Soon a fisherman caught this very fish, took it to market, and there sold it for King Arthur’s own table. And when the king’s cook cut the fish open, out stepped Tom, alive and well, and stood on his head for joy to find himself safe and free again. The astonished cook ran with him to the king, and Tom so delighted the king and queen and all the knights of the Round Table with his tricks that the king called him his dwarf, to make fun for him and the court.

In time the king grew so fond of Tom that he took him everywhere with him, and even let him creep into his pocket for shelter if it should rain when they were out together.

So now Tom Thumb was King Arthur’s dwarf and lived at court.

TOM THUMB

How He Carries Money to His Parents

One day King Arthur asked Tom about his parents, whether they were as small as Tom, and whether they were rich or poor. Tom told the king his father and mother were as tall as any of the people at court but they were poor. At this the king took Tom into the treasury and told him to take home to his parents as much money as he could carry.

Tom capered for joy. He ran off to get a purse, and into this he stuffed a silver threepenny piece. He had some trouble hoisting the bag of money on his back, but at last he succeeded, and set out on his journey.

It was a short distance, but tiny Tom had to rest more than a hundred times by the way, so that it took him two days and two nights to reach his father’s house. His mother ran out to meet him, and carried him into the house more dead than alive.

She and the father were overjoyed to see him, the more so as he had brought such a great sum of money; but they were grieved that he was so worn out. His mother placed him tenderly in a walnut shell, and feasted him three whole days on a hazel nut. To her sorrow this made him sick, for he should not have eaten a whole nut in less than a month.

In time, Tom was able to run about and to think of returning to court. But as there had been a heavy fall of rain his mother said the roads were too wet for him to walk. So when the wind was blowing in the direction of the king’s castle she made a little umbrella of paper, tied Tom to it, gave him a puff into the air with her mouth, and away he went back to King Arthur.

TOM THUMB

How He Becomes Ill and Who Nurses Him

Well, Tom was never tired making fun for the king and queen and all the court. The courtiers laughed till their sides ached at his antics, and the king said to the queen, “Did you ever see the like?” And she said, “No, never!”

But he did so much, he at last made himself ill. The whole court was filled with sorrow, for everyone feared the little fellow would die. The king came constantly to his bedside to ask how he was, and brought his cleverest physicians to cure him. But they could not.

In the midst of their anxiety the queen of the fairies ordered her chariot drawn by winged butterflies, and set out for the palace. She lifted Tom tenderly out of his bed and carried him with her to fairyland. Here she herself nursed him back to health and let him play with the fairies until he was as strong and merry as ever.

Then she ordered a breeze to rise. And on this she placed Tom and sent him back to the king.

TOM THUMB

How Tom Escapes Hanging

Now, just as Tom came flying back to King Arthur’s court, the cook happened to be passing with the king’s great bowl of frumenty, a dish the king was very fond of. Unfortunately the little fellow fell plump into the middle of it, splashing the hot frumenty in the cook’s face. The cook, in a rage at Tom for frightening and scalding him, ran to tell the king that Tom had jumped into his Majesty’s favorite dish out of idle mischief.

The king’s anger was terrible. He ordered Tom to be seized and tried. No one dared plead for him, so the king commanded that his head be cut off. A crowd followed the headsman to see it done. The headsman lifted his ax. Poor little Tom fell a-trembling and looked about for some means of escape. In the crowd he saw a miller with his mouth open, like the booby he was. At a bound Tom leaped into the miller’s mouth. He sprang in so nimbly that no one, not even the miller himself, saw where he went. So, as the headsman could not find Tom to take off Tom’s head, he, like a sensible man, shouldered his ax and went home; and the miller went back to his mill.

When Tom heard the miller at work in the mill, he knew he was far away from the court and entirely safe, so he immediately set about getting out. He began to roll and tumble about in such an alarming way that the miller took to bed and sent for a doctor. When the doctor arrived, Tom began to dance and sing, and the doctor, as much frightened as the miller, sent in hot haste for five more doctors and twenty learned men.

While the six doctors and the twenty learned men were putting their wise heads together, the miller happened to yawn. Seizing the chance, Tom took another jump, but out of the miller’s mouth this time, and alighted safe on his feet in the middle of a table near the bed. Well, when the miller saw the little bit of a creature that had tormented him, it was his turn to fall into a rage at Tom. He laid hands on him, opened the window, and threw him into the river.

And a second time Tom was swallowed by a fish! A large salmon swimming along snapped him up. A fisherman caught the salmon and sold it in the market for a great lord’s table. But when the lord saw it he thought it such a fine fish that he made a present of it to King Arthur. So when the cook cut open the fish he found poor Tom and ran to the king with him to make sure that he should not escape again. But the king was busy and ordered Tom to be kept locked up until he should send for him.

The cook was determined that Tom should not get away, so he put him into a mouse trap closely wired. When Tom had spent a week in the trap peeping through the wires, the king sent for him. But to the cook’s disappointment and Tom’s great delight, his anger had gone. He forgave Tom for falling into the frumenty, and made him again his dwarf, to make fun for him and the court.

TOM THUMB

How He is Knighted by the King

To reward Tom for his services to the court, the king made him a knight. He told Tom to kneel down. Then he struck him with his sword and said, “With this sword I dub thee knight. Arise, Sir Thomas Thumb.”

As Tom’s clothes had suffered in the batter pudding, the frumenty, and the insides of the giant, the miller, and the fishes, the king ordered that the new knight should be given a handsome suit of clothes and a horse and sword. How proud Tom was and how splendid he looked! You shall hear about his dress and his horse and sword:

It was great fun to see Tom mounted on the mouse, as he rode out a-hunting with the king and the other knights. They were all ready to die with laughter as they looked at him and his prancing charger.

But they were glad to call him a brother knight, he was so brave.

One day as they were riding past a farmhouse a large cat lurking about a door made a spring at Tom and the mouse, seized them, and ran up a tree with them. Here she began to devour the mouse. Tom boldly drew his sword and stuck it into the cat so fiercely that she was at last forced to drop them. As they fell, one of the knights held out his hat and caught them. He carried Tom home and laid him on a bed of down in a little ivory cabinet until he should get over the attack.

Tom was soon himself again, and dearer than ever to the king and court.

TOM THUMB

How He Goes Away and Comes Back Again

Soon after, the queen of the fairies came to pay Tom a visit, and when she left she took Tom back with her to fairyland. There he stayed several years.

While he was gone King Arthur and the queen and all the knights who knew Tom died, so when he came back he found a new king reigning, King Thunstone. All the courtiers flocked about the mannikin, and asked him who he was, and whence he came, and where he lived. Tom answered,

The king was so charmed with this speech that he at once made Tom court dwarf. He ordered his builders to build Tom a gold palace a span high, with a door an inch wide, and he ordered his coachmen to give Tom a coach drawn by six small mice. And so that he might sit upon the king’s table close to his elbow, he ordered his cabinet makers to make Tom a little ivory chair.

So there was Tom back at court again and king’s favorite.

TOM THUMB

What Became of Him at Last

But Tom did not live much longer. A large spider one day attacked him. Tom drew his sword and fought well, but at last the spider’s poisonous breath overcame him.

Well, of course he had to die some time.

King Thunstone and his whole court were so sorry that they went into mourning for him, and over his grave they raised a white marble monument. And the king’s engraver wrote this on it:

—English folk tale

THE TWO BROTHERS

Once upon a time there were two brothers. Each had ten loaves of bread and nothing else. So they said, “Let us go and seek our fortune.” And they went.

When they had gone a little way they were hungry. One brother said to the other, “Come, let us eat thy bread first, then we shall eat mine.” So they did and went on their way. When they had gone farther they were hungry again. The first brother said again to the other, “Come, let us eat thy bread, then we shall eat mine.” They did and went on their way. And when they had gone farther they finished the ten loaves. Then the first brother, who had yet kept his loaves, said to the other, “Now thou mayst go thy way, and I shall go mine. Thou hast no loaves left, and I will not let thee eat my bread.” And the heartless fellow turned his back and left his brother to go on alone without a morsel of food.

Well, the brother went on and on and on, more and more feebly, for want of food, till he came to a mill in a dark forest. He said to the miller, “I can go no farther; pray let me stay here to-night.”

Now the miller was a truer brother to him than his own had been, and he answered, “Brother, I would not turn thee away if it were safe. But wild beasts come into this wood at night, perhaps into this very mill. I myself do not wait to see.”

“I feel no fear,” said the poor boy; “the beasts will not harm me.” So while the miller went off home he crept into the hopper of the mill.

At midnight from some place or other a big bear, a wolf, and a jackal came into the mill, and went leaping and bounding about as if they were having a dance. When they had done the bear said, “Come, let us each tell something he has seen or heard. I’ll begin.

“I know a hill where there is a great heap of money. It glitters when the sun shines. If anyone should go there on a sunny day, he would find his fortune.”

“I know a town,” said the wolf, “where there is no water. Every mouthful has to be brought from a great distance. Now, in the center of that very town, hidden under a stone, where no one can see it, is beautiful pure water. Whoever finds the stone will make a fortune.”

“What I can tell is best of all,” said the jackal. “I know of a king who has only one daughter, and she lies weak and pale now three long years. If only someone would bathe her in beech leaves she would grow strong and rosy. Whoever cures her will make his fortune.”

At the last word day began to dawn. The bear, the wolf, and the jackal left the mill and disappeared into the wood.

The boy had heard it all. Full of thanks he came out of the hopper. “Perhaps,” said he to himself, “I may be the one to find the money, take away the stone, and cure the king’s daughter. If so, my fortune is sure.”

He set forward with a stout heart just as the sun rose. Soon its beams fell on a hill to the right and something glittered in its rays. And here he found the great heap of money, a fortune in itself. Farther on he came to the town where the people had no water. In the center of it there was the stone. He rolled it away, and behold! streams of clear water gushed forth. The people ran to get pitchers and filled them to overflowing. And they gave him a great sum of gold and silver. After this he set out for the kingdom of which the jackal had spoken. When he arrived he asked the king, “What wilt thou give me if I cure thy daughter?”

“If thou canst do this,” said the king, “thy fortune is made, for I will give thee my daughter as thy wife.”

The youth gathered the beech leaves, the princess bathed in them, and was cured. In great joy the king married the maiden to the youth. So now his fortune was made.

The news of this reached the ears of the selfish brother. He came to his brother and asked how it had all happened. When he heard he said, “I also will go and stay at that mill a night or two.” His brother warned him of the danger. But he would not listen. He reached the mill, crept into the hopper, and waited.

As before, at midnight, from some place or other, the bear, the wolf, and the jackal came into the mill, and went leaping and bounding about as if they were having a dance. And when they had done the bear said, “Come, let us each tell something he has seen or heard. I’ll begin.

“Next day after I told you my story the money was all taken away.”

The wolf said, “And the stone was rolled away and the water found.”

“And the king’s daughter was cured,” added the jackal.

“Then perhaps someone was listening when we talked here,” growled the bear.

“Perhaps someone is here now,” howled the wolf and the jackal.

“Let us go and look,” shrieked the three.

They looked up and down and round about and in all the corners. At last they poked their noses into the hopper. And that was the end of the greedy brother.

But he who had married the king’s daughter lived happy ever after and when the king died ruled well and wisely.

—Folk tale.

THE WOOING

One morning bright and early a young cock from the next farm stepped into the barnyard where lived a certain young chick.

“Good day, Father Rooster,” said he.

“Many thanks, young sir,” said Father Rooster.

“I’ve come a-wooing. May I have your fair daughter Peep for my bride?”

“Ask Mother Hen, Brother Bantam, Sister Cluck, and fair Peep herself; and then we’ll see,” said Father Rooster.

“Where is Mother Hen?”

“She is sitting in the hay hatching her eggs.”

“Good day, Mother Hen,” said he.

“Many thanks, young sir,” said Mother Hen.

“I’ve come a-wooing. May I have your fair daughter Peep for my bride?”

“Ask Father Rooster, Brother Bantam, Sister Cluck, and fair Peep herself; then we’ll see,” said Mother Hen.

“Where is Brother Bantam?”

“He’s on the gate-post learning to crow.”

“Good day, Brother Bantam,” said he.

“Many thanks,” said the other.

“I’ve come a-wooing. May I have your fair sister Peep for my bride?”

“Ask Father Rooster, Mother Hen, Sister Cluck, and fair Peep herself; then we’ll see,” said Brother Bantam.

“Where is Sister Cluck?”

“She’s with fair Peep.”

“And where is fair Peep?”

“She’s with Sister Cluck.”

And when he came to two very close together, he said to one, “Good day, Sister Cluck.”

And one answered, “Many thanks, young sir.”

“I’ve come a-wooing. May I have your fair sister Peep for my bride?”

“Ask Father Rooster, Mother Hen, Brother Bantam, and fair Peep herself; then we’ll see,” said Sister Cluck.

“Fair Peep, wilt thou be my bride?” said he. And all the family came up to hear her answer and it wasn’t no, so it must have been yes.

“What hast thou to keep house on?” said Mother Hen to her daughter.

And Brother Bantam answered for her, “A sweet voice;” and Sister Cluck added, “A sweet temper.”

“What is thy trade, young Master Cock?” asked Father Rooster; “art thou a tailor?”

“Something else for my talents.”

“A blacksmith?”

“It suits me not.”

“Perhaps thou art a watchmaker.”

“No, but I’m a time-keeper; I tell people when it is time to rise and go about their work. Is it not a useful trade?”

“That it is.

—Angela M. Keyes

JACK-THE-GIANT-KILLER

When good King Arthur ruled the land, there lived near Land’s End in England, in a place called Cornwall, a farmer who had an only son named Jack. Jack was wide awake and ready of wit, so that nobody and nothing could worst him.

In those days the Mount of Cornwall was kept by a huge giant named Cormoran. He was so fierce and frightful to look at that he was the terror of all the neighboring towns and villages. He lived in a cave in the side of the mount, and whenever he wanted food he waded over to the mainland and took whatever came in his way. At his coming everybody ran away, and then of course he seized the cattle, making nothing of carrying off half-a-dozen oxen on his back at a time, and as for sheep and hogs he tied them around his waist as if they were tallow dips. He had done this for many years, and all Cornwall was in despair.

One day Jack happened to be in the town-hall when the magistrates were sitting in council to think what was best to do.

“What reward,” he asked, “will be given to the man who kills Cormoran?”

“He may take the treasure the giant has stored in his cave,” they said.

Quoth Jack, “Let me have a try at it.”

So he got a horn and shovel and pickaxe. And in the dark of a winter’s evening he went over to the mount and fell to work. Before morning he had dug a pit twenty-two feet deep and nearly as broad, and covered it with sticks and straw. Then he strewed a little earth over it so that it looked like plain ground. He then placed himself on the farther side of the pit, and just at the break of day put his horn to his mouth and blew, Tan-tiv-y, Tan-tiv-y!

The noise roused the giant. He rushed out of his cave, crying, “You villain, have you come here to disturb my rest? You shall pay dearly for this. I will take you whole and broil you for breakfast.” He had no sooner said this than he tumbled into the pit and made the very foundations of the mount shake.

“Oh, Giant,” quoth Jack, “where are you? Has the earth swallowed you up? What do you think now of broiling me for breakfast? Will no other food do than sweet Jack?” Then he gave a most mighty knock with his pickaxe on the very crown of the giant’s big head, and killed him on the spot.

Jack then filled up the pit with earth, and went to the cave and took the treasure. When the magistrates heard of Jack’s success, they made a law and wrote it on their books that henceforth he should be called

Jack-the-Giant-Killer,

and they presented him with a sword and belt, and on the belt they wrote these words,

—English folk tale

THE PIXIES’ THANKS

Once upon a time, and a long time ago, and a long, long time before that, a little old woman had a garden. And in this garden she planted a beautiful bed of tulips. The slim green stalks of them stood in the earth, tall and straight. And every other row of lovely cups they held was red and every other was yellow. At twilight the little old woman patted down the last of them, and went in to boil the kettle for her tea.

Now, as soon as she was gone there came peeping and tripping from the field near by a crowd of pixies. They ran between the rows, and skipped from one flower to the next, and put their slender fingers down into the cups, and clapped their fairy palms together and cried, “How lovely!” But the little old woman drinking her tea before the fire didn’t hear a word.

Well, night came, and the pixies’ teeny weeny bits of elfin babies grew sleepy. They must have bawled, though of course big ears like yours and mine couldn’t have heard them, for all of a sudden all the little pixies scampered home, crying,

And then the cleverest little pixie mother among them thought of something. “Let’s lay them in those lovely cradles,” said she; “they’ll be as safe as a bug in a rose while we are greeting the queen.” She at once picked up her baby and ran back with it to the garden. And so did the others with theirs. They laid the tiny babies in the tulip cups and sang them to rest. The tulips rocked to and fro in the wind and made music for the lullaby. The little old woman washing her teacup caught a note of the music and singing, and stopped her clatter to listen, it was so sweet.

As soon as the elfin babies were fast asleep, the pixies tripped lightly off on the very tiptop tips of their toes. The silver Moon was rising, and they were just in time to form a ring on the green and dance in her honor. They circled nine times and then looked up at her, and she beamed down on them and they bowed low. Then she passed on through the heavens to make way for the day.

It was now the dawn of morning. The pixies ran back to the tulip cradles in the little old woman’s garden, crying,

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

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

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

—Angela M. Keyes

THE CAT AND THE PARROT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Eastern folk tale

LAMPBLACK

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

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

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

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

It was very hard. Poor Lampblack felt as if his very heart would break, above all when he thought of pretty little Rose Madder, whom he loved dearly, and who never would even look at him, she was so proud, because she was always placed in nothing less than rosy clouds, or the hearts of roses, or something as fair and spiritual.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BANDITA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day broke,—a gloomy, misty morning.

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

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

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

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

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

The bird looked at him in surprise.

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

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

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

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

“Can it be true?” he said, timidly.

“Quite true,” said the nightingale.

“Then the master knew best,” thought Lampblack.

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

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

—La Ramée

LAZY JACK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Folk tale

THE TIME THAT WILL COME AGAIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and the pup singing,

and the donkey singing,

And then they all sang together,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Angela M. Keyes

THE OWL’S ANSWER TO TOMMY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In your house,” said the Owl.

Tommy was aghast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When you have got so far look into the water, and think of a word that will rhyme with Elf, and at the same moment you will see the brownie.”

“Is the brownie a merman,” said Tommy, “that he lives under water?”

“That depends on whether he has a fish’s tail,” said the Owl, “and that you can see for yourself.”

“Well, the moon is shining, so I shall go,” said Tommy. “Gooby-by, and thank you, Ma’am;” and he jumped down and went, saying to himself, “I believe he is a merman, all the same, or else how could he live in the lake?”

The moon shone very brightly on the center of the lake. Tommy knew the place well, for there was an Echo there, with whom he had often talked. Round the edges grew rushes and water plants, and turning himself three times, as the Old Owl had told him, he repeated the charm:

Now for it! He looked in, and saw—his own face.

“Why, there’s no one there but myself!” said Tommy. “And what can the word be? I must have done it wrong. It cannot be myself.”

“Myself!” said the Echo.

Tommy was almost surprised to find the Echo awake at this time of night.

“Much you know about it!” said he. “Belf! Celf! Delf! Felf! Helf! Jelf! There can’t be a word to fit it. And then to look for a brownie and see nothing but myself!”

“Myself,” said the Echo.

“Will you be quiet?” said Tommy. “If you would tell me the word there would be some meaning in your interference; but to roar ‘Myself!’ at me, which neither rhymes nor runs—it does rhyme, though, as it happens,” he added; “how very odd! it runs too—

which I certainly did. What can it mean? The Old Owl knows, as Granny would say; so I shall go back and ask her.”

And back he went. There sat the Old Owl as before.

“Oohoo!” said she, as Tommy climbed up. “What did you see in the lake?”

“I saw nothing but myself,” said Tommy, indignantly.

“And what did you expect to see?” asked the Owl.

“I expected to see a brownie,” said Tommy; “you told me.”

“And what are brownies like, pray?” inquired the Owl.

“The one Granny knew was a useful little fellow, something like a man,” said Tommy.

“Ah!” said the Owl, “but you know at present this one is an idle little fellow, something like a little man. Oohoo! oohoo! Good night, or rather, good morning, for it is long past midnight.” And the old lady began to shake her feathers for a start. “Stay,” said she, “I think I had better take you home.”

“I know the way, thank you,” said Tommy.

“Do as I say,” said the Owl. “Lean your full weight against me and shut your eyes.”

Tommy laid his head against the Owl’s feathers. Down he sank and sank. He jumped up with a start to save himself, opened his eyes, and found that he was sitting in the loft with Johnnie sleeping by his side.

“Get up, Johnnie, I’ve a story to tell you,” he cried. And he told Johnnie all about it.

And after that Tommy and Johnnie were the most useful little brownies in that whole country.

—From Mrs. Ewing’s Brownies

THE STORY OF COQUERICO

Hear the story of this one.

He was a queer-looking little creature. He came out in the brood of a handsome black Spanish hen. All his brothers and sisters were as pretty as you would see in a day’s walk, but he was very odd-looking. He had only one good eye, one good wing, and one good leg to carry him about, hippety-hop, hippety-hop. When his mother saw he was crippled, she at once loved him best, and gave him the splendid name of Coquerico. But hear about him.

Maybe you think a one-eyed, one-armed, one-legged chick like Coquerico would be good and gentle. Why, if one of his brothers ran against him without meaning to, Coquerico flew at the poor fellow and called him names. And he was so conceited that he thought himself better than his brothers and sisters, and that he knew more than his mother.

So one day he hippety-hopped up to his mother and said, “My lady mother, I am too good for this family; I should be in the king’s court. I’m off to Madrid, where the king lives.”

“What are you thinking of, my poor little one?” cried his mother. “Who has put such nonsense into your head? Where would my little crippled one find a home like this—mulberry trees to shade him, a white-washed henroost, a high dunghill, worms and corn in plenty, brothers and sisters that are fond of him, and a mother who loves him dearly. Stay where you are, my child; believe me I know what is best for you.”

“Do you think so?” said Coquerico, saucily. “I don’t. I wish to go out into the world, where everyone may hear of me, I am so clever. I’m off to Madrid to see the king.”

“But, my son, have you never looked in the brook?” asked his mother. “Don’t you know that you have only one eye, one wing, and one leg? To make your way in the world you need the sharp eyes of a fox, the swift wings of a hawk, and the many soft legs of a spider. Once outside, you are lost.”

“My good mother,” said Coquerico, just as saucily, “I am well able to take care of myself. I am better than my family and must find people who can see how clever I am. So I’m off to Madrid to see the king.”

“Well, my son,” said the anxious mother-hen, “listen to your mother’s last words. Keep away from people known as cooks and scullions; you will know them by their paper caps, tucked up sleeves, and great sharp knives.”

So away went Coquerico, making believe not to see the tear in his mother’s eye. Without caring for those he left, he hippety-hopped out the gate and stopped only long enough to crow three times, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Then over the fields he went hippety-hop, hippety-hop.

By and by he came to a small brook almost choked by a couple of dead leaves. “My friend,” it called out to him, “will you free me that I may flow on? One stroke of your beak is enough.”

“Do I look like a brook-sweeper?” answered Coquerico. “Help yourself; I’m off to Madrid to see the king.” And on he went, hippety-hop, hippety-hop.

A little farther on Coquerico saw the wind lying breathless on the ground. “Dear friend, help me,” it cried; “here on earth we should help one another. If you will fan me a little with your wing I shall have strength to rise to my place among the clouds, where I am needed for the next whirlwind.”

“Do I look like a wind-bellows,” answered Coquerico; “help yourself. I am off to Madrid to see the king.” And on he went, hippety-hop, hippety-hop.

A little farther on he came to a newly mown field, where the farmers had piled up the weeds to burn them. As he stopped his hippety-hop to search among a smoking heap for a kernel of corn, he saw a little flame, barely flickering, it was so nearly out.

“My dear friend,” cried the flame, faintly, “will you bring me a few dry straws to rekindle me that I may burn brightly?”

“Do I look like a servant?” cried Coquerico, haughtily; “I’ll teach you to call out to a fowl that has business with the king.” And he leaped on the heap of dried weeds and trampled it down till it smothered the flame! Then he flapped his one wing and crowed three times, “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” as if he had done something to be proud of.

And so strutting and crowing, though he had to go hippety-hop, he arrived at Madrid and the king’s palace. Grand and beautiful as it was, he did not stop to look at it, but made for the hen yard, stopping every second step to crow, “Cock-a-doodle,” to tell the king and all the world he was coming.

In the hen yard there was of course no king, but a boy with a paper cap on his head and sleeves tucked up and a great sharp knife in his hand. “A scullion, I suppose,” said Coquerico to himself, “but he will not stop me; I have business with the king.”

“Well, you’re an odd one,” cried the boy, coming over to look at the new-comer. “Cook wants a rare bird for the king’s dinner, you’re just in time.” And he seized Coquerico and carried him into the kitchen.

Here the cook popped him into a pot of water and left him, and with the boy went out of the kitchen to attend to something else.

The water began to get warm and then hot. “Oh, Madame Water,” cried Coquerico, becoming all at once as meek as a dove, “good and gentle water, best and purest in the world, do not scald me, I beg of you.”

“Did you show any pity, selfish wretch?” answered the Water, boiling with indignation. Coquerico leaped out of the pot, knocking off the cover, only to land on the fire.

“Oh, Fire, Fire, do not burn me,” he cried, dancing around on his back; “oh, beautiful and brilliant flame, brother of the sun, and cousin of the shining diamond, do not roast me.”

“Did you have any pity, you selfish wretch?” cried the Fire, blazing so fiercely with anger that the chick in frightful pain leaped out of a window near by.

But as he landed on the flagging the Wind caught him and whirled him up. “Oh, Wind,” shrieked Coquerico, faintly, “oh, kindly Wind, oh, cooling breeze, you make me so dizzy my head reels. Pray let me down that I may rest.”

“Let you rest,” roared the Wind, “wait and I’ll teach you, you selfish wretch.”

And with one blast it sent him up so high that as he fell down he stuck on a steeple.

There, if you look, you may see him to this very day, forced at last to help others in this world, a weathervane.

—Spanish folk tale

THE SCARECROW

Once upon a time there was an old black crow, as old as the hills. And once there was a scarecrow, brand new to his business. The scarecrow was made of a corn stalk wearing the farmer’s cast-off hat and coat.

The very first day he took up his post in the cornfield, the old black crow, flying over, laughed at his disguise.

The scarecrow kept his temper and said nothing, and this looks as if he were clever. For the old crow had to take herself off without knowing what he was thinking of.

Now the scarecrow was clever. He made friends with Magic Darkness and Moving Wind. He had made up his mind to frighten thieving crows away, no matter how old and knowing they might be. And that very evening when the old black crow, as old as the hills, came flying toward the cornfield, with her five black children after her, he whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.”

And they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent his body and pushed his arms together so that he looked exactly as if he were the farmer stooping to load a gun.

When the old black crow saw this, she whispered, “Turn back, children, and don’t speak for your lives;” and although she was as old as the hills, she turned tail as fast as she could, with her five black children after her. When she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of an apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, she breathed more freely.

“Oh, my children,” she panted, “it was no cornstalk scarecrow at all; it was the farmer himself, alive and loading his gun for us.”

But when she awoke in the morning light, she felt rather puzzled. “I’ve seen a good many scarecrows in my time,” she said; “I should know a man from a shadow. I’ll go and have a look at him in broad daylight.”

So as soon as breakfast was over and the crow children had gone to school to hear how featherless children make crow’s nests with their fingers, she spread her wings for the cornfield where she had seen the brand new scarecrow. There he stood as plain a humbug as ever deceived the eyes of a blind crow.

“I’m not old enough to be blind yet,” she said; “you’re a dried-up cornstalk if ever there was one. You’ll not frighten me this evening and send me and my children scurrying home.” And she sang mockingly,

But the clever scarecrow kept his temper and answered never a word. So again the old crow had to take herself off no wiser about his thoughts.

Well, toward evening along came flying again the old black crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. And again the scarecrow whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.” And they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent his body and pushed his arms together, then straightened him suddenly, like this, halfway, and held his arms out in front, one hand beyond the other, so, as if he were searching for the trigger of a gun.

When the old crow saw him she cried, “Turn back, children, at once,” turning herself so suddenly that she bumped into the beak of the first little crow behind her. It was not until she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of the apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, and had rested a minute, that she breathed freely.

“Oh, my children,” she said, “without doubt it was no scarecrow; it was the farmer, alive, and placing his finger on the trigger of his gun to shoot us.”

But again when she awoke in the morning light she felt puzzled. “It’s very strange,” she said. “I’ve seen a good many scarecrows in my time. I should know a man from a shadow. I’ll have another look at him in the broad daylight.”

So, as soon as breakfast was over and the crow children had gone to school to hear how featherless grown-ups get crow’s feet on their faces, she spread her wings for the cornfield. There stood the scarecrow as plain a humbug as ever deceived the eyes of a blind crow.

“Well,” she said, “unless blindness is catching and the bats gave it to me, you’re a dried-up corn stalk if ever there was one. If an old crow that was living before you were even thought of knows anything, you’ll not frighten me this evening!” And she sang mockingly,

But the clever scarecrow kept his temper, and answered never a word. So again the old crow had to take herself off no wiser about his thoughts.

Well, all good things go in threes, as every child who knows more than a crow can tell you. So the third evening along came flying the old black crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. And the third time he whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.” And the third time they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent him sharply down, lifted him halfway with his arms held out, one hand beyond the other, like this; then suddenly straightened him up with arms pointing up at the crows.

“Don’t shoot, dear farmer,” shrieked the old crow. She hadn’t time to turn tail. “My children and I will let your corn alone until you have harvested it.”

Immediately Moving Wind dropped the scarecrow’s armless sleeves and brought his hat back to its position on the top of the stalk. And away flew the old crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. When she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of the apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, and she had rested two minutes, she said, “My children, keep away from that field until I tell you the corn has been gathered in.”

When the corn was harvested, the old black crow and her five black children went gleaning to pick up the kernels that had dropped, and fat eating they had. And the scarecrow let them enjoy their meal in peace; his duty was done.

—Angela M. Keyes

OEYVIND AND MARIT

There was once a boy named Oeyvind who lived in a hut at the foot of a steep rocky hill. On the roof of the hut walked a little goat. It was Oeyvind’s own. Oeyvind kept it there so that it should not go astray, and he carried up leaves and grass to it.

But one fine day the goat leaped down, and away it went up the hill until it came where it never had been before. When Oeyvind ran out of the hut after dinner, he missed his little goat and at once thought of the fox. He looked all about, calling, “Killy-killy-killy-goat!”

“Bay-ay-ay,” said the goat, from the top of the hill, as it cocked its head on one side and looked down. And at the side of the goat kneeled a little girl.

“Is it yours, this goat?” she asked.

Oeyvind stared at her, with eyes and mouth wide open, and asked, “Who are you?”

“I am Marit, mother’s little one, father’s fiddle, grandfather’s elf, four years old in the autumn, two days after the frost nights.”

“Are you, though?” he said, as soon as he could get his breath.

“Is it yours, this goat?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I should like it. You will not give it to me?”

“No, that I won’t.”

Marit lay down, kicking her legs and looking up at him, and then she said, “Not if I give you a butter cake for him?”

Oeyvind had eaten butter cake only once in his life, when his grandfather came to visit; anything like it he had never eaten before nor since. “Let me see the butter cake first,” said he.

It didn’t take Marit long to pull out a large cake. “Here it is,” she said, and threw it down to him.

“Ow, it went to pieces,” said the boy. He gathered up every crumb, and he couldn’t help tasting a very small one. That was so good he had to eat another. Before he knew it he had eaten up the whole cake.

“Now the goat is mine,” said the girl, and she laughed and clapped her hands. The boy stopped with the last bit in his mouth.

“Wait a little while?” he begged, for he loved his little goat.

The small girl got up quickly. “No, the goat is mine,” she said, and she threw her arms around its neck. She loosened one of her garters and fastened it round the goat’s neck and began pulling the goat after her. The goat would not follow: it stretched its neck down to see Oeyvind. “Bay-ay-ay,” it said. But the girl took hold of its fleece with one hand and pulled the string with the other, and said, sweetly, “Come, little goat, you shall go into my room and eat out of my apron.” And then she sang,

And away she went with the goat, calling on all living things she loved to follow her.

The boy stood still as a stone. He had taken care of the goat since the winter before, and he had never thought he would lose it. But now it was gone in a moment and he would never see it again. He lay down and wept.

His mother came along and saw him crying. “What are you crying about?” she asked.

“Oh, the goat, the goat!”

“Yes, where is the goat?” asked the mother, looking up at the roof.

“It will never come back,” said the boy.

“Why, how could that happen!”

He could not tell her at once.

“Has the fox taken it?”

“No, oh, no.”

“Are your wits gone,” said his mother; “what has become of the goat?”

“Oh-h-h—I sold it for—for—a cake!”

As soon as he had said it he knew what it was to sell the goat for a cake.

“What can the little goat think of you, to sell him for a cake?” said his mother.

The boy was so sorry that he said to himself he would never again do anything wrong. He would never cut the thread on the spinning-wheel, he would never let the goats out of the fold, he would never go down to the sea alone. He fell asleep where he lay, and he dreamed that the little goat had gone to heaven and that he sat alone on the roof and could not go to it.

Suddenly there came something wet close up to his ear. He started up. “Bay-ay-ay!” it said. It was the little goat come back.

“What, have you come back?” he cried. He jumped up, took it by the forelegs, and danced with it as if it were a brother. He tickled it and pulled its beard, and set off with it to the hut to tell his mother the good news.

Just then he heard someone behind him; it was the little girl.

“Oh, so it was you brought it back?” said he.

“Grandfather would not let me keep it,” said she; “he is waiting near for me.”

A sharp voice called out, “Now!” It was her grandfather’s, and she remembered what she was to do. She put one of her muddy hands into Oeyvind’s and said, “I beg your pardon for taking the little goat.” Then she could keep in no longer; she threw her arms around the goat’s neck and wept aloud.

“You may have the goat,” said Oeyvind.

“Make haste,” cried grandfather. So Marit had to go, and Oeyvind had his little goat again.

—Björnstjerne Björnson

BLUNDER

Blunder was going to the Wishing-Gate, to wish for a pair of Shetland Ponies, and a little coach, like Tom Thumb’s. And of course you may have your wish, if you once get there. But the thing is, to find it; for it is not, as you imagine, a great gate, with a tall marble pillar on each side, and a sign over the top, like this, WISHING-GATE,—but just an old stile, made of three sticks. Put up two fingers, cross them on the top with another finger, and you have it exactly,—the way it looks, I mean,—a worm-eaten stile, in a meadow; and as there are plenty of old stiles in meadows, how are you to know which is the one?