The One-Footed Fairy and Other Stories
Date: 1910-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short Stories; Fantasy; Fairy tales
Description: A collection of thirteen charming fairy tales, to be enjoyed by young and old. Word play and gently satirical situations will be appreciated by adult readers.
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain where copyright is “Life+70 or less, and in the USA.

THE ONE-FOOTED FAIRY
and Other Stories

1911

BY
ALICE BROWN
(1856-1948)

MobileRead Edition
2022

A collection of thirteen charming fairy tales, to be enjoyed by young and old. Word play and gently satirical situations will be appreciated by adult readers.

Alice Brown (December 5, 1856 – June 21, 1948) was an American novelist, short-story writer, poet, and playwright. She was one of the last authors of New England local color, a movement which began with Rose Terry Cooke and Harriet Beecher Stowe and reached its highest popularity during the careers of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and Sarah Orne Jewett. Her popular New England tales were mostly published from 1895 to 1910. Her popularity waned after the turn of the 20th century, although she continued to publish until 1935.

The One-Footed Fairy and Other Stories, by Alice Brown (1856-1948), was first published in 1911. This ebook is in the public domain where copyright is “Life+70” or less, and in the USA.

CONTENTS:

- The One-Footed Fairy
- Perizad and Perizada
- Peter the Simple
- The Cry Fairy
- How Gladheart Went to Court
- The Hippogriff and the Dragon
- The Land Without Common Folks
- The Unambitious Queen
- The Wonderful Tapestry
- The Little Brown Hen
- Rosebloom and Thornbloom
- The Gradual Fairy
- The Green Goblin

THE ONE-FOOTED FAIRY
AND OTHER STORIES

THE ONE-FOOTED FAIRY

There was once a fairy who sat down while the others were dancing. His name was Tippitin, and he was a very happy fairy, though he never seemed to know any of the things the other fairies knew. Some fairies know how to paint flowers, and they always do it by night when nobody is looking. One has a tube of blue paint, and he squeezes it on the larkspurs, and another has a tube of red paint, and he splashes it over the roses. The cleverest ones of all know how to paint spots on the tiger-lilies and streaks on the sweet-williams; and the very clever ones in deed can touch up a pansy’s face so that you would hardly think it was painted at all. You’d say it just grew so. These clever ones that have the streaky-spotty work to do often use little brushes made out of the fur of a cat’s tail. One hair is enough for a fine brush, and two at the most for a very heavy one; but the cats hate to have them pulled out. The fairies are very cautious about doing it when no one knows: so they always take the time when a cat is crying for something else. If a cat gets her foot stepped on, or even if she is just waiting outside the door to be let in, and cries to mention it, a dozen or two fairies are always waiting to pounce on her and pull out as many tail-hairs as they can before the meow is finished. So that, although you can’t see them, you may be very sure every cat is followed by at least two dozen fairy merchants, waiting to pull hairs from her tail and sell them to the fairy painters. I forgot to say that only the hairs from the tails of red and pink cats will do at all: so it would be of no use to make everyday cats cry, to help the fairies. Only the red and pink ones will do. But Tippitin did not know how to paint flowers.

Then some fairies know how to make round, clear drops that you can see through. They make them out of icicles. But Tippitin did not know that.

Some fairies know how to make beautiful bicycle wheels out of nice round spiders’ webs when they find them. But Tippitin did not know that.

Some fairies can sweep up the kitchen for you, if they like you, or make the butter come very fast, or keep it from coming at all. But Tippitin did not know how to do that. He only knew how to dance; and one night when all the other fairies in that province of the kingdom were dancing, he did not dance at all. He just sat down on a pebble and drew a big leaf up over his knees. The fairies were dancing very hard that night, because they were practicing for a big Circle Dance that would be held the next night, which was the night of the full moon. And the Queen was coming. She had been in Lapland for seven nights — which is a very long time when you are a fairy — and she was coming back to tell her people what she saw. She really went up there to see if the patterns of snow crystals were any different from the patterns all over the rest of the world, and if they were, to bring some home. The fairies were wild to know that. Some fairies can freeze snow-crystals. But Tippitin couldn’t do that.

Now when they were dancing, they found there was a gap in the ring, and they all stopped short. They knew at once how it was. Some fairy was not there.

“Why, it’s Tippitin!” said one; and as this was the night when they all said things together — it is the night before the night of the full moon — they all cried: “Why, it’s Tippitin!”

“Tippitin, where are you?” called one; and then the others all called: “Tippitin, where are you?”

Tippitin only drew up the leaf a little higher over his knees.

“Oh,” said he gruffly, “I’m here. Don’t you see me?”

“He’s here,” said all the fairies. “Don’t we see him?”

They crowded up about him, and climbed on the leaves over his head and looked down at him; but Tippitin only tucked the leaf in round his knees.

“Why don’t you dance with us, Tippitin?” they asked him.

Tippitin put out his lips, as if he felt very big, and drew his shoulders up to his ears, as if he needn’t answer at all if he didn’t want to.

“Oh,” said he, “I’m not dancing tonight.”

“Oh,” said the fairies, “he’s not dancing tonight!”

Then they looked at one another and wondered what they could say next, for it is very serious for a fairy to say he won’t dance. It is exactly as if a boy or a girl should say, “I won’t learn two times two,” or “‘Catch’!” But they were all thinking the same thing, and in a minute they all said it.

“But, Tippitin, you’ll have to dance. For this is the new Circle Dance, and if you don’t learn it tonight you won’t know it, and if you don’t know it you can’t dance it tomorrow night when the Queen is here, and what will you do then, Tippitin?”

“Nothing,” said Tippitin.

The fairies looked at one another, and their eyes grew very large, and their mouths grew round.

“Nothing!” they all said. “Tippitin will do no thing. That is what Tippitin will do — nothing!”

Tippitin twisted up his face and squirmed about on the pebble.

“You go away,” said he, “and let me alone. I shan’t dance tonight, and I shan’t dance tomorrow night.”

“But what will the Queen say?” they all cried. “I don’t know,” said Tippitin.

Then they all looked at one another and said: “He doesn’t know.” And they were silent for a very long time.

But after the very long time was over, they suddenly thought they must go and look at the Queen’s throne and see if it was all right and tight for her to use. Now a great many things will do for a queen’s throne — a tuft of moss or an opening rose or a clover head — oh, there are a great many things! But in this particular province there was one tiny piece of bark the Queen had taken a great liking to, for a throne. The little borers-in-the-wood had carved it beautifully for her, so that it was of a wonderful pat tern; and it had fallen from the tree in exactly the right position, so that it was tilted up a little for a back, and tilted sidewise a little for the arms. The Queen had said she never saw anywhere such a comfortable throne, and she believed she should find it so if she lived to be ten million and ten. And then the fairies all laughed until the owls brought their two yellow lanterns to see what was the matter, for everybody knows fairies never live to be ten million and ten. They only live Forever. That was a great joke of the Queen’s, and it was repeated everywhere all over the kingdom, and is being repeated now — or it will be tonight, if the moon is full.

Now somebody had discovered, not long before this night when they were making ready for the Queen, that her throne seemed a little unsteady. A rabbit running through the wood may have joggled it, or some mortal, walking that way, may have hit it with his foot, not knowing how important it was to let it alone. And really it is surprising that mortals know so very little about what is against the law in the woods. There are ever so many things you can do if you stop and take off your cap and say, “By your leave,” or even make a bow. But there is one thing that must never be done. Things that are good wood citizens, like lady’s-slipper, or fern, or anything that blooms red, pink, blue, white, or yellow, must never be pulled up by the roots. Sometimes you may take them up very carefully and carry them to live somewhere else; but you must be perfectly sure you know beforehand that you are going to put them in the same kind of place they are used to living in, and that they are going to get water enough to drink. There are very dreadful punishments for people who pull up things that bloom red, or pink, or blue, or white, or yellow, and throw them down and leave them to die. I will not tell you what the punishment is. If you want to find out, you can look in the Fairy Code.

But tonight, when the fairies went to look at the Queen’s throne, they found it was as firm and solid as a throne could be. They pushed at it, and pulled at it — of course they dared not sit in it — and they all breathed a great breath and said, “Well, that’s all right,” and they trooped away and began dancing again. But Tippitin still sat with the leaf over his knees, and he would not dance.

The next night, at exactly twelve o’clock, the owls began to call, “Who? Who?” and the fairies all answered, “Her Majesty! her most lovely-dear-and-glorious-splendid Majesty, the Queen!”

And then all the woods waked up, and even the little grasshopper and cricket things in fields beyond the woods, got out their musical instruments and piped and piped, and the farmhouse dog called out, “Something’s up! Hark! Hark!” But as he said it he went into his kennel, just as far as he could, and sat there with his tail tucked under him; for every dog knows what is going on in the woods at night and that he’d better say as little about it as possible.

The Queen had come straight through from Lap land by the Crystal Express, and her chariot had not yet melted. It was the most beautiful carved ice you ever saw, and the canopy over it was the loveliest spun frost. It was drawn by six Northern Lights; but they had to be unharnessed at once, so that they could go back, because they were needed to make an illumination for a Labor Night parade of the Frosts and Snows. The Queen had hired them on that condition. So when they unharnessed themselves and flashed off, she nodded at them very kindly, and then she turned to her own people and told them to stand where they were and see her chariot melt. It was a little surprise she had arranged for them, because it is very unusual to see an ice-chariot in the woods on a warm summer night. This night was very warm indeed, and the chariot melted fast; but quickly as it went, a great many fairy artists stood by to draw the forms of the snow-crystals, to see if they could copy them next winter, and they really got a great many ideas.

And when the chariot and the canopy were quite gone, and there was only a tiny puddle of water left where they had been, the Queen turned to her subjects and said: “Now, to the dance!”

So they joined hands and made a circle about the Queen, and danced their new dance. And Tippitin sat in a dark little corner under a leaf, and did not dance at all. He had taken a thick shadow and wrapped it about him, and if you had been there, even if you could have seen the others, you could not have seen him. Of course the Queen could have seen him, if she had looked, because fairy eyes are the best in the woods, and the Queen’s eyes are the very best; but she was watching the new dance to decide how she liked it, and though there was still the gap in the circle where Tippitin ought to have been, the fairies made other gaps, from time to time, so that she should think they were a part of the dance. For they all loved Tippitin, and they were afraid she would blame him. When the dance was over and the Queen had said it was very nice indeed, though not the nicest ever, they looked at one another and shut their mouths tight because they did not dare to speak.

“It’s a nice dance,” said the Queen again.

“It’s a welcoming dance, your most lovely-dear-and-glorious-splendid Majesty,” said all the fairies together, trembling. (They were not afraid for themselves, because the Queen is kinder than you could ever think, and no fairy fears her without reason, and just because she is a queen. But they were afraid for Tippitin.) “That is what it is called — the Welcoming Dance.”

The Queen put her hand to her chin and meditated. She had caught that trick from the Ice-King in the North, who had a beard.

“It’s a nice dance,” she said, “but I miss something in it. I don’t know quite what it is, but it’s something very fast and sure, and always coming down in the right place. Just take me to my throne. I shall be able to think better there.”

So the fairies formed themselves into a guard in front and a following behind, and they took her to her throne. They were very silent all the way, because they knew they were leaving Tippitin sitting wrapped in his thick shadow behind, and of course they knew, too, just what the Queen missed in the dance. It was Tippitin.

But when the Queen had seated herself on her throne, they began to smile again, for she leaned back against the carven wood and sighed a peaceful, happy sigh, and said: “Now I am at home again. This old throne is worth a million crystal palaces.” (You see if you are a queen you always think in millions. One palace is altogether too few to talk about.) “Now,” said the Queen, “we’ll have the dance again.”

So the fairies formed themselves before her into the circle with the gap in it, and they danced and they danced, and all the more gayly because they didn’t want her to find out anything was the matter.

But presently the Queen cried out: “Stop! Stop!”

And they had to stop, and the circle with the gap in it was broken, and there were more than forty gaps.

“I should like to be told,” said the Queen, rather grandly, “what is the matter with this throne!”

The fairies all trembled.

“Your Majesty,” they said, “your most lovely-dear-and-glorious-splendid Majesty,” said they, “it is your own favorite throne.”

“So I thought,” said the Queen. “But there’s something under it.”

“Something under it!” cried all the fairies. “What is it that is under it, your most lovely-dear-and-glorious-splendid Majesty?”

“That is what I should like to be told,” said the Queen. “It’s something that wants to dance: for when you were dancing, it kept knocking under my throne, and when you stopped, it stopped, too. Lift up the throne and see.”

So the fairies crowded round the throne and tugged at it with all their might; but they could not lift it. Of course it would do no good to try to overturn it, because a fairy throne is the one thing you can never overturn.

“Well,” said the Queen, putting her hand to her chin, “try the dance again, and we’ll see!”

So they formed their circle with the gap in it, and this time the Queen began to sing:

“Around and about!

What is hidden, come out!

What is veiled must be seen!

’Tis the will of the Queen!”

And the throne began to tremble, and it settled a little to one side, for there danced out of it the tiniest foot you ever saw, and danced into the gap in the circle, and danced and danced.

“Aha!” cried the Queen. “Now the dance is almost the nicest dance that ever was, but not quite.

“Slow little foot, slow! slow!

Go little foot, go! go!

Follow, fairies, follow me,

And we’ll see, we’ll see, we’ll see.”

And the fairies stopped dancing, and the little foot stopped too, and it began to hop through the woods so fast it was like the drop — drop — drop of water off a leaf after a shower, and the Queen and the fairies followed it. And what did the foot do but hop straight up to Tippitin, sitting wrapped in his shadow; and when Tippitin saw it, he cried out very loud, and threw off the shadow, and the Queen and all the fairies saw he had but one foot. And the little foot hopped up to Tippitin’s ankle, and Tippitin bent down and screwed it on, and there he stood on his two trim feet, and made the Queen a beautiful low bow.

“Why, Tippitin!” said the Queen. “Why, Tippitin, what made you take your foot off?”

“Your Majesty,” said Tippitin, “I went to look at your Majesty’s throne one day to see if it was all right and tight, and I found there was a little hollow under it, and it made your Majesty’s throne jiggle. And I couldn’t find anything that exactly fitted, to fill up the hollow, and my foot fitted, so I just rammed it in there — that’s all.”

The Queen and the fairies looked at him for as much as seven minutes, and they were all deeply affected. Then the Queen spoke.

“Henceforth,” said she, “I appoint Tippitin to be the very-much-to-be-honored keeper of my wood-bark throne. And if he finds cause to think it needs repair, he may call upon all the clever workmen of my kingdom to set it right again. But his own feet are needed for my service in the dancing that keeps my kingdom standing while mortal thrones go down. Now, fairies, to the dance!”

And the fairies formed a circle with no gap in it, because Tippitin was there, and they danced the dance as it was first intended to be, with no gaps in it, and when it was over, the Queen clapped her hands and said: “Now I see what I missed out of the dance. It was Tippitin! And now it is the most perfectly lovely dance that ever was!”

PERIZAD
AND PERIZADA

Once upon a time there was a fairy that wanted everything there was, twice over. His name was Perizad, and he had a sister whose name was Perizada, and she loved him very much.

It was curious about Perizad and the way he wanted things. If anyone gave him a drop of honey, he would say before he drank it: “Where is the rest?”

If he were dancing with the other fairies in the fairy ring, he would call, while his feet were flying: “Let us dance some more!”

And every night when the moonlight was bright and wonderful, he would say: “I wish there were two moons. Then it would be light.”

As for Perizada, she was always trying to take things away from herself and give them to Perizad, and if she had owned a moon he would have had it at once. Only it would have done no good, for when it was up in the sky he would have looked at it longingly and said: “I wish there were four moons instead of two.”

This went on until the Fairy Wish-Taker came round on his yearly visit, and he not only looked into the fairies’ fern-houses to see that they were in order, but he looked behind their thoughts. When he looked behind Perizada’s thoughts, he only smiled and nodded pleasantly at her, so that she felt quite happy; but when he came to Perizad, he wrinkled his brow and said: “Dear me! dear me!”

Now Perizad was lying on a mullein leaf, at the moment, thinking about things he would like. But when the Wish-Taker said, “Dear me! dear me!” he came to his feet and stood there on the leaf, looking very brave and handsome. For Perizad was one of the loveliest fairies ever made, dressed all in green and white from top to toe. The green was like new spring leaves, and the white was like frost.

“Why do you say, ‘dear me’?” he asked of the Wish-Taker.

“I saw something,” said the Wish-Taker.

“Behind my thoughts?”

“Yes. Behind your thoughts.”

Then Perizad laughed. “Give you three guesses,” he said.

“Oh, no,” said the Wish-Taker, so coolly that Perizad looked round to see if the wind had changed.

“You needn’t give me any. I could take them if I wanted them. But I don’t use guesses. I know. You were wishing that you could live two days in one.”

“Only through the summer,” said Perizad. He spoke confusedly, because Perizada was looking at him, and he saw she was troubled or sorry.

The Wish-Taker nodded. “Yes,” said he, “only through the summer.”

Then, although no one had asked him any questions, Perizad began talking and frowning all at once. He looked down at his handsome green feet, and spoke fretfully, as if someone had blamed him.

“Summer days are very nice; but they’re not quite nice enough. If I could join two together, perhaps they’d be nice enough. Perizada, I don’t see what you’re looking like that for. I’m not saying anything wrong, am I? He could see it anyway when he looks behind my thoughts.”

Now it is against the law to be sad in Fairyland, but in spite of that Perizada gazed down at her little green feet and drew a long breath. She would have cried perhaps, except that fairies have not learned how. But it was plain to her that Perizad was getting into trouble.

“You really want to live two days in one?” asked the Wish-Taker, looking sharply at Perizad.

“Yes,” said Perizad stoutly. “I wish it.”

“Perhaps you don’t understand that you’ll use up all the other days in the year? You may not have any winter.”

Perizad turned a somersault and stood on his head on the mullein leaf. “I don’t want any winter,” said he.

“We may have to take a few days out of the spring and autumn.”

“I can spare ’em.” Perizad reversed himself and stood up, very shiny and handsome, on the mullein leaf.

“It’s an expensive business,” said the Wish-Taker.

“I can afford it,” said Perizad.

Then the Wish-Taker changed his manner at once. “Very well,” said he, as short and sharp as you please. “I think we can arrange it. This year we’ll pack up the days just as hard and tight as we can, and you shall have two in one. You don’t want winter. You needn’t have it. You don’t want autumn. You needn’t have it. We’ll make up as many summer days as we can manage, and you shall have them all at once.”

Now Perizad was so happy that standing on his head was not enough. He went over and over on the mullein leaf until he was nothing but a little green wheel. But Perizada sat still, looking very sad.

Perizad came upright as a thought struck him. “But none of the rest will like it,” he said.

“The rest of whom?” asked the Wish-Taker. “Us — the fairies.”

“No, they won’t like it. So they won’t have it. I shall put you in a Large Place, where there will be two days in one.”

Perizad looked doubtful. “Alone?” he asked.

“Yes, all alone.”

“Perizada and I?”

“No. Perizada doesn’t want it, either.”

“If you please, I should like it beyond everything,” said Perizada, in a very small and very sad voice, “if Perizad is there.”

“No, you wouldn’t ,” said the Wish-Taker briskly. “I can see what’s behind your thoughts.” Then he turned to Perizad. “Come,” he said, in a voice they had never heard from him before. “Make up your mind. Take it or leave it.”

Perizad looked at Perizada, where she sat droopingly on the leaf, and quite decided to say, “No.” But at that moment a sun-ray struck him, and he thought how warm it was, and yet not warm enough, and in a very loud voice he cried, “Yes!”

Then suddenly he found himself alone. The Wish Taker was gone and Perizada was gone, and Perizad was simply by himself in a Large Place. At once it seemed to Perizad that it was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. It was an Enchanted Wood. He had seen a great many enchanted woods, and so was able to recognize them at once; but this had darker shadows and brighter lights and greener moss and redder moss-cups. Through an opening between the oaks he saw a glade, and on a bank rising beyond the glade was a garden of flowers. Perizad wished him self there at once; and presently he was standing in the sunlight, looking up at violets two feet high. At first each flower seemed to him to have a drop of dew in its heart, and he thought it lovely. But one of the violets, the one that had sharper ears than the others, answered him as soon as he had thought.

“No, it isn’t a drop of dew; it’s a tear.” She spoke very angrily, as if he ought to have known.

“Dear me,” said Perizad. “Is that so? What are you crying about?”

“We are crying because we don’t know what has happened to us,” said the Violet; and all the other violets nodded and cried another tear.

“Why, what do you think has happened?” asked Perizad.

“We’re so big!” they shouted all together. “We keep growing and growing and we can’t help it. Look at our stems! They might as well be onion stalks.”

Perizad did look at their stems, but he thought they were very nice. He never could have too much of anything. The sun was so hot that it almost burned him, and the sky was so blue he thought he could dip his finger in it and splash the violets with it. But now they kept shouting, one at a time, and with every shout they cried a tear.

“We don’t know what has happened to us. This is a Large Place, but it used to be just like other places.”

“Everything keeps on growing, and nothing can help it!”

“Look at that dog-tooth violet! It isn’t a dog tooth! It’s a walrus tooth!”

“Look at that wind-flower! It isn’t a wind-flower! It’s a hurricane flower!”

But Perizad was simply enchanted with what had happened. The spring blooms had evidently been ordered to stay and be summer blooms, and as he stood there thinking about it, the real summer flowers began opening at his side, and they were larger and brighter than any he had ever seen, and their fragrance was so strong that he could dance on it, just as he could on a mullein leaf. So all that day he danced on the fragrance and sipped the honey. But the honey was so strong that it went to his head, and all night he lay asleep in a pool of moon light, and did not even know what bright moonlight it was, although none before had ever been bright enough.

So for days and days it kept on being summer, and two days in one. The time went very quickly because the two days had not been put end to end, to make one, but laid together, one flat on the other, and fastened tight. For a long time Perizad had a great deal to do, exploring the Large Place, and he was not lonely at all. Sometimes, when he found a bigger flower than usual, he did wish Perizada could see it, and once when he came on a great fairy ring and danced in it all night long, he began to have a queer little feeling inside him, because he was dancing alone; but afterwards he sat down in the moonlight to rest and think it over, and he remembered that he could tell Perizada all about it sometime — and then he got up quite happily and began dancing again.

So it went on and on and it was always summer, and the sun was always hot and the flowers were always brilliant. And Perizad went about looking and tasting by day and dancing by night, and he looked and tasted and danced so much that his eyes and his nose and his legs all felt very queer. But still he thought he liked the way he felt, because that was what he had wanted, and he had got it. But one morning he closed his eyes for just a minute because the sun seemed to him so bright, and when he opened them everything had changed. The flowers were still standing there, but they were different. Perizad looked at them for a moment until he stopped being puzzled and was almost afraid. Now very few fairies know how to be afraid, and when Perizad found he had learned the way, he did not like it at all. He hurried over to the violets where they stood straight and tall on their big green stems.

“What’s the matter?” cried Perizad. “What’s the matter?”

“We don’t know,” said the Violet that was always talking. “Something dreadful is the matter, but we don’t know what it is.”

“Are you frightened?” asked Perizad, and his teeth chattered.

“We think it’s because the summer is over,” said the Violet. “We are almost sure it is over, outside this Large Place, and if it is, we ought to be withered.”

“Then why don’t you wither?” cried Perizad. He felt as if somebody might do something and all would be well.

“We don’t know how,” wailed the Violet. “Summer is over, and autumn hasn’t come; and we don’t know how.”

Suddenly Perizad thought of the Wind, because the Wind is such a traveler that he has learned a great many things, and can answer all sorts of questions. He straightened himself up and asked: “Where is the Wind?”

“The Wind has died,” moaned the Violet. “He dies down in the summer. Then he comes to life and rises in the autumn; but if there isn’t any autumn, what can he do? He has died down, and there he stays.”

Perizad thought for a moment.

“Well,” said he, “we must simply get the better of this thing. We mustn’t let it get the better of us.”

Then he saw a Squirrel sitting on a branch, and the Squirrel’s tail was drooping and his head hung heavily. It seemed to Perizad as if the Squirrel felt as he did and as the violets did, and that he wished he might die down like the Wind.

“Holloa!” said the Squirrel. He looked down at Perizad and blinked a sleepy eye. “Seen anything of Autumn round here?”.

“No,” said Perizad.

“I’m tired of waiting,” said the Squirrel. “Nothing ripens. The fruit’s a sight. The nuts are green.”

Perizad had a choking in his throat. He felt a little homesick, though he did not know what the sensation was. But he climbed a twig skillfully and slapped the Squirrel on the back. He spoke gruffly into the gray ear. “It’s summer time,” said he. “Didn’t you know that? What do you want better than summer?”

But the Squirrel only turned on him a dull glance. “I like brown leaves,” said he.

Perizad looked down at the trembling green forest and through the flowery glade, and there was something queer at the bottom of his heart. He had heard about heartaches.

“Is this an ache?” said he.

But the Squirrel did not hear. He had dozed off again, and he was murmuring something about nuts and hollow trees and snow.

The next day it was just the same. The flowers kept on standing straight and tall; but when Perizad spoke to them they answered him quite feverishly. And the worst of it was, they seemed to know that all their misfortunes were due to him, and they talked quite shockingly about it. Perizad heard them some times when he was wandering about in his green and white that was always shiny, like a new leaf, and he got in the habit of slipping softly from twig to twig, so as not to be seen.

“Bah!” said the Tiger Lily, when he was stopping for a moment under her petals. “You’re a pretty fellow. Don’t come near me, I’m crouched to spring.”

Now Perizad felt again that little ache inside him, and when he put his hands to his eyes, to cover them, he found something wet traveling down his cheek. The Tiger Lily went on scolding.

“A pretty joke to play on us! I know all about it. A Summer Wind crept in one day and he told me the pickle you’d got us in. Summer, indeed, and two days in one! It’s all very well for you, lounging round here with your hands in your pockets, staring at us. How would you like to work double time, and grow twice your size, and yawn your head off, and be told it was going to be summer forever and no time to sleep?”.

“Forever?” sobbed Perizad. “Is this going on forever?”

“Not quite forever, maybe,” said the Tiger Lily, “but as long as the days last. The Summer Wind said you’d taken the winter and the autumn and somehow stirred them into the summer. We haven’t got to the end of them yet. But I’ll tell you one thing.” The Tiger Lily shook with anger on her stem.

“What will you tell me?” asked Perizad mournfully.

“If you’re going to use two days in one, what you’ve got won’t last you round to spring again. There’ll be a time when it won’t be summer and it won’t be winter, because you’ve used them up. And you’ll be Nowhere. That’s where you will be — No where.”

“Well,” said Perizad, “maybe that’s the best place for me. As I’ve made my coat, so I must wear it.”

“Did anybody say anything about a coat?” asked a Rabbit. He was hurrying by, but he stopped and saluted, with a paw to his forehead. “Beg pardon, sir, but if there’s any news about coats, I should be glad to hear it. I never wear the same coat summer and winter, and never the same color even. If there’s any chance of the winter fashions coming in—”

But Perizad had put his hands to his ears, and hurried off. He ran for a long time, and when he stopped to breathe, the sun had set and the moonlight made it bright as day. And when he took his hands away from his ears, he could hear a hoarse murmur of voices behind him, and the patter of little feet. All the animals were on his track, hunting him out of the Large Place, and all the flowers were cheering the animals on and urging them to run. Then Perizad began to run again, and he ran and he ran until he came up against something he could not pass. He did not see it, but he knew at once that it was the fence set by the Wish-Taker about the Large Place, and that he could never cross it. The angry voices and the pursuing steps were still behind him, and he felt as if he had not one friend in the whole world.

Then he cried out loudly, not knowing what he should say, “Perizada! Perizada!” and a voice answered at once, “Perizad! Perizad!”

Perizad’s heart beat so loud that he thought it would choke him.

“Where are you?” he cried. “Where are you, Perizada?”

“On the other side of the fence,” answered Perizada. “Take courage, Perizad, for it lacks only one minute of the end of all the days you asked for. And when the minute is over, the fence will be down, and the Large Place will be like other places.”

“But I — Perizada,” cried Perizad, “what will be come of me? I have used up my days, and I shall be Nowhere.”

Then Perizada laughed quite merrily on the other side of the fence.

“Oh, no, Perizad,” she said, “for I have taken care of that. I asked the Wish-Taker to give you all my summer days, while you were here, to use when you got out of the Large Place. I was very careful to do the sum right. The Wish-Taker helped me. So I think we shall be able to go on living just as we did before. The minute is over. Perizad!”

Suddenly the steps and angry voices died, the moonbeams deepened into the light of day, and Perizad found himself in the old home forest with brown leaves underfoot and a soft wind blowing.

Perizada stood there smiling at him, dressed in a new suit of lovely brown. And Perizad knew that in all his life he had never been content as he was now.

“But, Perizada,” he said, when they had looked at each other steadily for many minutes, in great delight, “where were you all the time you were saying your days for me? Were you Nowhere?”.

For a moment Perizada did not answer. It seemed as if she remembered something dark and dreadful. Then she said softly: “Yes, I was Nowhere.”

“Was it—” he paused a moment, and then he asked, “Was it hard, Perizada?”

She was still looking at him bravely, “Yes, Perizad,” she said. “But I did it.”

Perizad stood thinking for a long time, and then he said: “I wish I could be sure they were happy — the ones I left in the Large Place.”

“We can go there,” said Perizada quickly. “Do you not see, the fence is down! It is just like other places now. Come.”

So hand in hand they went back to the Large Place. But it was nothing more nor less than a beautiful forest, in the sober tints of autumn. The flowers had withered, the leaves were falling, and the Wind had risen. And far in the distance they heard the fall of little feet and saw the shadow of a bushy tail, as the Squirrel and the Rabbit hurried away toward the outer world, where the nuts were riper and winter coats were more advanced.

By and by Perizad and Perizada sat down together by the side of a still spring and looked into it at the picture of the autumn sky.

“I shall never wish for things again,” said Perizad. “Except you, Perizada. It would be nice if there were two of you.”

Then Perizada laughed as we do when we are very happy. She put her hand gently upon his head, and bent it over the pool. And as he leaned she leaned also.

“Look, Perizad,” she said, “there is one Perizada in the pool. And look at me. Here is another. So there are two Perizadas, and one is as happy as the other, because their two dear Perizads have come back from the Large Place.”

PETER THE SIMPLE

Long ago there stood in the midst of a pleasant plain a city which was under the absolute rule of a lord mayor. It had once formed a tiny kingdom; but its citizens grew very tired of kings, and one day made the last sovereign over into a private individual, gave him a house and garden, and invited him to earn his daily bread. Then they were quite happy; and the ex-king, who knew how to raise excellent turnips for the market, was also well content. But after a time, the lord mayor in power became so proud and ambitious that he insisted on living in great state and being called, “Your Highness,” and “Your Serene Mightiness.” So after all the people found they had not bettered themselves in the least by exchanging one sovereign for another.

Now there lived in this city a worthy man, who was called Peter the Simple, because he was always making jokes and smiling at nothing; and he laughed whenever he saw the lord mayor ride out in state or heard him flattered by the crowd.

“How very funny!” said he one day, when the great man, robed in velvet and ermine, was driven past in a gilded chariot.

The lord mayor heard him, and ordered his coach man to stop.

“What is funny, fellow?” he called.

“Only to see a lord mayor look so much like a king,” said Peter, smiling broadly.

The lord mayor scowled and drove on. “O Peter! How could you?” cried Peter’s wife, when the story was told her by a mischief-making neighbor. “Now we are undone, and all by your foolish laughter. Plenty of people no better than we have got places in the lord mayor’s council, and even in the palace. I meant myself to apply for a situation as lord mayor’s wife’s lady-in-waiting; but I might as well save my breath for sighing over your folly.”

“Ho! ho! How funny!” cried Peter, leaning on his spade to laugh. “You a lady-in-waiting, with your face all paint and your hair all powder, like those purring tabbies I saw at the palace the other day! If that came to pass, I believe I should die a-laughing.”

His wife went in and slammed the cottage door; but the mischief-making neighbor, leaning over the fence, had heard the conversation, and ran to tell it in the market-place and at the palace.

Of course, the lord mayor’s wife was angry because her attendants had been ridiculed; and the lord mayor himself declared, with a dignity that was absolutely tremendous: “Whenever you are attacked, my dear, I and my great office are attacked also!”

Now about this time, everybody but the ex-king and Peter the Simple began to imitate the lord mayor, and wear high heels because he was by nature a tall man, and red wigs because he had red hair. He was greatly pleased and flattered by this, but Peter the Simple laughed over it from morning till night; and, as he never concealed his feelings, it became pretty well known that he made fun of the lord mayor and his followers. This made them angrier than ever: for the more ridiculous they looked, the more they were afraid of ridicule. At length it was actually decided in Town Council that the airs of Peter the Simple were no longer to be borne. A committee was sent to reason with him, and, if he confessed his guilt, to inform him of the lord mayor’s sentence.

When they arrived at his cottage, Peter was sitting on his door-stone, resting after a hard forenoon’s work, and smiling over the thought of his wife’s new red wig, as it looked that morning when he tied it over the cat’s ears.

“It can’t be they want to see me,” he thought, as fourteen red-wigged gentlemen came up the garden walk. “No doubt they’ve come to buy pears or grapes.”

“Is your name Peter?” inquired the foremost councilman.

“Otherwise known as ‘The Simple,’” said Peter. “What can I do for you today? If you will sit down here in the garden I’ll bring you a fine dish of grapes; or, if it pleases you to step into the kitchen, my wife Margery shall make you a royal omelette.”

“Peter the Simple,” said the head councilman, “you are accused of manifold crimes. Did you or did you not laugh at the lord mayor’s beautiful auburn hair?”

Peter tried to look grave, and put his hand over his mouth.

“Well, your honor,” said he, “I can’t deny that I said my sorrel colt had the prettiest red head in town.”

“Did you or did you not class yourself with the late king in speaking of the new style of dress?”

“As to that,” said Peter, “I did say it seemed rather funny that the ex-king and I should be the only ones that didn’t follow the fashions. And I leave it to you, honored sir, if it isn’t funny to think of an ex-king and a simpleton together.”

Then Peter began to laugh, and laughed so loud and long that the head councilman could not get a chance to speak, and so grew very angry.

“Did you or did you not,” shouted he at length, when Peter paused for breath, “say that the people would be better employed in working at their trades than in curling their hair and dancing jigs?”

“I may not have said they would be better off,” said Peter, “but I certainly said the city would be.”

“You have been guilty of high treason,” said the head councilman, solemnly. “Without further trial, you will now receive your sentence, which is that you go outside the city gates and stay there hunting for a needle in a haystack, until you find it, or until you are recalled by the lord mayor. In your present condition it is impossible for sensitive and high-minded people like us to live in the same town with you.”

With that the fourteen gentlemen turned about and marched away.

Now Peter was for a moment inclined to be some what melancholy; but it was not long before he saw something funny in the idea of his banishment.

“What a queer occupation I shall have!” he thought as he went in to tell his wife about it, and take an early dinner before setting out. “I dare say I shall find it quite amusing outside the city gates. At least, I can see all the traveling on the road.”

In half an hour a guard of soldiers appeared to take Peter away; and though his wife screamed at them, and scolded him for bringing such a calamity upon her, he went merrily off, whistling a pleasant tune and cracking jokes with his escort. Outside the city gates they took him; and then, having dropped a fine cambric needle in a large haystack, which had been put up for the occasion, they left him to his search.

The days went on, and Peter, who was an industrious man, hunted for the needle with all possible diligence.

One morning, as he was cheerfully picking up wisps of hay, and laying them in a separate pile, a knave came riding by, and said to him: “Hello! What are you doing there?”

“Searching for a needle in a haystack,” said Peter; and then he went on to tell the circumstances of his banishment.

“Oho!” said the knave. “You must be a stupid fellow; but still I don’t mind helping you out of a difficulty. See, here is a needle that I found in an old lady’s housewife I stole the other day. Take it, and go tell the lord mayor you found it in the haystack. Then you can ask to be taken back into the town.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Peter. “That would be a joke, but it’s the kind I don’t like to play. When I under take a piece of work, I’d rather finish it. So I think I’ll find my own needle, thank you.”

“Very well,” said the knave; and when he rode into the town, he said to the people, “At last I’ve seen an honest man — the one out there hunting for a needle in a haystack.”

For a moment the people thought he was joking, and then they began to look at each other in wonder.

“Can it be possible he means our Peter?” said they.

The next week a philosopher rode by, and stopped to ask Peter what he was doing.

“Alas!” said the philosopher, when Peter had told his story, “yours is a hard lot.”

“Not so very hard,” answered Peter, smiling broadly. “Every day they send me out a loaf of bread from the city, and my wife often brings me an egg or some fruit. Then there is a cool, sweet spring of water here. I sleep very well on the haystack, and in the morning the birds sing enough to do your heart good.”

“Wonderful! wonderful!” exclaimed the philosopher; and he strode on, shaking his head and pondering. When he reached the city, he said to the crowd assembled in the market-place: “There is a wise man outside, hunting for a needle in a haystack. You’d better recall him, and beg him to tell you how to live. He is the only true philosopher I’ve ever seen.”

At this the people were more puzzled than ever, and could only repeat to one another: “Our Peter? Peter the Simple? Surely, no one could call him wise!”

Not many days had passed before a king appeared on the highway, followed by a train of horsemen; and, seeing Peter at work, he stopped to ask him what he was doing and where he lived.

“I live here, your Majesty,” said Peter, after he had told his occupation; “but I used to live in that little white house your Majesty will find at the end of the first street, on the left of the city gate. It’s not exactly a street, your Majesty: it looks more like a long lane.”

“Then I suppose,” said the king, “if it’s a long lane, it has no turning.”

Now this sounded moderately funny to Peter, and he leaned against the haystack and laughed.

“And,” said the king, who began to be highly delighted, “if it’s the shortest way home for you, it must also be the longest way round.”

At this Peter laughed more and more, though any wise person would have seen it was no joke at all.

“What’s the difference between a miller and a caterpillar?” asked the king.

“O your Majesty, I don’t know,” said Peter; “but I’m sure the answer must be tremendously funny.”

“One makes the flour fly, and the other makes the butterfly,” cried the king. “There! Did you ever in your life hear a better joke than that?”

But Peter was laughing so hard that he really couldn’t answer. If he had answered, he must have told the truth, and said he had heard far better jokes, but that he was made in such a manner as to laugh at anything.

“You are a good fellow,” said the king, “and a remarkably sensible fellow. When you have worked out your sentence, come over to my kingdom, and I’ll make you my prime minister.” And he rode on, greatly pleased, muttering to himself from time to time: “Such excellent sense! Such fine perceptions!”

Now this king had from his youth been an unhappy man, because he was always making poor jokes at which nobody ever smiled. The courtiers would have been delighted to roar themselves hoarse if they had only known what was expected of them; but the king’s jokes were so very bad that no one knew what he in tended them for until long afterwards, when he began to frown and stamp. At last he was in high good humor at finding one person who laughed without being told.

“I suppose you banished that man out there be cause your lord mayor was jealous of him,” he said to the chief councilmen sent out to meet him. “I don’t wonder: he’s a fellow of remarkable intellect and taste. I’m glad you don’t want him, however; for I mean to take him with me on my way back, and make him my prime minister.”

“Peter the Simple! Is it possible?” cried all the lord mayor’s advisers. “Well, it really looks as if we must have been mistaken in him, after all.”

Meanwhile Peter labored on cheerfully at his hope less task; and one day there came by a lazy man, who said to him: “I’ve heard all about you, and I think you must be a regular donkey. There’s nobody here to watch you and see whether you search or not. Why don’t you lie down on the haystack, and sleep through the hottest part of the day?”

“Oh, I like to be busy,” said Peter. “There’s a good deal of fun, after all, in hunting for a needle in a haystack. Such a joke, you know, to look for what you know you’ll never find.”

“Well, that’s beyond me,” said the lazy man; and he went on into the city, and told the citizens their simpleton was the most industrious and honorable man alive.

Peter’s next caller was a fool, who couldn’t possibly imagine why he was searching for the needle, anyway.

“Don’t you see?” said Peter, with a wink. “Be cause I’ve been told to by that very wise lord mayor. You have to obey the laws of your country, you know. That’s what makes a good citizen.”

Then the fool went on, and told the next person he met that he heard a man say Peter the Simple was an excellent citizen.

After this came a statesman who had spent many years of his life in trying to improve the laws of all the countries round; and being greatly interested in trades and occupations, he paused to see what Peter was doing

“Nothing of importance, sir,” said Peter merrily; “just working out my sentence for making fun of the government.”

The great statesman began to look at him with renewed interest.

“Perhaps you were right,” he said. “I have been studying your government for some months, and I am inclined to think one might well make fun of it. How would you change it?”

“O sir!” said Peter, smiling at the idea of his changing anything so important, “I am a simple fellow, and know nothing about such things. Only it seems to me that people would be better off if they worked at their trades, wore plain clothes, and went to bed early, than they are dancing round in velvet and false hair, and imposing heavy taxes that nobody can pay.”

“You are right,” said the statesman. “You are quite right.” And he, too, entered the city.

There he found everything in the greatest confusion. The people were at last tired of living a life of idleness and display to which they had never been accustomed, even in the ex-king’s time. They all had headaches from eating fruit-cake and plum-pudding, their legs were stiff with dancing, and they were cross from sitting up late at night, paying compliments to the lord mayor and his wife. Most of all were they tired of the lord mayor himself: for just now, having seen in the glass that his nose was growing red, he had ordered all his subjects to paint their noses a bright carmine.

“What shall we do?” cried the people to the great statesman. “We are quite worn out with the lord mayor, and there isn’t a soul among us fit to take his place. We are sick and tired of this foolish way of living.”

“The most sensible man within reach,” said the great statesman, “is the one named Peter, who is working contentedly outside the city gates.”

“Peter the Simple!” cried they all with one accord. “The whole world sings his praise, and he shall be lord mayor!”

They hurried into the palace, to tell the present lord mayor their decision; and, as you may imagine, he turned red with wrath and green with envy.

“But I won’t be deposed!” he cried.

“Oh, yes, you will!” shouted the people. “It’s a revolution, and you can’t help it. Get out of that chair instantly, for we want to cut it down a little for our Peter! He’s much shorter than you.”

The lord mayor saw there was nothing to do but obey; and so he took off his robes, and changed himself speedily into a very commonplace sort of private citizen. Then the people went in procession to beg Peter the Simple to take his place.

“Why, really, I suppose I must, if you wish it,” said Peter. “I could do it as a sort of joke, you know. But you most allow me to have the great statesman for my prime minister.”

“Of course!” cried the people. “If you wish,” answered the statesman, with dignity.

Then Peter the Simple took the oath of office out side the city gates, in order that he might sign an order there for his own recall from banishment; but just as he passed the document to his prime minister, he gave a great shout — “The needle! the needle!”

It was actually found. Instead of falling through the haystack, it had pierced a broad, dry leaf, which the prime minister had taken to wipe his pen.

“What a joke!” cried Peter; and as he had become lord mayor, all the people were ready to laugh with him. As for Margery, his wife, she looked very haughtily at her mischief-making neighbor.

“I always said my husband could afford to laugh,” said she. “I thank my stars I appreciated him from the first!”

THE CRY FAIRY

There was once a fairy who wanted to know all the things that ever were. This was very unusual, because most fairies know a great deal more than they have time to do; but somehow this fairy, who was named Gillibloom, had an idea that mortals know a great deal and that fairies would be happier if they could find out what some of the things are. This was because he had one day hidden under a leaf and heard a very tall white-haired mortal telling a very short yellow-haired one queer things about the flowers in the woods, and calling them long names.

Afterwards Gillibloom had said to the flowers: “What made the tall white-top and the short yellow top call you those names?”

And one lady’s-slipper had yawned and said: “We don’t know. They’re always doing it.”

“But are they your real names?” said Gillibloom.

“Why, no, of course not,” said the lady’s-slipper. “Our real names are what the spring wind calls us when it’s time to get up.”

But Gillibloom was not satisfied. He felt as if mortals wouldn’t be so serious about a thing unless there was a reason for it; and pretty soon he went to the Fairy Queen and asked for leave of absence for thirty three and a third years, that he might go and live among mortals and learn things. He asked for exactly thirty-three and a third years because that is a third of a hundred. Of course it was a good deal to expect to be excused from active service for all that time, because active service among fairies consists in dancing whenever they want to, which is nearly every minute; and everyone knows how hard it would be to give up dancing for thirty-three and a third years. But Gillibloom left the fairies dancing and went away.

At the end of thirty-three and a third years he came back again, and he found the fairies dancing just as if they had never left off. They were all perfectly delighted to see him, and they left off dancing and crowded round him and cried out all together, which is the way the fairies sometimes talk: “O Gillibloom, what have you learned?”.

Gillibloom looked at them a few minutes very solemnly, as if he wanted them to pay great attention to what he was going to say. Then he answered: “I have not really learned anything; but I have almost learned to cry.”

“To cry, Gillibloom?” called the fairies. “What is that?”

“I know,” said a fairy who was a great traveler, and had once gone on a moonbeam excursion to a large town. “It’s what mortals do when they want something they haven’t got, or have something they don’t want.”

“Yes,” said Gillibloom, “that is it.”

“But what good is it?” asked the other fairies.

“I don’t really know,” said Gillibloom; “but I think it is really very good indeed, because so many of them do it. Sometimes if you are very little and want something, and cry and cry, somebody brings it to you.”

“But we don’t want anything we can’t get without crying,” said the fairies.

“Yes, that is true,” said Gillibloom. “But it can’t be that so many people would cry if there wasn’t some use in it. Try as I may, I can’t find out what the use is; but I thought I might form a class and we could all cry together and then we should see what happened.”

Now some of the fairies were too busy painting flowers to join a class, and some were too busy riding on bees-wings, but there were a few dozen who said:

“We might as well join. Why not? It will please Gillibloom, and maybe there is some use in it, after all.”

So Gillibloom appointed the next night by the banks of the Standing Pool; for, he said, it would be quite impossible at first to cry anywhere except by the side of still water.

The next night they were all there, twenty-seven of them, each with a moss-cup in his hand. Gillibloom had ordered this beforehand.

“No pupil will be admitted,” he said, “unless he is provided with an individual moss-cup of the best make, marked with his initials in plain script.”

The truth was he had heard that at one of the mortal seminaries he had visited, and he felt as if it might as well apply to moss-cups as to clothes, and you couldn’t be too particular about beginning right.

But when the twenty-seven fairies came together by the Standing Pool, they called out, as if they had made up their minds to it beforehand: “Gillibloom, what’s initials?” And then, “Gillibloom, what’s plain script?”

So Gillibloom had to shake his head at them and say very grandly: “That is not the question. We are here to cry.”

So the fairies all sat down in a circle, and looked pleasantly about at one another and said: “We are here to cry.”

“Now, in the beginning,” said Gillibloom, “I will show you how it is done. The first three of you there by the acorn must run at me and knock off my cap.”

So the first three ran gaily at him and knocked off his cap; but they might as well not have done it, for another cap, just as green and with just as red a feather, blew right down from somewhere else and settled on his head, and the fairies laughed, and Gillibloom did, too.

“Well,” said he, “the next three of you must trip me up, and I’ll fall down on the ground, and then I’ll show you how to cry.”

So the next three tripped him up, and Gillibloom didn’t mind it in the least because, whatever you do in the fairy woods, it never hurts. But he remembered that he was the teacher, and if he didn’t begin to teach he would pretty soon be no teacher at all. So he sat there on the ground and made up a dreadful face, and wrinkled his forehead and shut his eyes and pulled down the corners of his mouth. And then he dipped his own moss-cup carefully into the Standing Pool, and brought up a drop of water. And he put his fingers in it and splashed some on his face, and it ran down his cheeks, and he said proudly: “Now I am almost crying.”.

“Ho!” said the fairies, “is that all? We can do that without being taught.”

So they wrinkled up their foreheads and shut their eyes and drew down their mouths and dipped their fingers in the moss-cups and sprinkled their faces and made a bellowing noise, and they said proudly: “Now we are almost crying, too.”

Gillibloom had opened his eyes and wiped his cheeks on a bit of everlasting petal.

“That was very good,” he said, “very good indeed! Tomorrow we will go on with the second lesson.”

But the twenty-seventh fairy was thinking just then that he might have been dancing all this time, and he said: “Gillibloom, I don’t see what good it will do.”

“What good will what do?” Gillibloom repeated, rather crossly: for he did not see either.

“Learning to cry,” said the twenty-seventh fairy. “It isn’t very pleasant to do, and we look horrid when we make up faces, and we sound horrid when we bellow. And you said it was a way to get things when we want them. But we told you before, we don’t want anything we haven’t got. And besides, look at us! We’ve cried today, and we haven’t got anything. And I don’t know but we have lost something: for if we hadn’t been here, we might have been dancing, and when you are dancing you’ve got the preciousest thing there is. So there!”

“It must be remembered that we have only learned Almost Crying today,” said Gillibloom, with dignity. “So of course we have only Almost got something. When we have learned Quite Crying it will be a different matter.”

“I can’t help it,” said the twenty-seventh fairy. “I’m not coming any more. Anybody want my cup?”

But nobody did, because all the other pupils had kept their cups very carefully, and he tossed it into the Standing Pool and danced away through the for est, singing:

“School’s dismissed! School’s dismissed!

Out of so many I shan’t be missed.

By and by they’ll learn to cry.

But if anyone’s there, it won’t be I.

I’d rather sing or dance or fly,

Or swim in a puddle where star-shines lie.

I’ll not cry — not I!”

And the next day it was just the same. The twenty six fairies sat by the side of the Standing Pool, and Gillibloom wrinkled up his forehead and shut his eyes and drew down his mouth and bellowed and wet his cheeks with water out of his moss-cup; and they all did the same, and then they said: “Now we are Almost Crying.”

But when the lesson was over, the twenty-sixth fairy said he had some wheat ripening to attend to in a field ever so far away; and the next day the twenty fifth fairy said there was a Crow Caucus on, and he wanted to see what they meant to do about the scare crow in the field they’d owned from a time whereof the memory of crows runneth not to the contrary, and he couldn’t come any more; and the next day the twenty-fourth fairy said there were ever so many dancing steps he hadn’t practiced for a long time, and he couldn’t come any more; and the next day the twenty-third fairy said there was a queer-shaped leaf on the watercress down by the spring, and he thought he ought to look round a bit and see if there were any more like it, and he couldn’t come any more.

And so it went on until Gillibloom was the only one left, and he sat by the Standing Pool and dished up water to splash his face and wrinkled up his fore head and shut his eyes and drew down his mouth and bellowed; and whenever the rest of the fairies heard him or saw him, they clapped their hands over their eyes, and put their fingers in their ears, and ran away as hard as they could pelt. And so it happened that the forest about the Standing Pool was perfectly quiet: for no bird or squirrel or bee or any other thing that lives and breathes in the forest will stay after the fairies are gone.

And the Sun looked in and said: “There is nobody there but that silly Gillibloom, and he is Almost Crying all the time. I’ll go away and shine somewhere else.”

And the Moon looked down at night and said: “Why, there’s nothing in that forest but a Dreadful Sound. There’s no use in my troubling myself to squeeze down through the branches, for sounds can get along just as well by themselves.”

So she drove off very fast to the fairy green and rolled such a river of light into the fairy ring that the fairies gave up dancing and got flower-cups and sailed on the river, and some who couldn’t stop to get flower-cups swam in it, and it was the gayest night ever to be remembered.

Now when Gillibloom found that the fairies had all gone and left him to himself, and the four-footed things and the two-footed things, and the things that have feathers and fur and gauze-wings and shell-wings, he felt differently from what he ever had before. He had been bellowing for a long time that night, because he was determined to learn to cry and get it over and then go back to his people; but now he said to himself:

“I will not cry any more. And anyway it is not Quite Crying, and if Almost Crying makes everything run away from me, I don’t know what Quite Crying would do.”

So he tried to shut his mouth, and stop its bellowing; but it would not stop. And he tried to smooth his forehead, and it stayed wrinkled, and he tried to open his eyes, and they would not open, and he tried to draw up the corners of his mouth, and they would stay down. And there was a strange feeling in his throat, and his heart beat very fast, and though he had not dipped up the water of the Standing Pool for as much as two hours, his cheeks were all wet.

“Oh,” said Gillibloom to himself, “what has happened to me! what has happened to me!”

And he started running just as fast as he could through the silent forest to the Earth-Woman’s house, and as he ran he said to himself: “What has happened to me? What has happened to me? Am I afraid?”

Now for a fairy to be afraid is just as impossible as for it not to be a fairy; but Gillibloom knew he was somehow changed, and he could only run and call aloud at the top of his voice, “Am I afraid? Am I afraid?”

Now the Earth-Woman lives in the very middle of the wood, in a green house that nobody can see by day, and a dark brown house that nobody can see at twilight, and a black house that nobody can see by night. And when she heard Gillibloom come screaming through the forest, she stepped to her door and stood waiting for him, and in a minute he was there, and laid hold of her skirts and clung to them.

“Well! well!” said the Earth-Woman, “and who is this?” Then she stooped down and took up Gillibloom between her thumb and forefinger, and looked at him. “By acorns and nuts!” said she. “It’s the Cry Fairy.”

“No! no!” said Gillibloom. “No! no! I’m the Almost Cry Fairy. I’m never going to Quite Cry, for I don’t know what it would do to me.”

The Earth-Woman laid her finger to Gillibloom’s cheek and touched it and put it, all wet, to her lips. She nodded and then shook her head.

“Well,” said she, “you were a silly, weren’t you? Now what do you want me to do?”

Gillibloom kept on bellowing. “I want to be with the others.”

“What others?” asked the Earth-Woman severely. “The other cry-babies?”

“The fairies and the furs and the feathers and the wings and the fins and the tails and the sun and the moon,” bellowed Gillibloom: though now you could hardly have understood a word he said.

But the Earth-Woman could understand. She understood everything.

“Then,” she said, “you must open your eyes, smooth out your forehead and pull up your mouth, and stop that noise.”

Gillibloom tried, because, whatever the Earth Woman says in the forest, it has to be done. But he could not do it. And worse than that, he found he didn’t really want to.

“Do you like to have your throat feel all pinched up, as if you couldn’t swallow a drop of honey?” the Earth-Woman asked him.

“No!” screamed Gillibloom. And then he roared louder than ever. You could have heard him across twenty violets.

“Do you like to have your mouth all salt with tears, and your pretty tunic wet with them?”

“No! no!” said Gillibloom. But he kept on roaring.

“There, you see!” said the Earth-Woman. “Now I’ll tell you something, Gillibloom, and you keep it in your mind until you forget it. The more you cry, the harder it is to stop, and the only way to stop crying is to smile.”

“Cry?” said Gillibloom. “Is this Quite Crying? Isn’t it Almost Crying?”

“That’s as may be,” said the Earth-Woman wisely. “Now you come in here with me.”

So she carried him into her hut, where it is very dark but light enough to see to do all sorts of wonderful things; and she ironed out his forehead and put a nice polish on it, and she opened his eyes and told them to stay open, and she shut his mouth and told it to stay shut, and when it had really done it, she stretched it very carefully indeed, until it was perhaps two cat’s hairs wider than it had been for a long time.

“There!” said she, “I can’t do any more until it softens a little. Lie down there, Gillibloom, and think about leaves in spring.”

So Gillibloom lay down on a very soft couch that was perhaps rose-leaves and perhaps thistledown and perhaps corn-silk; and when he had lain there a day and a night, the Earth-Woman stretched his mouth a little more, and a little more. And one night she said to him: “Now, Gillibloom, your cure will take quite a long time yet; but you must do the rest of it your self. And this is what you must do. Whenever you think of crying, you must stretch your mouth just as wide as you can—”

“Why, that’s what the mortals call smiling,” said Gillibloom.

“And you must keep on doing it until you’ve for gotten to cry. Now I wish you were in the fairy ring.”

And she had no sooner said it than he was there. All the fairies were dancing the new dance that is called, “Remember the Robins and Roses Today and Think of the Lilies and Larks.” The fairies always have such long titles! but it takes a great many words to say what they want to say, and then it isn’t all put in. Now when they saw Gillibloom standing there among them, balancing on one foot and trying to look very bold and gay, they stopped dancing and half turned away and looked at him over their shoulders. If Gillibloom was going to teach, they didn’t propose to stay more than a second and a half in his company.

Gillibloom really looked very nice. The Earth Woman had got the salt stains out of his tunic, and pressed it neatly for him, and brought him a new pair of grasshopper tights. (They were very much worn at that time.) And he was stretching his mouth as hard as he could, and he put up one hand stealthily and touched his cheek, and it was quite dry. That gave him courage.

“Come on, fellows,” said he. “On with the dance!”

Just then the moon looked down, and she was so pleased to see Gillibloom back again that she tossed a moon-wreath down over his shoulders, and it brightened up the old tunic wonderfully and sent a splendid light up into his face. And the fairies could see he was smiling, and they began singing together, tenor and bass and treble and alto, high and low, and as many trills as you please, and all the grace-notes that will go in comfortably.

“Gillibloom!” they sang, “Gillibloom! Gillibloom’s come back!”

HOW GLADHEART
WENT TO COURT

The mother of Boy Gladheart was a very busy woman, and, provided he seemed well and happy, cared little how he spent his time; so it happened that he grew into the habit of staying out-of-doors, in the deep woods or bright meadows, from daylight until dark. There he made the acquaintance of the fairy Drolla, and she told him many wonderful things, which few children know. If they learn them at all, it is from some book of fairy tales, and that is far less pleasant than hearing them from a fairy’s lips.

One day, the two sat together under the shade of an apple-tree in bloom. Drolla’s dress was of apple-green, and her face was rosy from the shade of a parasol, made of a peach-blossom, curving above her head. She had been telling Gladheart about the brownies who work for mortals, expecting only love in reward, and of those frolicsome elves who sleep all day and dance by night,

“Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.”

“You fairies are happy creatures,” said Gladheart. “But if I could have my choice, I’d rather be a king.”

“A fairy king?” asked Drolla.

“No, a real, mortal king, with a crown of gold.”

Drolla laughed. She never frowned, even when someone had displeased her; but those who knew her well could trace many shades of feeling in her mirth. This time it sounded scornful.

“Kings are different from other men,” said Gladheart, with decision. “Oh, yes, Drolla, they are!”

“Tell me about your kings,” said the fairy, throwing herself back on her couch of mullein velvet. “I tell you about my people; now it’s your turn.”

“Well, in the first place,” said Gladheart, “a king lives in a beautiful palace. He wears silken robes and eats from dishes of gold. Everything about him is rich and perfect. Now you know when we common folks want a fire, we go out into the woods and gather sticks for it; but nothing of the sort happens in a king’s palace. Even his firewood is carved by clever workmen. They cut upon it great sprays of vines and flowers, and flocks of swallows with sweeping wings. The people that come near the king must all be as perfect as the things he sees and touches. The courtiers have scented baths, and dress in snowy linen and soft fabrics; even the palace servants are fine and pure. I suppose, if one hair of their heads lay the wrong way, the king would know it and shudder, because he is so great.”

“Who has told you this?” asked the fairy, with an odd little smile.

“No one; but I have thought it out myself, knowing what kings must be, always to have been so served and worshiped by other men. I suppose there are no tears at the palace, and no wicked or cruel thoughts; but all minds are spotless, and all lives like music. O Drolla, it must be a wonderful thing to be a king, and even to see one! I long for that, though of course I am not good enough.”

“My little Gladheart,” said Drolla, with a pitying smile, “these things are not in the least as you imagine. Kings are quite as likely to be common people as your own father and mother.”

Gladheart was almost angry at this. He rose and walked away from his fairy friend, but presently he came back, saying: “Drolla, I shall find out who is right. Our own king’s court is not many leagues away, and tomorrow, at daybreak, I shall set out to see it. Will you go with me?”

“Not I,” said Drolla. “No, Gladheart, not I! I have important things to do. I have to sit here in the grass and listen to the sound of waving plumes and sprouting seeds. Stay with me and I will teach you more wonderful things than you can learn at court, and show you more marvelous sights.”

“What things?” asked Gladheart. “What sights?”

“I will tell you what lies hid at the heart of a wild rose, and what the sparrow calls to his mate in the early morning. I will teach you the songs sung in Dreamland, and the poems no man has made.”

“I must go,” said Gladheart, shaking his head. “I long to know what a real king is like, and I never shall be satisfied until I learn.”

“That is like you mortals,” said Drolla sadly. “You must learn, and you are not satisfied to know the things that are best. But never mind! If you will go, take this leaf, and, when you are in need, give it to any living thing you see, except a mortal. Good-by, Gladheart.”

For the space of an hour Gladheart was sad at parting from his friend; but presently his mind was filled with the thought of going to court, and at sun rise, next day, he stole from his little bed and crept out of the house before his mother was awake. He had taken a piece of bread in his pocket and knowing that it would be ample for a few hours, gave himself no uneasiness about dinner. As Drolla often said: “Do not worry and blackberries will jump into your mouth.”

The morning was all green and golden, with floods of sunlight on the dew-washed grass. Gladheart’s feet were like wings, and as he walked along, now running a little for joy, and now tossing his cap in the air, he began singing, and these were the words of his song:

“Little folk high and little folk low,

Down in the earth or up in the air,

Come to me, follow me, whither I go!

Lead me in paths that are pleasant and fair!”

The whole wide world seemed empty, except for the birds and flowers and Gladheart; but these were enough — some for song, and some for fragrance, and one little boy to love them all.

“And this is what it is to seek adventure!” cried he. “Oh, how much better than to drone along at home, even with Drolla to sing and smile!”

But as the day sped on, and the sun mounted high in the heavens, his spirits fell from their topmost flight, for he was hungry. He had finished his bread at breakfast-time, and now—

“What shall I do?” thought he, as he stopped to dabble his bare brown feet in a meadow brook. “Who will help me to find a dinner?”

But the brook did not answer, and kept on singing its own song. Suddenly Gladheart remembered the fairy leaf, which he had kept carefully in his bosom, and he bent over and held it in the musical flow of the water.

“Brook, Brook, what shall I eat?”

Then the brook found a tongue that mortal could understand, and sang aloud and clearly,

“Whatever is moving, whatever is roving,

That shalt thou trust in, and follow and follow,

Be it slow snail, or the swift-darting swallow.”

Gladheart was puzzled, and looked about him. But everything lay quiet under the summer sun.

“Perhaps it is the brook itself,” he said, at last. “That is the only moving thing I see.”

“Oh, follow,”

sang the brook,

“Straight through the tangle, and down through the hollow,

To slopes where red raspberries grow.”

Gladheart had become so hungry that he started running at this, and hardly stopped until he reached the place where berries hung warm in the sun.

“Thank you, dear Brook!” he cried, and ate until his mouth was stained and fragrant.

The brook heeded him no more, but went singing along the way, and Gladheart lay down on the fresh grass and slept an hour. When he awoke, a mouse sat quietly regarding him out of his bead-like eyes. It was pointing at him with one tiny paw, and, seeing that, Gladheart remembered that he was still holding Drolla’s leaf, now fresh and green again from the waters of the brook.

“Thing possessed of a mortal soul,

Why do you hold the fairy scroll?”

squeaked the mouse.

“I showed it to the brook,” explained Gladheart, “and the brook told me where to get my dinner. Now I want to find someone who will tell me the way to the king’s palace. Do you know it?”.

The mouse looked very important, and began pompously:

“Manythings I know

Where the farmhouse-cheeses grow,

Where the ripest grains are hid,

Underneath the meal-chest lid;

But to court I never go.”

Just then began a prodigious chattering over their heads.

“Call the lark! the lark!

He could find it in the dark!”

Gladheart looked up and saw a squirrel sitting with his tail over his head for an umbrella. He it was who had thrown down this good advice.

“The lark! the lark!” cried scores of voices, loud and low, piercing and sweet, those of insect, flower, and bird: for he who carries a fairy scroll is sure to find all the world ready to help him. Then came a sweep of wings, and a bird settled on a plume of grass by Gladheart’s side, just touching it with his feet, and swaying and bowing as it swayed and bowed. The clamor of sound was hushed, for the lark is a spirit among birds.

“Follow the lark, the king,”

whispered the mouse to Gladheart.

“Sweet is his throat,

Swift is his wing,

But evermore silent and humble is he,

If commanded the guide of the needy to be.”

Gladheart rose to his feet, and the lark fluttered on before him, sometimes coming back, in beautiful curves of flight, and then for a moment hovering over the boy’s head.

“Thank you, dear Lark!” said Gladheart.

But the lark did not answer. He darted up into the heavens and dropped a flood of such singing that the child’s heart stood still with wonder; then he swept down and guided as before. So they journeyed on, and whenever the lark stopped, Gladheart knew that it was intended as a sign for him to pick berries or rest by the way. Fearing he might lose the magic leaf, he pinned it in his cap, and after that many strange things happened. A red-brown pony, at pasture in a field, chanced to spy it, and trotted up with head bent and mild eyes full of love, and Gladheart understood at once that he was to mount and ride. So he sprang on the pony’s back, held tightly by his mane, and away they went over hill and meadow, the lark flying fast before. When they had gone many miles, the pony stopped, and Gladheart slid to the ground, knowing he must not take his little friend too far.

“Thank you, dear Pony,” he said, and the pretty creature trotted away over the track by which they had come. Then before Gladheart and the lark had crossed another pasture, a little rough donkey, with long ears and hair standing every way, came galloping up, and mutely invited the boy to mount. It was with great joy that he did it, for the donkey was so funny that Gladheart loved him even better than his other friend. Away they went, though not at the pony’s pace, and it did not seem long before the don key also stopped, and Gladheart bade him good-by, saying: “Thank you, dear Donkey!”

Now the lark settled on a twig, and Gladheart began to notice that it was growing dark.

“Is it time for bed, dear Lark?” he asked, and the bird for answer put his head under his wing. So Gladheart lay down beneath a tree, and, looking up at the darkening heavens, tried to be contented and to think as little as possible of his mother and his friend Drolla, for fear the tears might come. Whatever should happen he determined to be brave, and for protection from wandering things, placed beside his hand his cap bearing the fairy leaf, that he might seize it at any moment. It was not long before his eyes closed and he knew no more, though his sleep was filled with sweeter dreams than any he had yet imagined.

He dreamed of houses made of gold, and taller than the trees, and these, he thought, were palaces. He dreamed of men in shining armor, walking among beds of flowers, sweeter than any in his mother’s garden — and these, he knew, were kings. And one of them — the tallest of them all and the most shining — put out a hand to him, and said:

“Come, Gladheart! come, and walk with us!”

So they paced up and down together, in great con tent, and Gladheart felt that it was a very wonderful world.

When the light began to come and the woods about him were filled with the music from many birds, he heard also the sweep of wings, and became aware of shadows passing across his eyelids. He lifted them slowly, and lo! birds of every sort, from the saucy crow to the nimble sparrow, were flying above him, sweeping down and away, and close by his hand lay a pile of fruit, brought for breakfast in their brown and golden bills.

“Thank you, dear Birds!” he called; and as he spoke they disappeared, with one last whirr.

Gladheart sat up, and looked about him, and then Mother Cow and Grandmother Sheep rose, too, from their places close by his side, and walked slowly away. They also had seen the fairy scroll, and had lain there all night to keep him warm. Gladheart called his thanks after them, and then, bathing his face in a clear stream, he breakfasted on fruit, and rose to continue his journey. As he did so a stream of silver notes came dropping through the air, and with them, nearer and nearer, sank the lark, ready to guide him as before.

For hours Gladheart followed the bird’s flight, and finally he was sure within his heart that he was near the palace. The ground over which he traveled was laid out in beautiful parks, and turrets rose in the distance. A train of huntsmen swept past, taking no notice of the dusty little boy, though the dogs smelled the leaf in his cap and lingered to fawn upon him. At length the turrets looked nearer and nearer, and Gladheart entered a great gate, and his joy knew no bounds. He trudged along a graveled walk, the lark flying slowly and sorrowfully behind, and came suddenly upon a group of men, sitting about a table, on which stood a flagon and drinking cups of gold. One who sat apart, with a frown on his face, was the first to notice Gladheart.

“Who is that beggar?” he said to a servant at his elbow. “Turn him out, or ask him what he wants.”

The servant ran forward. He took Gladheart by the collar.

“Now, then, little beggar,” said he, “what do you want?”

Gladheart did not tremble, though he wished his mother were by.

“I want to see the king,” he said stoutly; and the lackey, running back to his lord, repeated the speech and looked as if he could titter if he dared.

“Wants to see the king, does he?” repeated the other. “Well, boy, come here and look at me.”

Gladheart advanced. He gazed for a moment, and then began to smile.

“Oh, no, my lord,” he said quietly, “you are not a king.” For he observed that the man was coarse and ugly, and that only selfish thoughts dwelt in his mind.

“And why?” asked the king frowningly, while all the courtiers bent forward in eager listening.

“Because,” said Gladheart simply, longing to tell the truth and yet fearing to be rude, “you do not look like a king.”

Now the king, who had been out hunting that day, had killed nothing and was in a bad humor, and he bent forward and struck the child across the cheek. The blow was light, but the shame and horror of it took away Gladheart’s breath and he fell to the ground. Thereupon the king’s servant carried him outside the palace gates and laid him under a hedge.

When Gladheart awoke, he was lying in his own mother’s garden, where he could smell her balm and lavender.

“Drolla,” he cried, seeing his little friend close by, “was it the king?”

“Yes, dear child,” said the fairy, with a pitying smile.

“The king — who struck me? Drolla, how did I get home?”

“I brought you, dear — my friends and I.”

“Who told you?”

“The lark told me. And now, Gladheart, hear that sad sound. It is your mother crying because you have been away all night, and she is afraid you may be lost. Go to her now, and tomorrow you shall come to me under the tree and I will teach you wonderful things.”

Gladheart ran in and put his arms about his dear mother and cried upon her breast.

Thereafter he was content with his simple life, and went no more to court.

THE HIPPOGRIFF
AND THE DRAGON

Not long ago there lived in a cave full of dark I holes and ugly shadows an old and feeble Dragon, who had nobody in the world to take care of him. He was the last of that tribe which once waged terrible war upon mankind, and all his relations and friends had been killed off by this same race of men, who declared that, unless they did take such measures, the dragons would not only kill them and their wives and children, but eat them into the bargain. Perhaps this was true, for the dragons had never been accustomed to eat anything but meat, and so they felt actually obliged to supply themselves, two or three times a week, with a plump boy or girl or a well-seasoned old lady.

But all those exciting days were passed; now the last Dragon had just strength enough to crawl slowly about, setting snares to catch birds and rabbits for his dinner. So feeble was he that you could scarcely have terrified him more than by inviting him to attack a human being. He was very lonely and unhappy, and would have been far more so except that in a cave nearby dwelt a Hippogriff who was in exactly the same circumstances, alone, almost helpless, and the last of his race. The dragons and hippogriffs had once been deadly enemies, and two of the animals meeting in a forest path would have torn each other in pieces without stopping to say “Good-morning”; but this pair had suffered so many hardships that they were only too glad to forget old grievances and become intimate friends.

One morning the Dragon rose early, after a miserable night, and when he had breakfasted on a cold crow’s wing, left from yesterday’s dinner, he took his cane, and crawled out into the sunshine, hoping to see the Hippogriff. Sure enough, there sat his friend, also sunning himself, at the door of his own cave.

“Well,” said the Dragon, “what sort of a night have you had?”

“Bad, bad!” groaned the Hippogriff. “The fact is, I was too hungry to sleep. We can’t stand this much longer. A good half-ox or a tender young calf would set us both up; but we are too weak to provide for ourselves. Our days are numbered.”

“I’ve been thinking it over in the watches of the night,” said the Dragon, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that we’d better go to the nearest village and see if we can’t get employment, and so be able to start a little account at the butcher’s. I think I could carry stones or bite down trees as soon as I get my strength up; and I know you could sweep out rooms with your tail.”

“There’s only one trouble,” said the Hippogriff thoughtfully. “As soon as the people saw us coming, they would set upon us and kill us before listening to a word.”

“Men are not what they once were,” said the Dragon, shaking his head wisely. “They talk a great deal more than the knights we used to know, and they do a great deal less. Get your stick, my friend, and let us start while we still have strength to crawl along. Trust me, it’s the only thing to do.”

The Hippogriff was a little doubtful, but he had the greatest confidence in his friend. The Dragon always believed so firmly in himself that the Hippogriff thought he must have good grounds for doing so, and it would be very silly not to believe in him, too. So he went in for his stick, gave a farewell look at his cave, and then, taking the Dragon’s arm, set off down the hill that led to the village.

“Shall we ever see our homes again?” he murmured, in a sad voice, after the first half mile. “Alas! I am afraid not.”

“Who cares if we don’t,” said the Dragon, “if we get other homes ten times as good?”

And as that seemed reasonable, the Hippogriff said meekly, “You are quite right,” and went stumbling along without further complaint.

All the forenoon long they journeyed; and though faint and hungry, they dared not stop, for fear their strength would desert them utterly. The steeple of the village church seemed hardly nearer than in the morning, and not a soul did they meet or pass upon the way.

“I could eat a caterpillar with relish,” said the Hippogriff, at length. “O brother, think of the good old days when we should have scorned a caterpillar, except for dessert, after a hearty meal of a knight and his horse.”

“I don’t think of the good old days,” answered the Dragon, still undaunted, though he could scarcely limp along. “I have fixed my mind on the good time coming, and there I mean it shall stay.”

They staggered on until two o’clock in the after noon; and then, just as they were about to lie down by the roadside in utter despair, the Dragon caught sight of something which put new courage into his failing limbs.

“Stop!” he whispered, grasping the Hippogriff’s arm. “Look over in that field, and tell me what you see.”

The Hippogriff looked.

“It’s a maiden,” he answered, “sitting under a tree, holding in her hand one of those queer things they call books.”

“We must go over there and talk with her,” said the Dragon. “No doubt she can tell us something about the village people, and we will send her on in advance to announce our intentions. But we must circle about, so as to approach her from the back. If she sees us coming, she will be terribly frightened, and run, and we couldn’t possibly overtake her.”

They climbed the fence, and began cautiously approaching the young woman, who was really so absorbed in reading a Greek play that there was not the slightest danger of her seeing or hearing anything. Only once was the silence broken; and then the Hippogriff ventured timidly, “She wouldn’t make a bad dinner!”

“Hush!” said the wise Dragon. “That would do very well for today, but what would become of us tomorrow? The village people would turn out in a body, and hunt us down. No! I have become a law abiding citizen.”

Meantime the young lady sat intently reading her book, and sometimes consulting other volumes; and, when the two travelers were within a few feet of her, the Dragon gave a delicate cough. She slowly turned her head and saw them. The Hippogriff, trying to look as gentle as possible, laid one claw on his heart, and made a low bow, while the Dragon gazed at her with a cheerful smile. Still they both expected her to give a blood-curdling shriek and spring to her feet in terror. It was evident that they knew nothing about this particular kind of young woman. She settled her eye-glasses firmly upon her nose, and looked the creatures over.

“Who are you,” she asked, in a high, clear tone. “Can you talk?”

This was very confusing to the Dragon and Hippogriff. The thought darted through their minds: “If a mere girl isn’t afraid of us, what can we expect from the village authorities?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said the Dragon, recovering him self first, “we talk and walk and eat (when we can get anything). We are not in the least different from other folks, though we may look so; and that’s why we’ve made up our minds to move to the village.”

“What are your names?”

“I am a Dragon, and my friend here is a Hippogriff.”

A look of joy flitted over the young woman’s face. “How very interesting!” she cried, in a tone of such rapture that the Dragon’s spirits rose at once. “How wonderful that such an experience should be mine! Come, sit down here on the grass and tell me about yourselves.”

The Dragon and the Hippogriff were very glad in deed to sit down, and the former especially was well inclined to talk. He began at the beginning of dragon and hippogriff history, and told all he knew and all he had ever heard about those remarkable creatures and their warfare with men. When he had finished, his listener drew a breath of delight.

“This is amazing!” said she. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it with my own ears.”

“But what do you think of our chances of being allowed to live in the village, ma’am?” ventured the Hippogriff.

“They never would permit it in the world,” she said, wrinkling her brows in thought. “The very sight of you would frighten them to death.”

“But you are not frightened?” suggested the Dragon.

She smiled at him loftily.

“No, but I am an Advanced Young Woman. I have had a college course, and none of the village folk are in the least like me. They would expect you to eat them up.”

“But we would promise not to,” urged the Hippogriff, who was actually so hungry that he could not speak of food without tears.

But the Advanced Young Woman was thinking so hard that she took no notice of him at all.

“Ah!” cried she at length, in triumph. “I have it! You shall become vegetarians.”

“I will become anything that is proper, ma’am,” said the Dragon meekly. “What sort of creatures are they? I shouldn’t want to give up my tail and my claws.”

“You would merely have to give up eating meat, and then of course nobody would be afraid of you. It will be a most interesting experiment. Perhaps we can even modify your teeth, and make you graminivorous.”

This ambition was quite beyond the creatures’ comprehension; and so they said nothing, but tried to look wise, as people often do who don’t understand.

“Just over the brow of this hill,” added the Advanced Young Woman, “is a cottage my father built me for a study, so that I might retire there beyond the hearing of the world.” (She meant the village.) “Now you shall go there with me, and after dark, I will bring you some supper. You must on no account step outside the door, and tomorrow, immediately after breakfast, I will be with you.”

Meanwhile she had packed her books together, and, making them into a nice heavy bundle, started away over the hillside, driving the two creatures before her; and although she was both slight and young, they were really quite afraid of her, and went meekly stumbling along, hand in hand.

“She seems to take a great interest in us,” whispered the Hippogriff, when the Advanced Young Woman was occupied in unlocking the door. “She must think us very remarkable.”

“Hush,” said the Dragon solemnly. “There is more in this than we understand.”

And there was! “There,” said the young woman, when she had ushered them into the one large room that occupied the entire floor of the cottage, “now be very quiet and patient. To prevent accidents, I think I’ll lock the door on the outside.”

And this she did before hastening away.

When she was fairly gone, the Dragon and the Hippogriff looked about them. The room was filled with all sorts of strange articles, which they had never seen or heard of. The walls were lined with books; and on the large table there was an inkstand, an unabridged dictionary, a microscope, a herbarium, an astrolabe, a sextant, and other queer things used by Advanced Young Women, but which I don’t in the least understand, any more than the Dragon and the Hippogriff did.

“I don’t like this,” said the Hippogriff, looking about him.

“Nor I,” said the Dragon. “But let’s wait until she comes back, and see what will happen.”

Presently there was a rattling at the door, and in came their hostess tugging a large pail, and looking much excited.

“I’ve brought your supper,” said she cheerfully. “Oatmeal, far more nutritious than meat!”

She poured the pudding into two large dishes, and placed it on the floor before them, and while they tried to eat it, and smeared their jaws and burned their tongues, she walked round and round, studying them from every point of view.

“Vertebrates!” she exclaimed, adding, as she paused beside the Dragon, “Would it annoy you if I tried to count your vertebrae while you are eating?”

“Not at all,” said the miserable Dragon, though he had no idea what his vertebrae were. “I believe I won’t take anything more to eat, thank you, ma’am.”

Then the Advanced Young Woman was perfectly happy. She pinched their backbones to see how they were made, counted their claws, and examined their teeth; and the horrible-looking animals were by this time so depressed that they never thought of objecting.

“Ah!” murmured she, “what a precious privilege, and how Professor Cervix would envy me!” It was quite dark before she could tear herself away from them. “Now,” said she, at last, gathering up the dishes, “take a good night’s rest, in order to be perfectly fresh in the morning. Then I intend to sketch you.”

When the sound of her footsteps had quite died away, the Hippogriff looked at the Dragon, and gave a hollow groan.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“I could eat a buffalo, hide and all,” owned the Dragon frankly. “Still if one were here I should try to resist it. If it’s possible to become a law abiding vegetarian, I’m the Dragon to do it.”

“I believe myself the stuff she gave us was rank poison,” said the melancholy Hippogriff. “I ate very little of it, but I feel extremely queer.”

“Wait till it begins to nourish you,” said the hopeful Dragon, who felt quite as unsettled as his friend, but had no intention of showing it. “Remember, she told us it was far more nutritious than meat; and if that is true, we shall soon begin to feel it in our legs and claws. Now go to sleep, as I shall, and make the best of it.” So saying, he curled his head under his shoulder, folded his claws, and was soon far on the road to Dragon Dreamland.

Next morning the Advanced Young Woman reached the cottage by the time the early birds had begun to charm away the dusk. She brought a steaming kettle of cracked wheat, and this she poured out before the two monsters with so gracious an air that they hadn’t the heart to tell her they hated the sight of it. Instead they each made her a polite bow, and tried with all their might to force a little down their unwilling throats.

The young woman, however, never noticed how hard a time of it they had. She was altogether too busy, first in getting her sketching materials together, and then in drawing the outline of her guests from every point of view. She sketched them sitting, standing and lying. She sketched their faces, their claws, their tails. Never, since time began, had there been such an exhaustive study of dragons and hippogriffs. She worked all day long, forgetting to stop for dinner; and the worst of it was, the Hippogriff thought, she forgot their dinner also, and they languished until nightfall without even a dish of oatmeal. How ever, when she went home, very tired, but with an undaunted resolution still shining on her brow, she left them the cold cracked wheat for supper. That night they did not talk; their terror of the future was too great.

Things went on in this way for a week, the Dragon and the Hippogriff trying to become good vegetarians, and growing weaker every day, and their hostess worrying them almost out of their senses by asking them questions about their previous history, and, as the Hippogriff said, trying to pry into their family affairs. The truth was that she knew this to be a splendid opportunity for studying the habits of animals which most people consider fabulous, and she was determined to make the most of it.

“Now,” said she, on leaving them one night, “I hope you’ll go to bed early, for I want you to look particularly fresh tomorrow. A dear friend of mine, Professor Cervix, is coming to see you, though he doesn’t in the least suspect you are here. I intend to surprise him, and then we shall consult together about donating you to a museum.”

“What is a museum?” asked the Hippogriff feebly.

“It is a large collection of animals, shut up in cages,” said the Advanced Young Woman, with cheerfulness. “Good-night. Don’t give yourselves any uneasiness. Whatever we decide upon, you need take no responsibility. I will arrange everything.”

And the worst of it was, they knew she would. For a long time after she was gone, they said nothing at all; but at last the Hippogriff remarked solemnly: “A hundred years ago or more, the fairies danced one night on the green, and we hippogriffs lay in the woods and watched them. They were practicing the Vanishing Charm.”

“I remember,” said the Dragon, “we dragons were there, too, in the opposite wood. We meant to fall upon you, and eat you up, when the fairies were gone; but we got so interested in their Vanishing Charm that we forgot all about it. Do you remember what they sang?”

“Perfectly,” said the Hippogriff. “Shall we try it?”

“Yes. I don’t know where we should be after we had vanished; but nothing could be worse than this. Come, let’s begin. It may take a long time.”

So they sat down in the middle of the room, clasped claws in the Vanishing Grip, and began a solemn chant:

“Criss-cross,

Gain is loss.

The gold in the earth is nothing but dross.

Heigh ho!

Who can know

But the elves where the flowers of elf-land blow!”

“My tail is gone!” said the Dragon, in an excited whisper.

“So’s my left earl” cried the Hippogriff. “Come, faster!”

“If you double under as I double over,

Then lightning is thunder and redtop is clover.

So turn it about, now slow and now fast,

Till the end is beginning, and middle is last.”

“There go my claws!” cried the Hippogriff.

“And my hind legs!” said the Dragon. “Oh, how comfortable I am! I haven’t felt so light since I was a baby.”

They chanted faster and faster: they were wild with joy. When the Hippogriff felt his backbone going, he gave an exultant shout to think the Advanced Young Woman would never count his vertebrae again. But that was his last thought in this world. The song was finished, the cottage was silent; the Hippogriff and Dragon had vanished.

Next morning the Advanced Young Woman went early to her retreat, that she might be sure the two animals were prepared for meeting the learned Professor Cervix. She opened the door and looked in. Not a trace of living creature was to be seen. Even her precious drawings had disappeared: for the Dragon had laid one claw on them as he chanted the vanishing words, and they also had felt the charm. But the Advanced Young Woman, though she was disappointed, felt no surprise.

“Of course there’s no such thing,” said she. “They’re nothing but fabulous monsters. I must have dreamed them.”

But at that very moment the Dragon and the Hippogriff, young and strong, and no larger than butterflies, were telling their adventures to the elf queen, who laughed over them until her poppy throne swayed in the breeze.

“Trouble yourselves no further about food and shelter,” said she, when they had finished. “For those that live in this Vanished Land need no roof to cover them, and honey dew is all their food.”

THE LAND
WITHOUT COMMON FOLKS

In the Land of the Fair Queens, it would once have been impossible to find a single person who was not of the highest nobility. Kings and queens were as plentiful there as stars in the heavens, and not a soul below the rank of a duke or duchess had ever entered it. If any curious person is anxious to know how this could be, he must understand that all these kings and queens are such as have reigned well for a long period of years , and so are rewarded by entrance into this lovely land, where they grow young again and remain so evermore. Many take with them some faithful friend, a duke or a prince.

But, as I said, no common folks are admitted. This might prove a very poor arrangement in some countries, where common folks are depended upon to do common work but here there is no such need. The labor of life is all accomplished by magic — no one knows how or when. Great banquets rise upon polished tables whenever the kings and queens wish to dine or sup. Spirited horses come trotting up to the door, all saddled and richly caparisoned, if a king but shows a desire to ride. The royal beds are always of luxurious down, and the linen is like snow.

Although nobody knows how all this work is brought about, everyone is too well bred to display the least curiosity; and so life goes tranquilly on like a gently moving river, undisturbed by effort or discontent.

One evening at sunset, all the kings and queens with their courtiers were sitting together upon a smooth green terrace, watching the sky of saffron and rose.

It was a noble picture, that of gracious women in fine robes, and men who looked as if they could win a battle or a lady’s heart, resting in careless postures, with a deep contentment on their faces, such as is never seen outside the land of dreams.

“Do you ever feel a longing for the other world?” asked the golden-haired Queen Ilsa of King Olan, as they sat somewhat apart from the others, under a shade of palms — “the land where we used to live and reign?”

“No,” said King Olan, stroking his beard thought fully, “not precisely a longing; but I do sometimes dream of a breath from its roses and clover — not so sweet as the flowers of our own country, but still homely and pleasant because we loved them once.”

“I see you understand,” said Queen Ilsa, with a far-away look in her blue eyes. “I think we should all like it if we had just one person from the Land of Common Folks to keep us in remembrance of those old days. Why not wish for such a person?”

“That would never do,” answered the king decidedly. “If we wished, the person would be among us before we could say ‘Charlemagne,’ and we might dislike him exceedingly. And then, though we could wish him away again, we should have been disturbed and our happy tranquility broken.”

“Suppose we ask King Sonoro,” said she, and rising, they approached a king whose beard was of rippling silver, and who, though he looked now so strong and valiant, had reigned sixty good years before he reached this lovely land.

Then they laid the matter before him, and other kings and queens drew near to listen, until the terrace was like a garden bed, blooming with rich raiment and sparkling with gems from many crowns.

“Oh, lovely!” cried the Princess Honeydrop, laughing and clapping her hands as the new idea was told her. “How delightful to have common folks again! They are so amusing! I know I should laugh all day long.”

“They do say odd things,” replied King Bellasso, who had been something of a philosopher in his youth. “They often get nearer the root of the matter than they think.”

Meanwhile King Sonoro had been gravely listening, and when the shower of exclamations died down fitfully, he said: “I see no reason why it should not be done. We won’t wish; we will send Prince Venture some into the Land of Common Folks to select the right person, and that will make it all the more interesting.”

Then all the ladies turned to Prince Venturesome, begging him to bring them back something from his journey; and all the kings gave him so much advice that he felt sober indeed, and got away as soon as he could to put on a new doublet and make ready for his quest.

When he appeared again, brave in blue and silver, with his fair hair hanging in curls upon his shoulders, a great white horse, with trappings of blue and silver, stood awaiting him near the terrace, and Prince Venturesome sprang into the saddle, kissed his hands to the queens, and rode away, the sun shining on his curls.

It is very easy to get outside the Land of the Fair Queens, though no one had ever before wanted to do it; and in an instant, quick as the thought that brought him thither, the prince was over the boundary and in the meadow where grew tall green grass and yellow buttercups.

“So this is the Land of Common Folks!” thought he, as he looked about him, while the white horse trotted on. “It is very much like our country, only everything is more sober. The sun seems less bright, the grass is not so green and the brooks sing less enchantingly. But I like it.”

Still the horse trotted gently through the meadow, going wherever he would, and presently the prince caught a brighter gleam than that of the flowers. It seemed to be a pile of gold, and lo! as he rode nearer, it was but the hair of a maiden fast asleep by her sheep that were feeding near. Her cheeks were like rose-petals, just overspread with the brown of the nut, her lips were red cherries, and her eyes, as she opened them, shone like sparkling blue lakes.

“I have found her!” thought the prince exultingly, though he was somewhat disappointed at having his search so quickly over. “If I take her back with me, surely their Majesties will say I have done well.”

“Tell me,” he said, taking off his cap, “whether you will go with me to the Land of the Fair Queens?”

The lovely shepherdess was on her feet in a moment, and her eyes gleamed.

“I have heard of that country,” said she. “They say no one works there, and everybody wears silk and feeds on whipped cream. Is it true?”

“Yes, that is all true; and those that live there need some common body to dwell beside them in a commonplace way and remind them of old days.”

“Am I to be that common body?” said the shepherdess, an ugly frown appearing on her smooth forehead. “Should I not wear silk, and be a queen?”

“No. You would be just what you are now; but we should all love you, and you would love us and teach us to cherish sweet old memories.”

The shepherdess hesitated and bit her nails.

“Yes,” she said at length, “I’ll go. You may not mean to give me good clothes, but I dare say I can make over some of the queens’ old dresses, and look as well as the best.”

Now the prince felt that this would never do; but as he was very polite, he continued the conversation.

“Do you live alone?” he asked.

“No, I live with my father.”

“If you should go away, how could he get along without you?”

“He could get along exactly as he pleased,” said the shepherdess tartly. “I never have had any of the things I wanted in my life. I need a looking-glass, a blue dress, and a set of beads for my neck, and I shall go with anybody that will give them to me.”

The prince whispered one word in his horse’s ear and away they flew, leaving the meadow far behind. And to this day the shepherdess, now an old woman, is listening with all her might, hoping in vain for the prince to come.

“It is terrible,” thought he. “But no doubt she is an unusually selfish girl. There can’t be many like her. Now this young wood-chopper who is making the chips fly at such a rate looks like an honest fellow. I’ll try him. Sir Wood-Chopper,” he called, as his horse stopped by the tree, “are you a happy man?”

The wood-chopper ceased working, leaned on his axe and looked at him scornfully.

“What a question!” he cried. “No, I should be ashamed to say I was happy in such a world as this.”

“Poor fellow! don’t you have enough to eat and wear?”

“Yes, by working for it,” replied the man sulkily. “And do you not like to work?”.

“Not while fellows no better than I are riding round on white horses with silver trimmings.”

This time it required no word from the prince to start the white horse onward, and many a mile had been cast behind them before they forgot the wood chopper’s crusty face.

The day passed, and the prince had talked with many people. He could find plenty who were willing and glad to seek the Land of the Fair Queens, but none who were neither grumbling nor greedy. One man would go if he could be given a contract to supply the royal palaces with ammunition to repel invasion; and when the prince told him that no war ever entered that domain, he remarked that it was his business to make ammunition, and he had no doubt he could stir up some sort of quarrel even there. An other would pack his trunk at once if he could be paid at the rate of an ounce of gold an hour, and held off obstinately in hope of making a better bargain; and most of the women wanted to know what title would be given them, because they did not propose entering a land of queens and taking any inferior rank. So at nightfall the prince had not succeeded, and he lay down to sleep with the white horse waiting beside him.

Day dawned, and as he rode on again he came presently to the cave of a hermit, a grizzled man, who sat warming himself in the sun.

“A pleasant morning!” called the prince, reining in his horse.

“Pooh!” growled the hermit. “Why do you make such a fuss about it? I see no reason why we shouldn’t have pleasant mornings. That’s nothing to be thankful for.”

“Isn’t anybody thankful in this strange country?” the prince sorrowfully asked.

“Yes,” returned the hermit, “one. There is an old woman in that little hovel down there. She is so con tented she is almost a fool. I’m worn out with her perpetual thankfulness; the very sight of her roof makes me sick.”

“Tell me about her!” called the prince eagerly. “Is she always contented?”

“Yes, I believe so; she hasn’t sense enough to be anything else. Day before yesterday her pig ran away, and she said she couldn’t blame him for wanting to see the world. And when he was driven back, she gave him new milk for supper because it seemed so pleasant to see him in the pen again. Yesterday somebody stole a gold piece from her and she only said, ‘Poor soul! I hope it will do him good!’ We have no patience with her, any of us.”

Away sprang the white horse, and in a moment he had trotted up to the hovel, where, before the door, sat the cleanest of old women in a blue linen dress and a starched apron. Her face was withered and thin, but it was very sweet.

“Dear me!” cried she, as the prince sprang from his saddle. “What a lovely gentleman and what a noble horse!”

“Madam,” began the prince at once, “I see your cottage is full of holes. Would you like to have it mended?”

“I might like it, but a great many other people have no cottages at all. I am fond of fresh air myself, and these holes let in a good deal. If your Highness has anything to give, let those have it that need it most.”

“Would you like to dress in silk all the rest of your life?”

The little old woman smiled.

“What a funny gentleman!” quoth she. “Silk? No, it crackles so I can’t abide it. Linen is the thing for me.”

“Do you care to wear a crown?”

Now the little old woman laughed outright, and taking off her spotless cap, she pointed to her thin gray hair.

“Shouldn’t I look funny?” asked she, and polite as he was, the prince did have to laugh.

Then he sat down and told the old woman exactly what he was seeking, and she listened with the great est interest.

“And the pretty queens want somebody to knit their stockings and brush their hair!” she said. “Bless them. Of course, I’ll go — if only I may take my pig and cat with me.”

So Prince Venturesome told her again that she need only live her own quiet life and keep her little black tea-kettle boiling on the fire, as she did in her present home, in order to make everybody happy.

“And am I to be given so much and do nothing for it?” she cried. “Well, I’m of no use to anybody here, and if others need me I’ll gladly go.”

Then the prince lifted her on his horse and mounted also, telling her at the same time to trust her pig and cat to him. In another moment they were over the boundary and in the Land of the Fair Queens, where they found the cat and pig waiting for them, bristling with surprise. They rode up to the terrace, and the little old woman was amazed as never woman was before: for a great king lifted her from her seat, and queens came forward and put their arms about her neck.

“She is like my old nurse!” cried one; and they all loved and cherished her because she was sweet and homely, like the mint and balm from old-fashioned gardens.

And though the prince gave the ladies the buttercups he had brought from the meadows, not one word would he tell concerning his adventures. Yet it was noticed that he was ever after sadder than the other dwellers in that lovely land.

THE UNAMBITIOUS QUEEN

Once upon a time there was a very quarrelsome country, and it was always having disputes with its neighbors. Now the king of this country had grown tired of reigning.

“Really,” said he, “I think I must take a vacation.”

So he called his family together, all but one second cousin, who was busy making jelly, and took them away to the Islands of the Golden Star; and there they were so happy for the space of three months and one day that they determined to continue their vacation as long as they lived.

“The king is having such a delightful time, eating plums and playing football,” said the messenger his Majesty sent back to the court officers, “that he has decided never to reign any more; and all his children and nephews and nieces have also begged to be excused from succeeding him.”

“But who will reign?” cried the lord chancellor, shaking his head till the powder flew from it in clouds.

“I don’t know,” answered the messenger, making his bow, and backing out of the council. “And the late king says he doesn’t care. And, if your highness pleases, I am in a great hurry myself to get back to the Islands of the Golden Star, to go on with my own vacation.”

Then he ran away as fast as his legs could carry him, and presently they saw his little boat making sail out of the harbor.

“What is to be done?” asked the lord chancellor; and the keeper of the two hundred seals also cried, “What is to be done?”

“The only member of the king’s family left here is his second cousin, Countess Brigitta,” said the court genealogist. “Of course, we shall be obliged, according to the law of succession, to offer her the crown.”

They were all greatly relieved to find the matter settled by such simple means; and so they polished up the crown until it shone anew, placed it on a silken cushion, and bore it away to the house of the Countess Brigitta, whom they found sitting on the front steps, paring apples.

“Good afternoon,” said she, as they came up in solemn procession. “Do take seats. But, my stars and blue ribbons! What are you doing with the crown?”

“We beg your acceptance of it, madam,” said the lord chancellor pompously, laying the cushion at her feet.

Then he went on to tell her what had happened, and that it was really her duty to become queen.

As he continued, the Countess Brigitta grew more and more sober; and when he had finished, she laid down her paring-knife among the apples, saying sorrowfully: “Well, what must be, must; but it seems to me I shall be a very poor sort of queen.”

“That may be, your Majesty,” said the court truth teller. “But poor queens are not at all uncommon.”

“And I am neither handsome nor majestic,” added she.

“Very true, your Majesty!” said the truth-teller; “but the gems in a crown sparkle so brightly that it is hard for the sharpest sight to tell what is underneath.”

“And there is actually nothing agreeable to me in the idea of reigning, except, perhaps, the privilege of eating bread and honey in the kitchen.”

“That has been, from time immemorial, a royal prerogative,” said the lord chancellor, bowing.

And seeing from all their faces that there was no hope for her, the Countess Brigitta placed the crown on her head, locked up her cottage, and calling the cat and dog, walked away to be queen.

For several weeks affairs went on very well, for even a kingdom can take care of itself for some time after it has once been wound up and set going; but one morning, when the queen had settled herself with her knitting in a little rocking-chair she kept beside the throne, the minister of war came in, and told her that an ambassador had arrived from a neighboring kingdom, to find out when it would be convenient for the two nations to begin fighting.

“But what on earth do they want to fight for?” asked the queen, laying down her knitting, and looking at him over the top of her spectacles.

“Your Majesty, it has been our custom to go to war with somebody every six weeks,” said the minister; “and this time it is the turn of King Columba’s subjects to fight us. If they had not come to arrange preliminaries, tomorrow we should have been obliged to seek them. Surely, your Majesty remembers that the late king, your second cousin, was always going to war?”

“Yes, I do,” said the queen; “but I never thought he liked it. Well, send the ambassadors in here.” And she rolled up her knitting, pushed the little rocking-chair out of sight, and clambered up on the throne.

“Something is due to public opinion,” thought the queen, sitting up straight, and trying to look as majestic as she could.

Presently a great clanking was heard, and the ambassadors, all in armor, entered, and bowed before her.

“How-dy-do?” said the queen. “How very uncomfortable you must be in all that tin-ware! Do take it off, and make yourselves at home.”

The ambassadors looked at one another in surprise; but the armor was hot and heavy, and their leader answered: “If your Majesty would permit us to retire into the antechamber, your Majesty’s request shall be obeyed.”

“That’s right,” said the queen. “Let us all be comfortable as long as we can. You may be queens — no, kings — sometime; and then you can’t. Take my word for that.”

So they clanked out of the room, and soon returned in their every-day clothing.

“There! now you look more at your ease,” said the queen. “I’ve ordered a cup of tea since you’ve been gone. Be it at wedding or funeral, we’re always the better for a cup of tea.”

She poured the tea, and the ambassadors accepted and drank it, though, as they afterwards confessed, they were so amazed at this peculiar queen that their legs were weak for hours.

Queen Brigitta chatted so pleasantly that it was some time before they could broach their errand; but, finally, one of them seized a chance to say: “Your Majesty, our royal master, King Columba, has sent us to declare war upon your kingdom.”

“So I hear,” said the queen frankly. “What does he want to do that for?”

Now it was illegal in those countries to go to war without an excuse; and so it had become their custom to seize upon some pretext, which no one ever thought of disputing, and immediately begin to fight about it.

“Your Majesty,” said the ambassador, “one of your subjects has declared that the lobsters on our coast have no claws, and that is an insult we cannot brook.”

“Why, he must be a fool if he’s said such a thing as that!” cried the queen., “Of course, they have claws! You can tell your master I’m very sorry I’ve got such a silly fellow in my kingdom; and, if I can find him, I’ll set him to studying natural history.”

The ambassadors looked at one another in despair. “So that’s all settled,” said the queen briskly; “and now we can enjoy ourselves. Have another cup of tea?”

When the ambassadors presently took their leave, they were completely dazed. For the first time in their lives they had disobeyed orders, and failed to declare war; and it was with fear and trembling that they went into the presence of King Columba, and told him exactly what had happened. Fortunately for them, the king dearly loved a joke, and he roared with laughter till the walls rang.

“Ha! ha!” cried he. “Queens must have changed since my day. I’ll ride over there and take a look at her Majesty.”

And the ambassadors thanked their stars that he did not order them to the block.

After this Queen Brigitta received another declaration of war, this time from a king who stated that one of his subjects had been beaten and ill-used by one of hers; but the queen grew very indignant, and threw her offending subject into prison, while she sent the invalid jelly and gruel and broth and oysters.

“I’m ashamed of such carryings-on!” she said heartily to the ambassadors. “You tell your king so, with my compliments.”

And who could insist on fighting after that?

Another sovereign proposed to besiege her capital, because she had in her possession some territory which belonged to him.

“Is this so?” asked Queen Brigitta of her prime minister. “Have we taken land that doesn’t belong to us?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” answered he. “We have held it for over two hundred years; and thanks to our good swords, we shall hold it always.”

“No, we shan’t,” said the queen, setting her lips tight, “not while I am queen. You just make out the papers, or whatever you have to do, and give that territory back this minute!”

And though all her ministers were angry in their hearts, they dared not disobey; and the stolen province was restored. Then there was great rejoicing in the land which had formerly held it. Queen Brigitta’s name was daily crowned with blessings; and the people charged their children never, so long as time should last, to fight with the subjects of so just a sovereign.

Meanwhile King Columba had not given up his purpose of meeting her, and one day he sent a messenger to say he would make her a little visit.

“Delightful!” cried the queen, who was so good a housekeeper that she loved to have company. “And I’ll invite all the other kings round here.”

Now many of these sovereigns had deadly quarrels with one another, and had formerly kept at the greatest possible distance apart, except upon the battle field; but as none knew the others were coming, they all promptly assembled in Queen Brigitta’s palace at the appointed time. In deference to their hostess, they of course banished all idea of present hostilities, and followed her to the banqueting-hall with as good grace as they could summon. Still, their thoughts were bitter; but whenever the queen noticed a frown on any of their brows, she would bustle up to one and another, saying: “I’m afraid there’s something you don’t like. Is the meat underdone? or does it need a bit of mint sauce?”

And everybody was ashamed to seem quarrelsome, though each one thought within himself — “I’ll settle with him by and by!”

The queen’s guests stayed with her seven days, and every minute they grew more good-humored and merry. Queen Brigitta had a great deal to talk about. She wanted them to help her plan a hospital and places where little children could run about and play the games they loved best.

“For of course we must keep ourselves very busy working for our subjects,” she said. “They’re so kind to dress us so well and give us so much bread and honey!”

And the other kings and queens, who had thought always of their own pleasure before the good of the people, hung their heads and were ashamed.

On the last day, as they sat together, the queen proposed that they should all meet in like manner once a year.

“For I need you to advise me,” she said. “You must have seen that I don’t in the least know how to reign. I’m not a bit wise, and all I can do is to try not to harm anybody. I beg you won’t go to war with me,” she added, “because there will never be any need of it. If any of my subjects should injure yours, you just tell me, and I’ll make them apologize; and if anybody harms me unintentionally, I shall be delighted to forgive him.”

So all these kings and queens joined hands, and swore a solemn truce, after which they promised to meet once a year to talk over the good of their subjects. They also planned to keep their soldiers busy in teaching gymnastics to the children and carrying burdens for the old and weak.

When Queen Brigitta’s council saw that other sovereigns approved of her, they, too, began to grow very well satisfied.

“To be sure she doesn’t know how to reign,” they confessed to one another, in the privacy of the council chamber. “But then, she can’t do much harm, with us always at hand to keep things in running order.”

THE WONDERFUL TAPESTRY

The Princess Melita sat by the window of her bower, looking out on the Sunset Lake. There was a frown between her lovely brows, and she drummed with one white hand on the window ledge. She was out of humor, and no one could please her. Now in that kingdom, ill-humor was looked upon as a kind of disease, so that whenever a person gave way to it he was spoken of as ill, and medicine was prescribed for him.

It was not long before news spread over the castle that the Princess Melita was very ill indeed; and when it reached her father, the king, he at once sent three of the thirty court physicians to visit her. They went tiptoeing into her room, but in the space of half an hour they came hurriedly out, and proceeded to make their report to the king.

“Is there anything dangerous in my daughter’s symptoms?” asked his Majesty, anxiously, hurrying into the chair of state, and clapping on his crown: for he was an ease-loving king, who liked to loll about when no one was by.

“Very dangerous, your Majesty,” said the head physician solemnly, as he bowed to the ground.

“Dear me!” cried the king. “What does she com plain of?”

“Nothing, your Majesty. In fact, one of the symptoms of her disease is an Ominous Silence. Do you not agree with me,” he added, turning to the other two, “that it should be classed under the head of an Ominous Silence?”

“Undoubtedly,” replied they in concert, “combined with Intermittent and Crusty Replies.”

“This is serious,” said the king. “Such a healthy princess as she has been for eighteen years! Well, what do you prescribe?”

“Your Majesty,” said the first physician, “amusement. If that fails, occupation.”

So the king instantly dispatched the court fool to his daughter’s apartment, with orders to rehearse his newest tricks and utter his latest quips and jokes; but the princess only looked up when the jester entered, and pointed to the door: upon which, being a wise fool, he turned about and left her.

Then the wise woman was summoned, who knew stories of what had been before the earth was created; and she entered the princess’s bower bearing a scroll of curious characters , from which she alone could read strange tales of all the things that had ever happened .

But the princess only said, with a deepening scowl: “ Leave me and take your foolish stories with you!”

After this, wonderful singers, who knew the songs of the brooks and the whisper of leaves and the voice of the nightingale , assembled at her door, and dancers who could float like the snowflake or swim like the swallow; but Melita would have none of them.

So the doctors, putting their wise heads together, said: “She must have occupation.”

It is perhaps time to tell what was really the matter with the Princess Melita. She was actually tired of happiness, and longed to be miserable, if only for a change. She was tired of being beautiful, and finding her bed of rose-leaves and her food of cream and honey; and most of all she was tired of having people love and praise her all day long.

When the court physicians had concocted their prescription it read something like this:

R

Canvas . . . . . 2 ells

Silk . . . . . . 8 oz .

Needles . . . . 6

Take constantly until symptoms abate.

It was a very heroic remedy: for this particular court was an idle one, and tapestry represented the most serious sort of occupation. A trusty messenger was sent to a merchant with the slip of paper, and came running back in haste with a bundle of silks and canvas. This he delivered to the ladies-in-waiting, and they, bearing a tiny thimble and these gaily colored threads and fabrics, opened Melita’s door.

“Will it please your Highness to sew?” they asked, with weak little voices; for, though she had always been the sweetest of noble ladies, disease had sadly altered her.

“Yes, it will please me,” answered the princess, with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “I will work a piece of tapestry, and it shall hang in the palace of the prince who shall wed me.” And as she threaded her needle, she thought, in her ill-humor: “I will make the most hideous piece of tapestry ever known, and see if these people who flatter me day after day do not call it lovely.”

Then she set to work, and, being swift with her needle, in a few hours she had designed the ugliest square of tapestry to be imagined. It had a bright green sky and purple grass. From a blue castle led an alley bordered by scarlet trees, and down the alley walked crabs and lobsters, dodos and griffins, arm in arm. It was enough to make the boldest shudder.

When the princess had partly completed it, she began to display it to everyone, with a great show of pride in its beauty.

“Is it not lovely?” she said to her ladies; and they, fearing to speak the truth to her in her bitter mood, would echo faintly: “Most lovely!”

Then the princess would laugh, and day by day her illness increased.

About this time it became known throughout the neighboring kingdoms that the Princess Melita was old enough to marry, and many princes curled their locks, donned their bravest attire, and came on prancing steeds to ask her hand.

One morning, when she was working into her tapestry a hideous animal which she had dreamed out the night before, forty-nine stalwart young princes rode into the courtyard and lifted their plumed hats, bending low as they passed.

“Aha!” thought the princess, “if you are no better than my father’s courtiers, not one of you will I choose, but rather some obscure road-mender, who will not tell me lies.”

All day she sat in her bower, working; but as night fell, the king sent word that she must don the finest gown she had and descend to the cedar hall to entertain his guests.

When the Princess Melita appeared in the great room that evening, not all the reverence felt for her by the forty-nine young princes could restrain the low hum of admiration at her entrance. She was dressed in a long, soft robe of white that swept the floor, and everything about her was white, save her blue eyes, her rosy cheeks and lips, and her golden girdle and golden hair.

One daring youth hurried forward and led her to her seat; and so beautiful was she that he could not help whispering: “Princess, fairest of all, I love you!”

Melita flushed, cast down her eyes, and seated her self in the little chair that was always placed for her beside her father’s throne. There she sat for a few moments in sweet confusion, knowing that she would have to make choice of a prince, and looking most womanly and lovely

Then of a sudden her disease returned, her eyes sparkled, and she whispered to a lady-in-waiting: “Bring me my tapestry!”

And when the fabric was placed in her hand, she became once more mocking and cruel.

“Is it not beautiful?” she asked, holding up the procession of evil-looking creatures before that one bold suitor who had met her first, and who now leaned over the back of her chair.

“Beautiful, indeed!” sighed the prince; but he spoke absently, not seeing the tapestry, and thinking only of the lady’s eyes.

“And you?” she said graciously, turning to those who dared not press so near. “Do you not praise my work?”

“It is lovely, princess!” cried one, and another echoed the word, until a chorus of acclamation rose over the wonderful tapestry. Even the king, who had understood from the court physicians that the princess must not be crossed, declared it to be “one of the neatest pieces I ever saw, my dear!”

Then the face of the princess grew scornful, and she thought: “I will have none of you, flatterers and liars!” And gathering up her work, she walked with stately step to her bower.

So several days passed, and the princess grew more and more wicked, and determined to test everyone about her to find out if, by chance, there lived prince or courtier who would not lie. Her father had given her a week to make choice among her forty-nine suitors, and she, finding that flattery moved all their tongues, resolved to cheat them to the end with fair words and gentle looks, and then reject them all.

On the morning of the fourth day she rose early, and went out alone to walk on the dew-jeweled grass in front of the castle before any of the princes should have roused from their dreams to thoughts of wooing. Now the lady was very sad, and weary of her bitter jest. As she went down the palace steps she saw, standing by the fountain, a beautiful youth whom she recognized as that one of the forty-nine who had first addressed her, and who had not spoken after that first evening, but had stood apart while the others flattered her. His looks were sad as her thoughts, and seeing that, she approached him.

“Prince,” she said, “why have you risen so early?”

“Princess,” he answered, doffing his velvet cap, “because I took leave of the king, your father, last night, and this morning I am to ride away.”

“But you have not yet taken leave of me!” she said angrily.

The prince hesitated, but only for a moment. “Princess,” he said, “I came here to ask your hand in marriage. You have made it impossible for me to do that, and so I have only courage to steal away quietly, not waiting to see you choose one of those in whose company I came hither.”

The princess had grown very pale, and her white hands trembled.

“Will you tell me why you could not ask me that question?” she said meekly. “Am I not — do I not look as you wished?”.

“You are beautiful as the day,” he cried; and then he went on sternly, “but you are cruel. You spend your golden hours in making what is ugly instead of that which is fair to see, and then you force others to lie in praising it.”

In spite of her shame, a great joy fell upon the princess, and flushed her face like roses with the sun set on them.

“Sir,” she said, very softly, “do you like my tapestry?”

“It is hideous,” began the prince severely, when, to his amazement, the princess broke into happy tears.

“I have been wicked,” she cried, “but oh! if you would not ride away this morning!”

And the prince fell on his knees before her and kissed her lovely hands.

When the court awoke that morning, there was a great outcry for the Princess Melita, until one of her ladies espied her coming toward the castle, leaning on the arm of the happy prince. As soon as they saw her face, they all knew what had happened, and the forty-eight suitors ordered their forty-eight horses to be saddled without delay, while the king stepped for ward to meet the pair, and kissed his son-in-law on both cheeks. As for the court fool, who had been the only one to understand all this from first to last, he stole up behind the princess and whispered: “Shall I burn the tapestry, my lady?”.

“No,” said the princess humbly, “it shall hang in a room in my husband’s house, and if evil moods come upon me, I will go and look at it, and be cured.”

THE LITTLE BROWN HEN

There was once an old woman who had always been obliged to work very hard for a living, and her only helper was a Little Brown Hen. Every morning the little hen laid a beautiful white egg, and every morning the old woman carried it to the palace for the King’s breakfast, and the small silver coin paid her weekly by the royal Treasurer served to buy nearly all her tea and sugar.

One night the King lay awake for an hour, and among the fancies that occurred to him was one that he was tired of eggs made up of a white and a yolk.

“I will have, henceforth,” thought he, “a white egg one morning and a yellow egg the next.”

So, on the following day, when the little old woman appeared, bringing his egg, he commanded that she should be shown into the room where he sat, with his morning crown on, waiting for breakfast.

“Now, old woman,” said he as she entered, bobbing and curtsying, “it is our royal will that hence forth the egg laid for our royal breakfast shall not be of two colors, white and yellow, but that the colors shall alternate. One morning we will eat an egg all white, and the next morning one all yellow.”

“Your Majesty,” said the old woman, trembling, “that is a thing not to be bought, even by your Majesty. There are no such eggs.”

The King’s brows grew black; he was not used to being denied.

“I have commanded that there should be!” he thundered. “Find them!”

“Your Majesty,” said the old woman, trembling still more, “my Little Brown Hen is an excellent hen, and knows all the secrets of her trade; yet am I willing to swear that neither she nor any other hen can give your Majesty eggs all white or all yellow.”,

“Is this so?” asked the King, turning to his courtiers, and they bowed their heads, and answered:

“Your Majesty, it is so. There are no such eggs.”

Then the King fell into a sadness, and because he could not get the eggs, he desired them more than anything in all the world.

“Old woman,” he said at length, looking down at her, “I will give you forty arrals apiece for two hens, one of them to lay white eggs and the other yellow.”

Now an arral is a golden coin of that kingdom, and when the old woman heard of forty such, she realized that they would support her for many years, and she plucked up a faint hope that such hens might be found.

“Your Majesty,” said she, “I will do my best. But if I have to go to a far country in search of them, who will bring your Majesty the fresh egg every morning?”

“If your hen is a trustworthy hen, let her come and lay it at the palace gate herself,” said the King, “and the High Treasurer shall keep the money due you until your return.”

So the old woman made her curtsy and went away, full of hope and fear. When she reached home, she found in the dooryard her own little hen, who was never idle a moment, picking slugs from the cabbages.

“Little hen,” said the old woman, out of breath as she was, “can you lay an egg all white or all yellow?”

“No,” said the Brown Hen, quite scornfully, “nor any other hen. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

“If I can find anybody that has heard of it,” said the old woman, “my fortune is made. Perhaps there are magic hens somewhere, if one could only come across them.”

“Perhaps there are, and magic cabbages and magic worms,” said the Little Brown Hen, as she swallowed a grub in a very genteel manner, “but I have an idea they don’t agree with people as well as the common sort.”

Then her mistress hastily told her that she was going on a journey to find the magic hen, and urged her to be faithful in laying an egg every morning at the palace gate. And though the Little Brown Hen, with tears running down her beak, begged her to give up this perilous adventure, she would not be persuaded, and set off at nightfall alone.

“Well,” said the Brown Hen, as her mistress dis appeared over the hill behind the house, “what can’t be swallowed whole must be pecked apart. If my mistress is really gone, the only thing for me to do is to scratch along the best way I can.”

So, next morning, she got down early from the perch, went to the palace and laid her egg beside the gate. As she began to cackle, to summon the head cook, who should appear but the King, risen betimes to meditate on magic eggs.

“Well, well,” said he, taking off his outdoor crown to cool his brow, “so you’re the little hen that brings my breakfast. Has your mistress gone on her errand?”

“Your Majesty, she started last night.”

“How soon do you think she will succeed?”

“In the time that it would take to raise wheat from acorns or turn ducks into worms.”

“Oho!” said the King, who felt very good-humored, “so you don’t think she’ll succeed at all!”

“Your Majesty,” said the Little Brown Hen, “it’s a thankless task to speak the truth to the cock of a farmyard. Still, since your Majesty asks me, I must say that I know she cannot do the thing you ask.”

The King was not in the least offended at the little hen’s honesty.

“At any rate, you’re not afraid to speak your mind,” he said, chuckling. “You’d never do for a courtier. Here is a golden arral for you to spend in corn.”

“Your Majesty,” said the Little Brown Hen, “I am very thankful for the money; but I beg of you to place it in the hands of the Lord Treasurer, that he may keep it for my mistress. She has left me enough grain to eat, and I pick up many a fat worm in the garden.”

Then the King, excellently entertained, went in to breakfast, with a better appetite than he had had since he was a crown prince young enough to steal jam from the sideboard. Next morning as the little hen laid her egg at the gate, he appeared again, this time on purpose to see her.

“Little hen,” said he, “I have been thinking about you. Why don’t you run away and have a good time while your mistress is gone, instead of grubbing along like this?”

“Your Majesty,” said the Little Brown Hen, “it’s a poor hen that scratches only for herself. I like to work for my mistress.”

“But just take my advice, and go off on a vacation,” persuaded the King. “Your mistress never will. know.”

Then the little hen forgot that she was in the presence of a king, and her feathers ruffled with indignation.

“I never heard such talk — no, not since I was a pullet,” cried she. “Even a hawk will feed her own young ones, and who am I that I should desert my mistress?”

With that she ran off home, cackling as she went, and the King, delighted at being treated like an ordinary mortal, walked smiling in to breakfast, and on his way he ordered the Lord Treasurer to lay aside four golden arrals for the Little Brown Hen.

Next morning when the King appeared, the little hen was very much subdued and made him a low bow without daring to look in his face.

“Your Majesty,” said she, “those that are raised in the barnyard have rough voices. I hope your Majesty will pardon the violence of my speech yesterday.”

“Nay, little hen, you were quite right,” said the King. “And I was only testing you to see whether you were a good little hen or a selfish and idle one. And now I find you are sound as your own eggs, and I like you.”

Then the little hen’s heart was filled with joy, and she dared look up at the King again, and answer him in her own dry voice.

“Your mistress has been gone a long time looking for my magic eggs,” he said. “Do you think anything can have happened to her?”

“Your Majesty,” said the little hen, looking very grave, “it’s ill work leaving a safe roosting-place so near nightfall. I do feel worried about my mistress; I wish every hour she hadn’t gone.”

“I’ve been sorry I sent her,” said the king, “though I did get a little tired of whites and yellows together. On the whole, though, I am glad she went, for other wise I might never have had a chance to hear your excellent conversation; and I have now resolved, since you give such good advice, to make you my chief minister, so that I can consult you every day.”

“Your Majesty,” said the little hen, “let them that have weak wings content themselves with a low roost. I can give your Majesty a breakfast, but it is not fitting that a hen should be among your ministers.”

No one likes to have his favors rejected, and kings, in such circumstances, are apt to be displeased.

“Very well, do as you like,” said the King, with dignity. “But I think you are a trifle selfish. If you have good counsel, and I want good counsel, why shouldn’t you allow me to buy it of you?”

“Because, your Majesty, those that go into a strange field for grasshoppers are likely to find only snakes. If I should become one of your Majesty’s ministers, the others would grow jealous and jeer at me, and I should end in the pot of the royal kitchen. But if I can answer any question for your Majesty, I shall be only too glad to do it whenever I come to bring my morning egg.”

“Wise little hen,” cried the king, delighted. “We will tell nobody, and you shall be my counselor, at a salary of four golden arrals a day.”

Thus it happened that every morning he asked her some question, and so well pleased was he with her answers that he relied on her more and more, and so great a wisdom did he begin to show in the management of affairs that the state officials said to one another:

“The King is waking up! We, too, must be alert and vigilant.” And the kingdom grew daily in power.

Meanwhile the old woman journeyed on and on, and after many hardships she came to a land where two sisters, called the Wonder-Workers, dwelt together in a fine castle, and studied the art of magic. One evening, tired and footsore, the old woman toiled up the path leading to their castle.

“Can you tell me,” she asked of one sister, who sat at a casement looking down over the park, “can you tell me of any recipe that will make an egg all white or an egg all yellow?”

“If we can’t, nobody can,” said the Wonder Worker haughtily. “Sister, do you hear? Can we tell her?”

“Oh, yes,” said the other Wonder-Worker, appearing at the casement, “it is quite simple. You must feed your hen on rice and snow one day and the pollen from the inside of a lily the next day. At least, I think so; I can’t imagine any better diet.”

Then the old woman’s heart was glad indeed.

“Could you find me some hens to lay such eggs?” she asked joyously. “And if you succeed in making them do it, the King of my country will pay me forty golden arrals, and twenty of them you shall have for your pains.”

“If we can’t do it, nobody can,” said the sisters. “But you must first find us the pollen, the snow and the rice.”

The old woman had a little money — all her store — tied up in a corner of her handkerchief, and she immediately brought it forth, and sent messengers in different directions, some to fetch pollen from the marshes and some to bring snow from the mountain tops. This was very expensive work, but her heart was set on fulfilling the King’s wish.

At the end of a month her money was gone, and, though the two Wonder-Workers had brought her egg after egg, they were all of the same sort.

“Deary me, deary me!” cried the old woman. “My money is gone, and I’ve nothing to show for it. I’d better never have left my home.”

“Why, of course,” said one of the sisters, “you might have known the fashion of eggs wasn’t to be changed. We could have told you that; but when people ask us to do impossible things, we’re obliged to try.”

The old woman did not reproach them, for she saw they were like many people who pretend to wisdom though they have it not; but she turned about sorrowfully, and took to the road that led to her home. Many a weary day it was before she reached her little house, and when she did who should fly forward into her very arms but the Little Brown Hen.

“Oh, my dear mistress,” she cried, “how glad I am to see you!”

And the old woman, remembering that she had one trusty friend, sat down on her doorstep and wept joyous tears.

Next morning, she went sadly to the palace with the little hen, and confessed to her Royal Master that her mission had failed.

“Well, well!” said the King good-naturedly, “it might have been expected. But your going was lucky.”

Then he went on to tell her how he had grown to admire and trust the Little Brown Hen, and how she had earned for her mistress, by her eggs and good counsel, four hundred golden arrals, which had been placed in the hands of the Lord Treasurer.

“My little hen,” cried the old woman, turning to her faithful friend, as she stood modestly beside the egg she had brought, “you have made both our fortunes. With four hundred golden arrals we shall always be rich, even should we live for many years. How can I treat you kindly enough to pay you?”

“It was my duty to keep pecking away,” said the Little Brown Hen. “And often it happens that there are more worms in the home garden than on the public road.”

ROSEBLOOM
AND THORNBLOOM

Once there were two sisters named Rosebloom and Thornbloom. They were both very beautiful, and Rosebloom was always happy and contented. She loved to sit on the door-stone, hour after hour, knitting, and took pleasure in watching her plants and birds; but Thornbloom was never at rest from one day to another, because she longed to be finer and more prosperous than everybody else.

“I will be a princess,” she said at length, one day, “and I will live in a castle, and marry no one but a prince.”

So she ran to tell this resolution to her father, because she was determined to lose no time in carrying it out.

“Dear me,” said her father, who was a very kind and indulgent old man, “you can’t be a princess, you know. I am not a king.”

“That makes no difference,” said Thornbloom, pressing her lips together in an obstinate way she had. “I will be a princess, and you must give me a castle to live in. Nothing else in the world will content me.”

The poor father sighed, for he had often been called upon to do quite as difficult things for this troublesome daughter; and then, as usual, he set about thinking how her wish could best be gratified. At last, after wearing his thinking-cap day and night for nearly a week, he said to her:

“About twenty miles from here is a ruined castle, which stands on my land. If you like to go there and live for a while, you are perfectly welcome to it. I’m afraid you won’t be very comfortable; but this is the only castle I know anything about, and perhaps it will prove all the more satisfactory for being so ancient.”

Then Thornbloom was greatly delighted, and set about making preparations for her journey. She packed her most gorgeous apparel, because of course a princess could have no need of common clothes; and she borrowed a half-finished piece of tapestry on which Rosebloom was at work. Thornbloom herself cared nothing about such occupations, and sometimes never saw her thimble for a week at a time; but she had heard that a princess was often found embroidering by the prince when he arrived, and she thought it would be safer to keep something of the kind on hand. Then one bright morning she set out for her castle, riding on a little palfrey, accompanied by her maid, a cook, and an old man-servant of her father’s, to do the work.

Her father stood looking after them, his eyes full of tears; and Rosebloom actually lost three rounds of knitting in waving farewells.

Thornbloom was in high spirits now that she had at last become a princess. To be sure, she was not over-comfortable, because she had thought it would be proper to wear a long gown of thin embroidered silk; and this fluttered in the breeze and wound itself about the palfrey’s legs in a very embarrassing manner. Still, Thornbloom was sure she should know better how to manage it when she had been longer a princess. She had given her servants orders that they should on no account speak to her unless they had been first addressed; and as she was afraid it would not be dignified to talk much with them, she dared not speak first. Moreover, she had an idea that in calling to them she ought to say, “Ho, slave!”  “Come hither, minion!” or something in that romantic style; and she knew that in case she did the servants would very likely turn straight about and go home.

The day wore on; and as the sun rose high in heaven, Thornbloom grew tired and thirsty, and told Hegner, the man-servant, to stop as soon as he saw signs of a brook or spring, where they might drink and water the horses. But when they did come to a little stream in a green valley, it was discovered that Thornbloom’s golden cup had been packed at the very bottom of the chest, and that it would cost great delay to reach it.

“Very well,” said she to herself, “of course I can’t drink at all. A princess should use a golden cup.”

So she sat on her palfrey, looking at the water in a dignified manner, and pretending that she was quite above wanting any, while her maid drank from a leaf, and the other servants from their hands. Her lips and tongue were quite parched, and her eyes filled with tears of disappointment and longing; but she was still determined, at all hazards, to be a proper princess.

Toward the middle of the afternoon a gray tower loomed up against the sky, and Thornbloom’s heart grew joyful.

“Ah!” cried she: “that must be my castle. Hegner, is not that my castle?”

“I believe it is the old ruin, miss,” said Hegner rather crossly. He was a trusty servant; but being also rheumatic, he could scarcely have been expected to relish such an adventure at his time of life.

“Try to remember, Hegner, to address me as ‘Your Highness’,” said Thornbloom severely. “Do not let me have to speak to you about it again.”

So they moved on, Hegner shaking his gray head sorrowfully, and saying to himself, “Mad! mad as five hatters!” But Thornbloom, though she heard him quite plainly, held her chin high in air, and pretended to be thinking of other and more lofty things.

Presently, as they rode along, came a clatter of hoofs behind, and a youth dashed up to them on a great red horse. He had the beauty of brown eyes and white teeth, and he took off his cap to Thornbloom, with a charming grace.

“My adventures have begun,” thought she. “This is surely a prince!”

The youth rode along quite near her side, and seemed desirous of talking with her; but, being both polite and modest, he would not speak first.

“Good-morrow, fair sir,” said Thornbloom, smiling upon him graciously.

“Good-morrow, madam,” said the youth. “Your palfrey looks as if he had traveled far today. The next town is many miles away; and, unless you have other accommodation for the night, my grandmother would be glad to have you pasture your beasts in her field, and she will find room in the house for you and your servants. She bade me ride after you to say so.”

“Your grandmother — the queen?” asked Thornbloom.

The youth laughed loud and long.

“Oh, dear, no,” he said, “she isn’t a queen. She is a dear old lady, and she lives in that pretty stone house you have just passed. Whatever could have made you think she was a queen?”

“And aren’t you a prince, then?” inquired Thornbloom, in a tone becoming rapidly colder. “An en chanted prince, perhaps,” she whispered eagerly. “Don’t be afraid of saying so. I won’t tell.”

He laughed again.

“Why, I am only Eric, the gardener,” he said. “I raise wheat on our little farm, and send it to the mill to be ground, and then sell it for a pretty penny. Grandmother and I are not rich; but we have all we want, and we are as happy as the day is long.”

Thornbloom privately thought this very delightful; but she knew quite well that, being a princess, she ought not to feel interested in so humble a person.

“Your worthy grandmother was very kind to offer us the shelter of her roof,” she said, with dignity.

“But our own castle is now in sight. That is our destination.”

She waved her hand toward the gray tower, and Eric turned his eyes upon the pile of stones.

“Not the ruin!” he cried in amazement. “Bless my soul! You don’t mean to say you are going to live in the ruin?”

“Our castle has fallen somewhat into decay,” said Thornbloom, rather offended, though striving still to be majestic. “But doubtless we shall restore it to its former greatness.”

Eric was evidently much amused; but he drew his mouth together into a proper knot, and, gravely lifting his cap, said he would bid the princess good-day. She bowed, with as much cordiality as seemed becoming to one of her station; but, just as Eric turned his horse about, old Hegner piped up—

“Miss Thornbloom, perhaps the young man can tell us where to go for provisions.”

“Of course, I can,” said Eric promptly. “I will bring you some bread and meat myself; and indeed, if you like, I will supply you every morning with vegetables and fruit from my home garden.”

“That will do excellently well,” said Thornbloom, and she wanted to add, “Thou art a worthy youth”; but somehow she did not dare. Eric looked as if he might laugh at any instant; and there was a grave, straightforward look in his eyes which made Thornbloom feel rather small and young.

Eric cantered away on the big red horse, and Thornbloom, with her train, entered the courtyard of her castle. It was a forbidding pile, half in ruins, full of great open spaces, through which the swallows flew back and forth, and where one within could catch glimpses of the blue sky. Thornbloom dismounted and entered, holding her silken skirts daintily from the ground. She was conscious of making a very pretty picture in the dark place; but Helda, the maid, kept muttering: “Well, if ever! Who’d have thought’t was such a hole!” And once, when a startled bird flew out of a corner and whizzed past, she gave a loud shriek, and seized her mistress’s arm.

“Unhand me, girl,” said Thornbloom calmly, determined that no one should see her flinch. “Helda, I shall occupy the tower: it seems to be the only part of the castle which is quite firm. You may have the little room next mine, and the cook will take the basement. Hegner can choose his own sleeping-place.”

Then while Helda went about sobbing and giving little shrieks whenever she startled a rat or touched a spot of mildew, Thornbloom unbraided her hair, because she had always understood that a princess wears hers unconfined, and sat down by the window to think how very satisfactory it all was, and how she had at last reached her proper station in life. She was terribly hungry, but, of course, being a princess, she could not lower herself so much as to think about that; and after telling Helda carelessly to bring her a cup of wine and a bit of bread, she showed no more interest in the subject. And as Hegner was cross, and the cook frightened out of her wits at the sight of a dirty kitchen and a tumble-down fireplace, it was quite late at night before the golden cup could be unpacked and the poor princess given her supper.

She ate it ravenously, and then rolled herself up in a fur cloak, and lay down on a long table, because it had been discovered that, whatever there might have been once, there was now not a single bedstead to be found in the castle.

Thornbloom was awake at the first peep of day; and when she rose, her royal bones were stiff as badly-jointed iron.

“It’s all that table!” thought she. “There’s no doubt whatever that I shall have to send home for a bedstead.”

She put on a lovely sea-green silk, embroidered with gold, tied her golden hair with a silken snood, and, after looking in her mirror (she had not forgotten that, though she had the bedsteads), she went down the stone stairs to breakfast. Early as it was, Eric had brought some meat and fine white bread, some red apples and purple grapes; and he was flying about the bare dining-hall, doing a hundred things at once. He had built a roaring fire in the old fireplace, he had set a vase of roses beside Thornbloom’s plate, and he was whipping up a frothy drink of eggs and milk, while the cook stood in the doorway, and shook her sides at sight of so fine a helper.

Old Hegner was smiling as he threw more sticks on the fire, and Helda, standing near one of the windows, her finger in her mouth, was saying, “What a funny gentleman!” when Thornbloom came in. And Thornbloom, though she meant to be dignified, as became her position, could not forbear smiling, and saying very kindly: “Good-morning, sir!”

Eric bowed low, and gravely arranged the stool on which she was to sit. Then he signed Helda to pour the beverage he had made into the golden goblet.

“It seems to me,” said Thornbloom, as she tasted it, “that you must be a cook, sir, and a very good one.”

“My grandmother told me how to make it,” said Eric. “She said you would be tired and perhaps ill after your long journey, and that you must have delicate food.”

As Thornbloom ate, her spirits began to rise. “Have you lived in this neighborhood a long time?” she asked Eric.

“A long time: ever since I was a little boy.”

“Then you must know whether there are any enchanted knights or ladies hereabout.”

“I don’t think it’s likely,” said Eric, rather puzzled. “I know all the country people for miles around.”

“Do you ever see any fairies?”

“Not one.”

“Nor a witch, nor an enchanter in a cave, nor a dragon, or griffin, or anything of that sort?”

“I am quite sure there is nothing of the kind here,” answered Eric sadly.

“What a poor, miserable neighborhood!” said the princess pettishly. “I wish my castle had been erected somewhere else.”

But she soon recovered from her ill-humor; and as Eric proposed showing her the old garden that had once been finely kept, but was now enlivened only by an occasional sweet-william or pink, trying to live and bloom, they walked there until noon. Thornbloom meanwhile tried hard to remember that she was a princess, and must not only be dignified but occasionally disagreeable; and Eric behaved as if he thought her the noblest lady in the land.

Other days went on quite like this first one, except that Eric’s jokes did not always avail in keeping the servants good-tempered. Hegner declared that he was “too old for this beastly camping out.” Helda screamed so much over rats and bats that she grew hoarse, and the cook declared that just as soon as she could catch a ride, back to master’s she’d go, that she would. And at last, from breathing the dampness, and lying awake at night in fear of gnats and robbers, poor Princess Thornbloom fell ill, and lay there shivering in her tower-room, crying out that a dragon had carried her away into an enchanted castle, and that she would give all the gold in her purse and all her golden hair to anyone who would help her out. Then suddenly it seemed to her that a lovely little creature with silver hair and kind blue eyes came and looked at her, and she felt better.

“You must be a good fairy,” said Thornbloom feebly; and, as she said it, she was carried out into the sunshine and away into a heavenly room, all blue flowers and bright sunlight, and placed on a white bed. Then she shut her eyes, and went fast asleep.

When Thornbloom woke, the good fairy was still beside her, softly stroking her hands and smiling at her; and the sunny room, painted over with blue forget-me-nots, seemed also to smile.

“Are you the good fairy?” asked Thornbloom again.

“No, dear,” said the pretty old lady, “I am just Eric’s grandmother. You were sick, my dear, and we brought you here to get well.”

“Was it yesterday?”

“Bless the child, no! it was weeks ago. Now shut your eyes, you pretty creature, and sleep.”

Thornbloom did exactly as she was told. She slept and ate, and slept and drank, for a good many weeks more, while old Hegner sunned himself on the porch, and the other two servants helped about the work. And at last she knew she was well, though still very weak; and sitting by the window one day, she began talking with Eric of the things that had happened.

“Your grandmother is the loveliest old lady in the world!”

“I think so,” said Eric modestly.

“And your work is so interesting, – to raise the wheat, and then have it ground into flour! It is far, far better than being a knight or a prince, and doing nothing but stand about idle.”

“It is better for me,” said Eric.

“And this house,” went on Thornbloom, “it is so clean, so sweet, so fragrant. Why, I think it is the most charming place ever seen!”

“If you were not a princess,” said Eric softly, “I should ask you to marry me, and live here always.”

“Why,” said Thornbloom, who had not for a moment dreamed of such a thing, “I think that would be perfectly beautiful!”

It was not many weeks before Thornbloom and her husband set out with all the servants on a visit to her old home. And when they reached the house, Thornbloom was alarmed to see that Rosebloom was not sitting in the doorway, knitting; she was sure her sister must be dead. So she began weeping bitterly, and Eric could not comfort her; but as they approached still nearer, she saw that Rosebloom was walking round the garden with a handsome youth, wearing a sword, and a feather in his cap.

“Ah,” cried she, “it is Rosebloom!” and Rose bloom, hearing her voice, turned with a cry of joy, and they fell into each other’s arms.

When they had wept, and kissed each other many times, Rosebloom said in a whisper: “That is Prince Fanciful, and I am going to marry him, dear Thornbloom. He stopped at the gate, one day when I was knitting, and told me he never saw such fine stitches.”

“But you do not knit so much now!” said Thornbloom, turning back with a sly smile, before rushing into the house to find her father.

“No,” said Rosebloom, looking a little ashamed, “he is afraid I shall spoil my eyes and my fingertips. Why, Thornbloom, you have found your prince, too!”

THE GRADUAL FAIRY

Once upon a time there was a Mother Breeze, and she lived, with her seven children, inside a hollow tree. Sometimes they thought of moving, because their house was old and leaky, and there was always a draft. But the Mother Breeze put it off, for, said she, when the children were old enough to travel they could go West and live with their Grand father Cyclone, who was very rich and owned a prairie.

As it was, the Mother Breeze had to work for a living; and one morning she got up and said to the seven Little Breezes: “It is going to be very hot today.”

Now the seven Little Breezes knew what that meant: for when it was hot their mother always had work to do, fanning the Sunset Lake.

So they said: “Oh, let us go with you!”

“No, my dears,” said the mother, tying on her work-apron and her stoutest wings. “If I were going for an hour, you might go. Or if I were going for two hours, you might go. But a whole day is too much.”

With that she began to look about for the leaf which was always pasted over the door when she was away: and at that the Little Breezes began to cry. They cried exactly as they did every time their mother left them, and they said exactly the same thing:

“Oh, it will be dark in here, and we can’t see to play!”

But the mother had heard it so many times that she paid no attention. She only said: “If the Green Goblin comes, be sure you don’t let him in.”

“Mayn’t we fly out and play with him?” asked all the Little Breezes, though they knew quite well how dangerous that would be.

“No, no,” said the mother. “It is going to be a hot day, and he would breathe you all up as quick as a wink.”

“May we speak to him?” asked the Little Breeze that liked to talk.

“Yes, you may speak to him. Only you must not let him in.”

“May we make fun of him?” asked the Little Breeze that liked to laugh.

“Yes, you may make fun of him. Only you must not let him in.”

“May we scold him?” asked the Little Breeze that liked to make other people do what he said.

“Yes, you may scold him. Only you must not let him in.”

“May we praise him?” asked the Little Breeze that liked to have everybody happy.

“Yes, you may praise him. Only you must not let him in.”

“May we listen to him?” asked the Little Breeze that had sharp ears.

“Yes, you may listen to him. Only you must not let him in.”

“May we love him?” asked the Little Breeze that liked to love everybody.

“Yes, you may love him. Only you must not let him in.”

“May we invite him to supper?” asked the Little Breeze that liked to give people things to eat.

“Yes, you may invite him to supper. Only you must not let him in.”

All this time the Mother Breeze was busy mixing some magic paste; and when she had finished it she went out, laid the leaf over the door, and pasted it round the edges. And while she worked, the Little Breezes screamed at the top of their voices, hoping she might leave the door open, or even stay at home.

“Oh! oh!” they cried. “It’s very dark in here!”

“Oh! oh! it’s very tight in here!”

“Oh! oh! it’s very cold in here!”

But the Mother Breeze was quite used to that, and when she had done pasting, she blew on the paste for a moment to be sure it was dry, and then she shook the leaf to see if it was firm; and with her mind at ease, she hurried off to the Sunset Lake.

Now as soon as the Little Breezes were quite sure she had gone, they stopped screaming and began to whistle merrily. They whistled for an hour, and then they had a game of tag, and then a game of puss-in-the-corner, and then a game of race-round-the-table. And when at last they heard the Sun outside saying it was twelve o’clock, they got their seven little porringers and sat down contentedly to eat their dinner. And as they were eating the last drop, what should they hear outside but a Noise! So they set down their porringers very softly and held their breaths to listen.

And they whispered in each other’s ears, the oldest Little Breeze to the Next Little Breeze, and the Next Little Breeze to the Next Little Breeze: “It is the Green Goblin. For he never comes without a Noise.”

“Little Breezes,” said someone from outside, “Little Breezes, are you at home? I have come to call.”

It was the voice of the Green Goblin, and they knew it well. So the oldest Little Breeze whispered to the Next Little Breeze, and the Next Little Breeze to the Next Little Breeze, and so on: “It is the Green Goblin.”

Now the Little Breeze that liked to talk put her finger on her lip and looked at all the others. And when they were perfectly still, she called to the Green Goblin: “We are not at home today.”

“Oh, yes, you are, Little Breezes,” said the Green Goblin; “for I hear you talk.”

“You don’t hear us at all, for we are very still,” said the Little Breeze that liked to talk. “But we hear you, and we know you are the Green Goblin, for you never go about without a Noise.”

“Indeed, I am not the Green Goblin,” said the visitor earnestly. “I am a beautiful fairy, and I have come to call.”

“No, you are not a fairy,” said the Little Breeze that liked to talk. “Fairies go about softly alone, and you have come with a Noise.”

Then the Green Goblin turned away, and they heard him muttering off through the bushes, and Noise was with him. And the Little Breezes began to whistle, as they washed their porringers and hung them on the wall.

Meantime the Green Goblin had sped away to the Thunder, and said to him: “I want to get rid of this Noise. Can you do anything with him?”.

“Oh, yes,” growled the Thunder, “and forty like him. Only you must promise not to have anything to do with him again, or any of his family, for I like to keep the Noises to myself.”

“I promise,” said the Green Goblin; and he went back softly to the tree, and there he said again: “O Little Breezes, are you at home? I have come to call.”

“Who are you?” asked the Little Breeze that liked to laugh.

And he answered: “I am a beautiful fairy, and I have come to call.”

Then the Little Breeze began to laugh so that she could hardly speak, and she said: “Ho! ho! you a fairy! fairies have sweet voices, and your voice is the voice of a Green Goblin.”

Then the Green Goblin sped away, and he said to the Brook: “Brook, give me some of your beautiful voice.”

Now the Brook was singing all to herself, and she kept on singing as if she wove the new words into her song:

“That will I do, only you must promise never to stir up my waters again so that the cattle cannot drink.”

“I promise,” said the Green Goblin; and he went back softly to the tree, and said in the loveliest voice that ever was: “Little Breezes, are you at home? I am a beautiful fairy, and I have come to call.”

Now the Little Breezes were so enchanted with his voice that for a moment they were inclined to blow down the leaf and let him in. For, though their mother had pasted it very tight, she had always told them that if something really important happened, such as a fire in the forest or an axe in the tree, they must blow with all their might and get away.

“But she never told us we might open it to a fairy,” said the Little Breeze that liked to talk.

“No, but she lets us play with fairies when we are out,” said the Little Breeze that liked to give people things to eat, “and she lets us invite them home to supper.”

“I’ll tell you,” said the Little Breeze that liked to scold, “even if it is a fairy, it will be more fun to pretend it is the Green Goblin, and then we can give him a piece of our minds.” So she called out through the leaf, “You wicked, wicked Goblin, what do you mean by saying you are a fairy? Fairies have blue eyes, and yours are green. Fairies have pink cheeks, and yours are green. Fairies have a white skin, and yours is green.”

Then the Green Goblin sped away to the Sky, and he said: “O Sky, give me some of your blue to put in my eyes.”

“That will l,” said the Sky; “only you must promise never to make faces at me again.”

“I promise,” said the Green Goblin.

Then he sped away to the Apple Tree in Bloom, and he said to her: “O Apple Tree in Bloom, give me some of your white for my skin and some of your pink for my cheeks.”

“That will I,” said the Apple Tree in Bloom; “only you must promise never to shake little birds out of their nests in my branches.”

“I promise,” said the Green Goblin; and he went back softly to the tree and said: “Little Breezes, are you at home? I am a beautiful fairy, and I have come to call.”

“Oh,” cried the Little Breeze that liked to praise everybody, “what a beautiful Green Goblin there is outside! How straight and green his hair is, and what a lovely figure he has for a goblin! It is like a tub on two sticks!”

Then the Goblin sped away to the cornfield, and said to the Corn: “O Corn, will you give me some of your silk for my hair?”

“That will I,” said the Corn; “only you must promise not to put black mildew on my stalks.”

“I promise,” said the Green Goblin. Then he sped away to the fern-bed.

“O Ferns,” said he, “will you give me some of your waving grace and some of your green garments?”

“That will we,” said the Ferns; “only you must promise not to trample us any more.”

“I promise,” said the Green Goblin; and he went back softly to the tree, and said: “Little Breezes, are you at home? I am a beautiful fairy, and I have come to call.”

“A beautiful fairy indeed!” said the Little Breeze that had sharp ears. “Your heart is a goblin heart. I can hear it beat.”

Now, a goblin heart is quite different from any other, and it beats in a peculiar manner. Then the Green Goblin sped away to the farmyard, where there was a good dog lying asleep in the sun, and he cried to him: “O Dog, give me some of your heartbeats!”

“That will I,” said the Dog from his slumber; “only you must promise to keep them warm.”

“I promise,” said the Green Goblin, and he went back to the tree.

But as he stood there he looked down at himself, and he saw that instead of his own stiff legs he had a waving robe of lovely green, and from the hem of it peeped two little white feet of an exquisite shape. And he looked at his hands, and they were white, and a long golden tress of hair came down over his shoulder. And in his wonder he whispered to himself:

“Surely I am a fairy. Yet I was not born a fairy. I was not a fairy all at once. I must be a Gradual Fairy.”

Then he thought of the price he had paid for all the things that had made him a Gradual Fairy, and his promises not to do wicked tricks any more. But now it seemed a small price to pay, for he could not think of any wicked tricks he wished to do. And his heart beat so swiftly and gave him such a delightful feeling that he put his hand over it to keep it warm. Yet it was still very hot in the forest, and he opened his lips again to tell the Little Breezes he had come to call; but what he said was this:

“Little Breezes, it is very hot today, and if you come out someone may breathe you up. Stay quite still, as your mother bade you, and at six o’clock she will be home.”

“Oh,” cried the Little Breeze that liked to love everybody, “how sweet and kind you sound! Nobody but a fairy could be so sweet and kind. We love you very much.”

“And won’t you stay to supper?” called the Little Breeze that liked to give people things to eat.

“I will stay here,” said the Gradual Fairy, “till your mother comes, and see that nothing harms you. Have your afternoon nap, Little Breezes, and do not be afraid.”

Then the Little Breezes dropped off to sleep, and they knew no more until, at six o’clock, their mother blew open the leaf and came in. And all the Little Breezes woke, one by one, as she took their porringers from the wall.

“I shall have to hurry and get supper,” said she, “for there is the most beautiful fairy outside, and I have asked her to stay. Dear me! what a happy Breeze I am, to have plenty of work and a warm season, and children that are good all day, and a fairy to come to tea!”

THE GREEN GOBLIN

CHARACTERS

THE MOTHER BREEZE

THE Six LITTLE BREEZES

CAPTAIN RABBIT

CAPTAIN SQUIRREL

CAPTAIN BEAR

THE GREEN GOBLIN

Fairies, zephyrs, flowers and butterflies

The Green Goblin is dressed in a suit of pea-green. His little hands end in claws. His little feet turn up at the toes. A little tight green hood with pointed ears comes round and down on his cheeks and forehead. He is not ugly, but only queer and charming. After his transformation into a fairy he has a pointed red cap and white tunic, tights and shoes.

The Wish Woman is dressed in a woodsy licheny brown, with mantle and hood, and carries a staff.

SCENE: A green-colored place in a wood, with shadowy trees in the background. In the center of the stage, back, is an immense tree, the brown trunk enormous and the low flat spreading branches reaching from left to right wing.

MOTHER. It’s going to be very hot today.

LITTLE BREEZES (sing).

It’s going to be the hottest day

We breezes ever knew;

And when our noonday nap we take

The world will scorch till we awake,

And all the foolish human things

Will say they’re scorching, too.

They’ll say, “The hottest, hottest day!

We think, we fear,

It is the hottest day for many a year.”

And then, in their stupidity,

They will repeat,

“It’s not the heat,

It’s the humidity.”

FIRST BREEZE. Is General Humidity coming to luncheon today?

MOTHER. No, not today. He has gone to see your uncle Tornado, in the South Pacific. They’re starting a whirlpool trust down there.

SECOND BREEZE. Are you going to buy any stock, mamma?

MOTHER. Yes, I shall take a little flutter. Now listen. I’ve got to fly away to Sunset Lake.

FIRST BREEZE. Please let us go with you.

SECOND BREEZE. Please, please let us go with you.

FOURTH BREEZE. Please, please, please let us go with you.

FIFTH BREEZE. Please, please, please, please let us go with you.

ALL THE BREEZES. Please, please, please, please, please, please let us go with you.

MOTHER (sings).

No, you cannot go.

No, no, I tell you so.

You cannot go.

(Speaking.) If I were going for an hour you might go. If I were going for two hours you might go. But I am going for a very little blow, and straight back again, and you would be tired.

FIRST BREEZE, Shall you shut us up in the tree while you are gone?

MOTHER. Yes. You can play all the games you like and tell all the stories you like. And when you whisper, everybody will say, “Hear the wind in the trees!”

SECOND BREEZE. Oh, but it’s dark in there, and we can’t see to play!

MOTHER. If you find it too dark inside, you can run out among the leaves. You may talk to the birds and talk to the butterflies. But if the Green Goblin comes, you must not let him in.

FIRST BREEZE. Mayn’t we fly out and play with him?

MOTHER. No, no. He would breathe you all up in two seconds.

FOURTH BREEZE. May we speak to him?

MOTHER. Yes, you may speak to him, but you must not let him in.

FIFTH BREEZE. May we make fun of him?

MOTHER. Yes, you may make fun of him, but you must not let him in.

SIXTH BREEZE. May we blow leaves on him?

MOTHER. Yes, you may blow leaves on him, but you must not let him in.

FIRST BREEZE. Of course we shouldn’t let him in, We should look down to see who it was, and then he might knock till he knocked all his claws off.

MOTHER. Ah, but he’ll hide down here by the door and make you think he’s a fairy.

SECOND BREEZE. How could he do that?

MOTHER. He’d ring a fairy bluebell, or he’d knock with a fairy stone or fairy wood. But you must not let him in.

SIXTH BREEZE. He may not come today.

MOTHER. He is sure to come, because it’s market day.

FOURTH BREEZE. May we go to market?

MOTHER. No, you may not. You must stay in the tree. I was foolish to hire a tree here in the market-place with everything to tempt you. But it’s a roomy tree with modern conveniences, and I find it easy to do my work.

FOURTH BREEZE. What makes you think the Green Goblin will come to market?

MOTHER. Because the rabbits and the bears and the butterflies are all coming to buy wishes from the Wish Woman, and the Green Goblin will come to tease them.

SIXTH BREEZE. I don’t believe the Green Goblin is so very bad.

MOTHER. That’s because you are little Breezes, and you don’t know. If you were grown up to be Winds, you wouldn’t be so silly.

(Sings.)

He’s a naughty Green Goblin.

He vexes the wood

Where all the dear beasties

Are glad to be good.

He frightens the rabbits

Away from the spring.

He screams at the robins

Whenever they sing.

(Speaks.) Now run in. I’ll shut you up in the tree.

FIRST BREEZE. Oh, one more dance, one little, little dance before you shut us up. Fan in the Zephyrs and we’ll dance with them.

(They beckon with their fans. Enter the Zephyrs. They all dance and then the mother sings the farewell song.)

My children dear, good-by.

Old Nature toils and so must I.

The sun is stoking for the fray.

Before I woke I heard him say,

“I’ll scorch them, women, children, men,

And flowers and grass, and then,

Why, then I’ll scorch them once again.”

My children dear, good-by.

BREEZES (sing).

Do not work too hard.

Remember,

There’s the eight-hour law

Till September

Then we can rage and whiff and shout,

And turn umbrellas inside out.

But not until September.

Dear mother, pray remember.

MOTHER.

I’m not a union Breeze, although sometimes I strike.

My clients I must please, and I treat them all alike.

I cool a forehead, steal a hat and blow the bunting free,

And set the shadows dancing on the silvery poplar tree.

CHORUS OF BREEZES AND ZEPHYRS.

She blows and blows and no one knows

Where next the blow will strike.

For she’s an honest workman

And she treats them all alike.

MOTHER.

I ramp and roar on sandy shore and on the stormy seas.

I’m the sailor’s to command when he whistles for a breeze.

I crack the sheet and snap the mast and tear the rigging free.

And Jacky Tar cries out, “Aha! oh, you’re the Breeze for me!”

CHORUS OF BREEZES AND ZEPHYRS.

He cries with joy, “Hooray! Ahoy!”

He makes an awful fuss.

But we cry, too, your children do,

“Oh, you’re the Breeze for us!”

(Mother at the door in the tree trunk.)

MOTHER (sings).

About this door I weave a magic spell.

Who knocks or calls or rings a fairy bell,

Shall wait without until I come

Back from my labor to my happy home.

I weave the spell—

BREEZES (sing).

Oh, do not weave the spell!

We know so well

The havoc wrought,

The anguish brought,

By modern spelling

Inside a dwelling.

MOTHER.

I weave the spell—

BREEZES (sorrowfully).

She weaves the spell!

Exeunt Mother and Zephyrs. Little Breezes open door in tree, go inside and close door after them. Enter Green Goblin. Dances Goblin Dance and then picks a bluebell from the flower bank near and rings it, still dancing, at the door of the tree. The Little Breezes appear above among the leaves. They call down to him.

FIRST BREEZE. You needn’t ring the fairy bell, Green Goblin. We know you.

The Green Goblin dances Goblin Dance, picks up a stone and knocks at the door in the tree.

SECOND BREEZE. You needn’t knock with fairy stones, Green Goblin. We know you.

The Green Goblin dances Goblin Dance, breaks a twig from the tree and knocks on the door of the tree.

THIRD BREEZE. You needn’t knock with fairy wood, Green Goblin. We know you.

SIXTH BREEZE. Aha! You’re pretending to be a fairy. But you’re not a fairy. You are a Green Goblin and you’ve come to breathe us up.

BREEZES (sing).

Down there, down there, underneath the tree.

You are dancing round there — you think we cannot see.

But we’re the Little Breezes all safe and sound inside;

We know you can’t get at us and so we needn’t hide.

The Green Goblin, with a branch, marks out a ring in front of the tree and dances in that.

FOURTH BREEZE. Aha! you’re pretending to be a fairy. But you are not a fairy. You are the Green Goblin and you’ve come to breathe us up.

FIFTH BREEZE.

We see your cap — your cap is green,

The greenest cap we’ve ever seen.

Enter the Wish Woman. The Green Goblin, at sight of her, dances away and hides behind a bush.

WISH WOMAN (sings).

I’m the Wish Woman,

Something half fay, something half human.

Come to me, Creatures, come out of the wood,

Wish for the bad or wish for the good:

For this one day, be you beastie or fay,

Is yours for your good or your mischievous way.

Enter Captain Rabbit.

CAPTAIN RABBIT. Wish Woman, I’ve come to wish I could have a white coat for winter.

WISH WOMAN. Shall have it, shall have it. Your wish has been spoken.

Enter Captain Squirrel.

CAPTAIN SQUIRREL. Wish Woman, I’ve come to wish everything could be nuts to me.

WISH WOMAN. Shall have it, shall have it. Your wish has been spoken.

Enter Captain Bear.

CAPTAIN BEAR. Wish Woman, I wish I had a honeycomb to comb my hair.

WISH WOMAN. Shall have it, shall have it. Your wish has been spoken.

FIRST BREEZE. Wish Woman, I want to see a fairy dance.

WISH WOMAN. Shall have it, shall have it. Your wish has been spoken.

(Waves and beckons. Enter troop of fairies. Fairy Dance. Captain Rabbit, Captain Squirrel, Captain Bear also dance.)

SIXTH BREEZE. I wish I could see a butterfly dance.

WISH WOMAN. Shall have it, shall have it. Your wish has been spoken.

(Waves and beckons. Enter butterflies and dance with fairies. The Green Goblin holds a branch to hide himself and dances round them. They break up and show terror.)

BUTTERFLIES (sing).

Run, run, fairies, run!

Fur and feathers, fly and fleet!

Let your feet

Never stop, though you drop.

For he comes, the Goblin comes.

FAIRIES.

He’ll pinch us and scratch us

And make awful faces.

He’ll chase us and catch us

To show his grimaces.

ALL.

The Goblin! the Goblin!

The Goblin dressed in green.

Captain Rabbit, Captain Squirrel, and Captain Bear sing trio.

CAPTAIN RABBIT.

What’s a goblin?

CAPTAIN BEAR.

What’s a goblin?

CAPTAIN SQUIRREL.

What’s a goblin?

TRIO.

It’s something hobblin’ through the wood

And wobblin’ round the tree.

It’s neither pretty, sweet, nor good

For fairy eyes to see.

His claws are sharp, his toes turn up,

The funniest ever seen.

And oh, my garters! oh, my stars!

He’s always dressed in green.

Exeunt Captain Rabbit, Captain Squirrel, Captain Bear, butterflies and fairies. The Green Goblin dances, a triumphant dance, in derision of them, then a sad one, and goes beseechingly to the Wish Woman.

WISH WOMAN TO GREEN GOBLIN (sings).

I am the Wish Woman, naughty dear.

Tell me your wish and never fear.

What do you want from out my store?

Help yourself and come for more.

The Green Goblin points to his cap with distaste.

A cap? That’s easy done.

Run!

Run to the columbine there by the spring.

Pull off a blossom and now while I sing

Stretch it and stretch it and stretch it with might!

Pull it on tight.

Exit Green Goblin, dancing. The Wish Woman imitates him in admiration. Enter the Green Goblin putting on, with great delight, a red columbine cap. Goes triumphantly and knocks at the door in the tree.

FIRST AND SIXTH BREEZES (sing).

We know you still, Green Goblin.

Your cap is very well.

But only see your dreadful claws!

Why, anyone could tell

You’re nothing but a goblin,

A goblin dressed in green.

(CHORUS FROM WITHOUT.)

His claws are sharp, his toes turn up,

The funniest ever seen.

And oh, my garters! oh, my stars!

He’s always dressed in green.

The Green Goblin dances a sorrowful dance, and goes to the Wish Woman, holding out his hands.

WISH WOMAN (sings).

You want to change your naughty claws

For helpful hands?

My magic carpet’s there outside,

Get on, and teach yourself to ride,

And in a second you’ll be where

The North Pole rises up in air.

There wash your hands in baths of snow,

And ere it melts, fly down below

Straight to the Equinoctial Line

And hang them out for seconds nine.

Exit Green Goblin.

FIFTH BREEZE. Wish Woman, I wish I could see Captain Rabbit and Captain Squirrel dance with Captain Bear.

WISH WOMAN. Shall have it, shall have it. Your wish has been spoken.

(Waves and beckons. Enter Captain Rabbit, Captain Squirrel, and Captain Bear, and dance uncouthly. Enter Green Goblin, with beautiful white hands. Exeunt Captain Rabbit, Captain Squirrel, and Captain Bear. The Green Goblin dances delightedly and then knocks at the door in the tree.)

WISH WOMAN (sings).

O darling hands so soft and white!

No wrong you’ll do, but only right.

Who has two fairy hands

He plainly understands

Within this fairy wood

No evil can he do, but only good.

The Green Goblin keeps dancing, knocking at intervals.

FOURTH BREEZE.

But one new cap and two new hands

Won’t make an elf.

You know that’s so yourself.

BREEZES (sing).

You think you are a fairy,

But we know you’re not a fay;

And what you are we plainly see,

But we laugh too much to say.

Your cap is very comely and your steps are very fleet;

But look at your extremities! They’re ugly goblin feet.

The Green Goblin dances and beseeches the Wish Woman.

WISH WOMAN. What more shall I give you? what more? what more? A pair of pretty fairy feet, Little, tender, flying, fleet?
(Sings.)

Don’t be sorry,

Do not worry.

If you want it, I will give it.

You can use it. Never lose it,

The receipt

For fairy feet.

Take a grain of star-shine,

So the feet will twinkle.

Take a diamond’s smoothness,

So the skin won’t wrinkle.

Take some almond paste and pearl,

Take a pinch of whirlwind’s whirl,

Or take — I have them here today

The feet of Mademoiselle Genee.

Takes two little white feet out of her pouch. The Green Goblin snatches them, sits down back to the audience, throws his green feet aside and apparently slips on the white feet. Dances ecstatically.

WISH WOMAN (sings).

Fairy feet are feet that walk to duty.

Fairy feet are feet that run to beauty,

To fun, to pleasure, to delight,

To dances in the ring by night.

The Green Goblin picks up a Green Goblin foot and knocks at the door in the tree.

FIRST BREEZE (sings).

Your feet are fairy feet,

You could run a fairy race,

But your cheeks are green as leeks,

You’ve an ugly Goblin face.

The Green Goblin dances up to Wish Woman and beseechingly offers petition to her.

WISH WOMAN.

To change the color of your skin

We must begin

With sorrow’s pallor for your sin

Against the beasties in the wood,

With red of love and gentlehood:

For fairies here are always good.

The rose will give you red

For your cheek.

But you must be as sweet as she,

Nor even seek

To make a face

Or black grimace.

The apple-tree will give you white

For your brow.

But you must be as pure as she.

Go now.

Exit the Green Goblin.

SIXTH BREEZE. O Wish Woman, I wish the Green Goblin had a lovely fairy dress.

WISH WOMAN. Shall have it, shall have it. Your wish has been spoken.
(Beckons.)

Flowers come to market!

Flowers come to market!

Come and sell your red and white,

Come and sell your gold and blue.

Enter flowers of all colors and dance.

FLOWERS (sing).

Come buy! come buy!

Buy of the apple bloom, pink and white,

Buy of the cherry, whiter than white,

Buy of the larkspur, purple and blue,

Buy of the heartease blooming for you!

Come buy! come buy!

Enter the Green Goblin.

The Flowers crowd about the Green Goblin and envelop him in gauzy scarfs of many colors. The Green Goblin dances and unrolls them and steps forth a lovely fairy in white.

BREEZES.

O now’t is a fairy we plainly can see,

A fairy, a fairy, to afternoon tea!

O where is our mother to open the tree,

So this sweet lovely fairy can drop in to tea?

Enter Mother. Opens the door. (Sings.)

At last I’m home,

Come, children, come.

(Sees the fairy waiting modestly. Makes a low obeisance to her and begins fanning her.)

MOTHER (sings).

A fairy at my door!

One I never saw before!

The sweetest, too, the dearest,

The darlingest, the fairest.

Enter the Zephyrs and begin fanning the new fairy. The Little Breezes enter from the tree to fan her.

ALL (sing).

Gracious, lovely, darling one,

Here beneath the smiling sun

Deign to tread this magic ground

In a fairy ring around.

Be our princess, be our queen,

Be the loveliest ever seen,

Here beneath this laughing sun,

Gracious, lovely, darling one.

All dance.

CURTAIN.