{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_26018/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_26018","id":"gutenberg_26018","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/26018","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Children's stories, English","Fairy tales"],"text":"Produced by Delphine Lettau, Emmy and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: ALL THE COURT CROWDED OUT TO SEE\n\n_See page 13_]\n\n\n\n\n_GRANNY'S\nWONDERFUL\nCHAIR_\n\n          _From the Story by\n            FRANCES BROWNE_\n\n          _BLACKIE & SON LTD._\n      _London_  _Glasgow_  _Bombay_\n\n\n\n\n_Printed and bound in Great Britain_\n\n\n\n\n_STORIES OLD AND NEW_\n\n\n_A small chosen library is like a walled garden where a child may safely\nplay. In that charmed seclusion the love of books, like the love of\nflowers, grows of itself. If the reading habit is to be acquired, the\nchild ought from the first to be given real books, which may be handled\nwith pleasure and kept with pride--books containing literature suited to\nits own age._\n\n_This volume belongs to a series of \"Stories Old and New\" which has been\nprepared specially for children. The books have been carefully chosen so\nas to include, along with many charming stories by the best children's\nauthors of to-day, a due proportion of those older tales which never\ngrow old._\n\n_To secure simplicity and right gradation, the text has been prepared\nto suit the different ages of readers. Care has been given to the\nillustration, print, and binding of the series, for it is believed that\nthis is the best way to secure from the children that careful handling\nof the volumes which is the mark of the true book-lover._\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n    I INTRODUCTORY                  6\n   II THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO         18\n  III LADY GREENSLEEVES            51\n   IV CHILDE CHARITY               76\n    V SOUR AND CIVIL               92\n   VI PRINCE WISEWIT'S RETURN     118\n\n\n\n\nGRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nINTRODUCTORY\n\n\nIn an old time, long ago, when the fairies were in the world, there\nlived a little girl so very fair and pleasant of look, that they called\nher Snowflower. This girl was good as well as pretty. No one had ever\nseen her frown or heard her say a cross word, and young and old were\nglad when they saw her coming.\n\nSnowflower had no relation in the world but a very old grandmother,\ncalled Dame Frostyface. People did not like her quite so well as her\ngranddaughter, for she was cross enough at times, though always kind to\nSnowflower. They lived together in a little cottage built of peat and\nthatched with reeds, on the edge of a great forest. Tall trees sheltered\nits back from the north wind, and the midday sun made its front warm and\ncheerful. Swallows built in the eaves, and daisies grew thick at the\ndoor.\n\nBut there were none in all that country poorer than Snowflower and her\ngrandmother. A cat and two hens were all their live stock. Their bed was\ndry grass, and the only good piece of furniture in the cottage was a\ngreat armchair with wheels on its feet, a black velvet cushion, and many\nstrange carvings of flowers and fairies on its dark oaken back.\n\nOn that chair Dame Frostyface sat spinning from morning till night, to\nkeep herself and her granddaughter, while Snowflower gathered sticks for\nthe fire, looked after the hens and the cat, and did whatever else her\ngrandmother bade her. There was nobody in that part of the country could\nspin such fine yarn as Dame Frostyface, but she spun very slowly. Her\nwheel was as old as herself, and far more worn-out. Indeed, the wonder\nwas that it did not fall to pieces. So what the dame earned was very\nlittle, and their living was scanty. Snowflower, however, felt no want\nof good dinners or fine clothes.\n\nEvery evening, when the fire was heaped with the sticks she had gathered\ntill it blazed and crackled up the cottage chimney, Dame Frostyface set\naside her wheel and told her a new story. Often did the little girl\nwonder where her grandmother had gathered so many stories, but she soon\nlearned that.\n\nOne sunny morning, at the time of the coming of the swallows, the dame\nrose up, put on the grey hood and cloak in which she carried her yarn to\nthe fairs, and said: \"My child, I am going a long journey to visit an\naunt of mine, who lives far in the north country. I cannot take you with\nme, because my aunt is the crossest woman alive, and never liked young\npeople. But the hens will lay eggs for you, and there is barley meal in\nthe barrel. And, as you have been a good girl, I'll tell you what to do\nwhen you feel lonely. Lay your head gently down on the cushion of the\narmchair and say, 'Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story'.\n\n\"The chair was made by a clever fairy, who lived in the forest when I\nwas young, and she gave it to me because she knew nobody could keep what\nthey got hold of better than I could. Remember, you must never ask a\nstory more than once in the day. If there is any need to travel, you\nhave only to seat yourself in it and say, 'Chair of my grandmother, take\nme such a way'. It will carry you wherever you wish. But mind to oil the\nwheels before you set out, for I have sat on it these forty years in\nthat same corner.\"\n\nHaving said this, Dame Frostyface set forth to see her aunt in the north\ncountry. Snowflower gathered wood for the fire, and looked after the\nhens and cat, as she had always done. She baked herself a cake or two of\nthe barley meal; but, when the evening came, the cottage looked lonely.\nThen Snowflower remembered her grandmother's words, and, laying her head\ngently down, she said: \"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story\".\n\nHardly were the words spoken, when a clear voice from under the velvet\ncushion began a new and most wonderful tale, which surprised Snowflower\nso much that she forgot to be afraid. After that the good girl was\nlonely no more. Every morning she baked a barley cake, and every evening\nthe chair told her a new story. But she could never find out to whom the\nvoice belonged, though Snowflower showed her thanks by keeping bright\nthe oaken back and dusting the velvet cushion, till the chair looked as\ngood as new.\n\nThe swallows came and built in the eaves, and the daisies grew thicker\nthan ever at the door, but great troubles fell upon Snowflower. In spite\nof all her care she forgot to clip the hens' wings, and they flew away\none morning to visit their friends the pheasants, who lived far in the\nforest. The cat went away to see its friends. The barley meal was eaten\nup, except two handfuls, and Snowflower had often looked out in hope of\nseeing the grey cloak, but Dame Frostyface did not come back.\n\n\"My grandmother stays long,\" said Snowflower to herself; \"and by and by\nthere will be nothing left to eat. If I could get to her, perhaps she\nwould tell me what to do. Surely there is good need for me to travel.\"\n\nNext day, at sunrise, Snowflower oiled the wheels of the chair, baked a\ncake out of the last of the meal, took it in her lap by way of food for\nthe journey, seated herself, and said: \"Chair of my grandmother, take me\nthe way she went\".\n\nAt once the chair gave a creak, and began to move out of the cottage,\nand into the forest, the very way Dame Frostyface had taken, where it\nrolled along at the rate of a coach and six. Snowflower was amazed at\nthis way of travelling, but the chair never stopped nor stayed the whole\nsummer day, till as the sun was setting they came upon an open space,\nwhere a hundred men were cutting down the tall trees with their axes, a\nhundred more were splitting them for firewood, and twenty men, with\nhorses and wagons, were carrying the wood away.\n\n\"Oh! chair of my grandmother, stop!\" said Snowflower, for she was tired,\nand also wished to know what this might mean. The chair at once stood\nstill, and Snowflower, seeing an old woodcutter, who looked kind,\nstepped up to him and said: \"Good father, tell me why you cut all this\nwood?\"\n\n\"Where do you live,\" replied the man, \"that you have not heard of the\ngreat feast which King Winwealth means to give on the birthday of his\nonly daughter, Princess Greedalind? It will last for seven days.\nEverybody will be feasted, and this wood is to roast the oxen and the\nsheep, the geese and the turkeys, amongst whom there is great sorrow\nthroughout the land.\"\n\nWhen Snowflower heard that, she could not help wishing to see, and\nperhaps to share in, such a noble feast, after living so long on barley\ncakes. So, seating herself, she said: \"Chair of my grandmother, take me\nquickly to the palace of King Winwealth.\"\n\nThe words were hardly spoken, when off the chair started through the\ntrees and out of the forest, to the great surprise of the woodcutters,\nwho, never having seen such a sight before, threw down their axes, left\ntheir wagons, and went after Snowflower to the gates of a great and\nsplendid city, having strong walls and high towers, and standing in the\nmidst of a wide plain covered with cornfields, fruit gardens, and\nvillages.\n\nIt was the richest city in all the land. People from every part of the\nland came there to buy and sell, and there was a saying that they had\nonly to live seven years in it to make their fortunes. Rich as they\nwere, however, Snowflower had never seen so many discontented, greedy\nfaces as looked out from the great shops, grand houses, and fine\ncoaches, when her chair rattled along the streets. Indeed, the people of\nthat city were not much thought of for either good nature or honesty.\nBut it had not been so when King Winwealth was young, and he and his\nbrother, Prince Wisewit, governed the land. Prince Wisewit knew the\nwhole art of governing, the tempers of men, and the powers of the\nstars. Moreover, he was a very clever man, and it was said of him that\nhe could never die or grow old.\n\nIn his time there was neither discontent nor sickness in the city.\nStrangers were kindly treated without price or questions. Then no one\nwent to law against his neighbour, and no one locked his door at night.\nThe fairies used to come there at May Day and Michaelmas, for they were\nPrince Wisewit's friends--all but one, called Fortunetta, a\nshort-sighted but very cunning fairy, who hated everybody wiser than\nherself, and above all the prince, because she could never cheat him.\n\nThere was peace and pleasure for many a year in King Winwealth's city,\ntill one day at midsummer Prince Wisewit went alone to the forest, in\nsearch of a strange plant for his garden, but he never came back. Though\nthe King, with all his guards, looked for him far and near, no news was\never heard of him. When his brother was gone, King Winwealth grew lonely\nin his great palace, so he married a princess called Wantall, and\nbrought her home to be his queen.\n\nThis princess was neither handsome nor pleasant. People thought she must\nhave gained the King's love by the charms she worked, for her whole\ndowry was a desert island, with a huge pit in it that could never be\nfilled, and she was so greedy that the more she got the greedier she\ngrew. In course of time the King and Queen had an only daughter, who was\nto be the heiress of all the kingdom. Her name was the Princess\nGreedalind, and the whole city were at that time preparing to keep her\nbirthday. Not that they cared much for the Princess, who was very like\nher mother both in looks and temper; but being King Winwealth's only\ndaughter, people came from far and near to the feast, and among them\nstrangers and fairies who had not been there since the day of Prince\nWisewit.\n\nThere was great stir about the palace, a most noble building, so large\nthat it had a room for every day in the year. All the floors were of\nbeautiful dark wood, and all the roofs of silver; and there was such a\nlarge number of golden dishes used by the household, that five hundred\nmen kept guard night and day lest any of them should be stolen.\n\nWhen these guards saw Snowflower and her chair, they ran one after the\nother to tell the King, for the like had never been seen nor heard of in\nhis kingdom, and all the Court crowded out to see the little maiden and\nher chair that came of itself.\n\nWhen Snowflower saw the lords and ladies in their fine robes and\nsplendid jewels, she began to feel ashamed of her own bare feet and\nlinen gown. But at length taking courage, she answered all their\nquestions, and told them everything about her wonderful chair. The Queen\nand the Princess cared for nothing that was not gilt. The people of the\nCourt had learned to do the same, and all turned away in great scorn\nexcept the old King, who, thinking the chair might amuse him sometimes\nwhen he got into low spirits, allowed Snowflower to stay and feast in\nhis worst kitchen.\n\nThe poor girl was glad of any place, though nobody made her\nwelcome--even the servants looked down upon her bare feet and linen\ngown. They would give her chair no room but in a dusty corner behind the\nback door, where Snowflower was told that she might sleep at night, and\neat up the scraps the cook threw away.\n\nThat very day the feast began. It was fine to see the great crowds of\ncoaches and people on foot and on horseback who came to the palace, and\nfilled every room according to their rank. Never had Snowflower seen\nsuch roasting and boiling. There was wine for the lords and ale for the\ncommon people, music and dancing of all kinds, and the best of gay\ndresses. But with all the good cheer there seemed little joy, and a\ngreat deal of ill humour in the palace.\n\nSome of the guests thought they should have been feasted in grander\nrooms. Others were vexed to see many finer than themselves. All the\nservants were very displeased because they did not get presents. There\nwas somebody caught every hour stealing the cups, and a great number of\npeople were always at the gates shouting for goods and lands, which\nQueen Wantall had taken from them. The guards were always driving them\naway, but they came back again, and could be heard plainly in the\nhighest hall. So it was not wonderful that the old King's spirits were\nvery low that evening after supper. His page, who always stood behind\nhim, seeing this, reminded His Majesty of the little girl and her chair.\n\n\"It is a good thought,\" said King Winwealth. \"I have not heard a story\nthis many a year. Bring the child and the chair at once!\"\n\nThe page sent someone to the first kitchen, who told the master-cook;\nthe master-cook told the kitchen-maid; the kitchen-maid told the\ndust-boy, and he told Snowflower to wash her face, rub up her chair, and\ngo to the highest hall, for the great King Winwealth wished to hear a\nstory.\n\nNobody offered to help her; but when Snowflower had made herself as\nsmart as she could with soap and water, and rubbed the chair till it\nlooked as if dust had never fallen on it, she seated herself and said:\n\"Chair of my grandmother, take me to the highest hall.\"\n\nAt once the chair marched in a grave and courtly manner out of the\nkitchen, up the grand staircase, and into the highest hall. The chief\nlords and ladies of the land were feasting there, besides many fairies\nand noble people from far-off countries. There had never been such\ncompany in the palace since the time of Prince Wisewit. Nobody wore less\nthan the finest satin.\n\n[Illustration: ALL CAME TO TALK WITH SPARE\n\n_See page 32_]\n\nKing Winwealth sat on his ivory throne in a robe of purple velvet, stiff\nwith flowers of gold. The Queen sat by his side in a robe of silver\ncloth clasped with pearls. But the Princess Greedalind was finer still,\nthe feast being in her honour. She wore a robe of cloth of gold clasped\nwith diamonds. Two waiting-ladies in white satin stood, one on either\nside, to hold her fan and handkerchief, and two pages, in gold-lace\nlivery, stood behind her chair. With all that, Princess Greedalind\nlooked ugly and spiteful. She and her mother were angry to see a\nbarefooted girl and an old chair allowed to enter the highest hall.\n\nThe supper table was still covered with golden dishes, and the best of\ngood things, but no one offered Snowflower a morsel. So, having made a\nhumble bow to the King, the Queen, the Princess, and the good company,\nmost of whom hardly noticed her, the poor little girl sat down upon the\ncarpet, laid her head on the velvet cushion, as she used to do in the\nold cottage, and said: \"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story.\"\n\nEverybody was greatly surprised, even the angry Queen and the spiteful\nPrincess, when a clear voice from under the cushion said: \"Listen to the\nstory of the Christmas Cuckoo.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO\n\n\nOnce upon a time there stood in the midst of a bleak moor, in the north\ncountry, a certain village. All its people were poor, for their fields\nwere barren, and they had little trade; but the poorest of them all were\ntwo brothers called Scrub and Spare. They were cobblers, and had but one\nstall between them. It was a hut built of clay and wattles. The door was\nlow and always open, for there was no window. The roof did not entirely\nkeep out the rain, and the only thing with any look of comfort about it\nwas a wide hearth, for which the brothers could never find wood enough\nto make a good fire. There they worked in most brotherly friendship,\nthough the people did not give them very many shoes to make or mend.\n\nThe people of that village did not need many shoes, and better cobblers\nthan Scrub and Spare might be found. Spiteful people said there were no\nshoes so bad that they would not be worse for their mending.\nNevertheless Scrub and Spare managed to live by means of their own\ntrade, a small barley field, and a cottage garden, till a new cobbler\narrived in the village. He had lived in the chief city of the kingdom,\nand, by his own account, cobbled for the Queen and the princesses. His\nawls were sharp and his lasts were new. He set up his stall in a neat\ncottage with two windows.\n\nThe villagers soon found out that one patch of his would outwear two of\nthe brothers'. In short, all the mending left Scrub and Spare, and went\nto the new cobbler. The season had been wet and cold, their barley did\nnot ripen well, and the cabbages never half closed in the garden. So the\nbrothers were poor that winter; and when Christmas came, they had\nnothing to feast on but a barley loaf, a piece of musty bacon, and some\nsmall beer of their own brewing.\n\nWorse than that, the snow was very deep, and they could get no firewood.\nTheir hut stood at the end of the village; beyond it spread the bleak\nmoor, now all white and silent. But that moor had once been a forest.\nGreat roots of old trees were still to be found in it, loosened from the\nsoil and laid bare by the winds and rains. One of these, a rough, heavy\nlog, lay close to their door, the half of it above the snow.\n\nSpare said to his brother: \"Shall we sit here cold on Christmas Day\nwhile the great root lies yonder? Let us chop it up for firewood, the\nwork will make us warm.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Scrub; \"it's not right to chop wood on Christmas. Besides,\nthat root is too hard to be cut with any axe.\"\n\n\"Hard or not, we must have a fire,\" replied Spare. \"Come, brother, help\nme in with it. Poor as we are, there is nobody in the village will have\nsuch a Yule log as ours.\"\n\nScrub liked to be a little grand sometimes, and in hopes of having a\nfine Yule log, both brothers strove with all their might till, between\npulling and pushing, the great old root was safe on the hearth, and soon\nbegan to crackle and blaze with the red embers. In high glee, the\ncobblers sat down to their beer and bacon. The door was shut, for there\nwas nothing but cold moonlight and snow outside. But the hut, strewn\nwith fir branches, and decked with holly, looked cheerful as the ruddy\nblaze flared up and made their hearts glad.\n\n\"Long life and good fortune to ourselves, brother!\" said Spare. \"I hope\nyou will drink that toast, and may we never have a worse fire on\nChristmas--but what is that?\"\n\nSpare set down the drinking-horn, and the brothers listened in great\nsurprise, for out of the blazing root they heard \"Cuckoo! cuckoo!\" as\nplain as ever the spring bird's voice came over the moor on a May morn.\n\n\"It is something bad,\" said Scrub, very much frightened.\n\n\"Maybe not,\" said Spare.\n\nAnd out of the deep hole at the side which the fire had not reached flew\na large grey cuckoo, and alighted on the table before them. Much as the\ncobblers had been surprised at first, they were still more so when the\nbird began to speak.\n\n\"Good gentlemen,\" said the cuckoo, \"what season is this?\"\n\n\"It's Christmas,\" replied Spare.\n\n\"Then a merry Christmas to you!\" said the cuckoo. \"I went to sleep in\nthe hollow of that old root last summer, and never woke till the heat of\nyour fire made me think it was summer again. But now, since you have\nburned my lodging, let me stay in your hut till the spring comes\nround--I only want a hole to sleep in, and when I go on my travels next\nsummer you may be sure I will bring you some gift for your trouble.\"\n\n\"Stay, and welcome,\" said Spare, while Scrub sat wondering if it were\nsomething bad or not. \"I'll make you a good warm hole in the thatch. But\nyou must be hungry after that long sleep. There is a slice of barley\nbread. Come, help us to keep Christmas!\"\n\nThe cuckoo ate up the slice, drank some water from the brown jug--for it\nwould take no beer--and flew into a snug hole which Spare scooped for it\nin the thatch of the hut.\n\nScrub said he was afraid the bird wouldn't be lucky. But as it slept on,\nand the days passed, he forgot his fears. So the snow melted, the heavy\nrains came, the cold grew less, and the days became longer; and one\nsunny morning the brothers were awakened by the cuckoo shouting its own\ncry to let them know the spring had come.\n\n\"Now,\" said the bird, \"I am going on my travels over the world to tell\nmen of the spring. There is no country where trees bud, or flowers\nbloom, that I will not cry in before the year goes round. Give me\nanother slice of bread to keep me on my journey, and tell me what gift I\nshall bring you at the end of the twelve months.\"\n\nScrub would have been angry with his brother for cutting so large a\nslice, their store of barley meal being low; but his mind was so taken\nup with what present it would be best for him to ask. At length a lucky\nthought struck him.\n\n\"Good Master Cuckoo,\" said he, \"if a great traveller who sees all the\nworld like you, could know of any place where diamonds or pearls were\nto be found, one of a fairly large size brought in your beak would help\nsuch poor men as my brother and me to get something better than barley\nbread to give you the next time you come.\"\n\n\"I know nothing of diamonds or pearls,\" said the cuckoo. \"They are in\nthe hearts of rocks and the sands of rivers. I know only of that which\ngrows on the earth. But there are two trees close by the well that lies\nat the end of the world. One of them is called the golden tree, for its\nleaves are all of beaten gold. Every winter they fall into the well with\na sound like that of scattered gold, and I know not what becomes of\nthem. As for the other, it is always green, like a laurel. Some call it\nthe wise, and some the merry tree. Its leaves never fall but they that\nget one of them keep a cheerful heart in spite of all troubles, and can\nmake themselves as merry in a hut as in a palace.\"\n\n\"Good Master Cuckoo, bring me a leaf off that tree!\" cried Spare.\n\n\"Now, brother, don't be a fool!\" said Scrub. \"Think of the leaves of\ngold. Dear Master Cuckoo, bring me one of them!\"\n\nBefore another word could be said, the cuckoo had flown out of the open\ndoor, and was shouting its spring cry over moor and meadow.\n\nThe brothers were poorer than ever that year. Nobody sent them a single\nshoe to mend. The new cobbler said, in scorn, they should come over and\nwork for him. Scrub and Spare would have left the village but for their\nbarley field, their cabbage garden, and a maid called Fairfeather, whom\nboth the cobblers had courted for seven years without even knowing whom\nshe meant to favour.\n\nSometimes Fairfeather seemed to favour Scrub, sometimes she smiled on\nSpare; but the brothers were always friends and did not quarrel. They\nsowed their barley, planted their cabbage, and, now that their trade was\ngone, worked in the fields of some of the rich villagers to make out a\nscanty living.\n\nSo the seasons came and passed. Spring, summer, harvest, and winter\nfollowed each other as they have always done. At the end of the winter\nScrub and Spare had grown so poor and ragged that Fairfeather thought\nthem beneath her notice. Old neighbours forgot to invite them to wedding\nfeasts or merrymaking. They thought the cuckoo had forgotten them too,\nwhen at daybreak, on the first of April, they heard a hard beak knocking\nat their door and a voice crying:\n\n\"Cuckoo! cuckoo! let me in with my gifts.\"\n\nSpare ran to open the door, and in came the cuckoo, carrying on one side\nof his bill a golden leaf larger than that of any tree in the north\ncountry; and in the other, one like that of the common laurel, only it\nhad a fresher green.\n\n\"Here,\" it said, giving the gold to Scrub and the green to Spare; \"it is\na long way to carry them from the end of the world. Give me a slice of\nbread, for I must tell the north country that the spring has come.\"\n\nScrub did not grudge the thickness of that slice, though it was cut from\ntheir last loaf. So much gold had never been in the cobbler's hands\nbefore, and he could not help exulting over his brother.\n\n\"See the wisdom of my choice!\" he said, holding up the large leaf of\ngold. \"As for yours, as good might be plucked from any hedge. I wonder\nsuch a wise bird would carry the like so far.\"\n\n\"Good Master Cobbler,\" cried the cuckoo, finishing the slice, \"your\nwords are more hasty than kind. If your brother is disappointed this\ntime, I go on the same journey every year, and for your kind treatment\nwill think it no trouble to bring each of you whichever leaf you wish.\"\n\n\"Darling cuckoo!\" cried Scrub, \"bring me a golden one.\"\n\nAnd Spare, looking up from the green leaf on which he gazed as though it\nwere a crown-jewel, said:\n\n\"Be sure to bring me one from the merry tree.\"\n\nAnd away flew the cuckoo once again.\n\n\"This is the Feast of All Fools, and it ought to be your birthday,\" said\nScrub. \"Did ever man fling away such a chance of becoming rich! Much\ngood your merry leaves will do when you are so poor!\"\n\nSo he went on; but Spare laughed at him, and answered with many old\nproverbs about the cares that come with gold, till Scrub, at length\ngrowing angry, vowed his brother was not fit to live with a gentleman\nlike himself. And taking his lasts, his awls, and his golden leaf, he\nleft the wattle hut and went to tell the villagers.\n\nThey were surprised at the folly of Spare, and charmed with Scrub's good\nsense, more so when he showed them the golden leaf, and told that the\ncuckoo would bring him one every spring. The new cobbler at once made\nhim a partner. The greatest people sent him their shoes to mend.\nFairfeather smiled kindly on him, and in the course of the summer they\nwere married, with a grand wedding feast, at which the whole village\ndanced, except Spare, who was not invited, because the bride said he was\nlow-minded, and his brother thought he was a disgrace to the family.\n\nIndeed, all who heard the story thought that Spare must be mad, and\nnobody would take up with him but a lame tinker, a beggar boy, and a\npoor woman, who was looked upon as a witch because she was old and ugly.\nAs for Scrub, he went with Fairfeather to a cottage close by that of the\nnew cobbler, and quite as fine. There he mended shoes so as to please\neveryone, had a scarlet coat for holidays, and a fat goose for dinner\nevery wedding-day. Fairfeather, too, had a crimson gown and fine blue\nribbons. But neither she nor Scrub were content, for to buy all these\ngrand things the golden leaf had to be broken and parted with piece by\npiece, so the last morsel was gone before the cuckoo came with another.\n\nSpare lived on in the old hut, and worked in the cabbage garden. (Scrub\nhad got the barley field, because he was the elder.) Every day his coat\ngrew more ragged, and the hut more weather-beaten, but the people\nremarked that he never looked sad nor sour. The wonder was, that from\nthe time they began to keep his company, the tinker grew kinder to the\nass with which he travelled the country, the beggar boy kept out of\nmischief, and the old woman was never cross to her cat or angry with the\nchildren.\n\nEvery first of April the cuckoo came tapping at their doors with the\ngolden leaf to Scrub and the green to Spare. Fairfeather would have\ntreated him nobly with wheaten bread and honey, for she had some notion\nof trying to make him bring two gold leaves instead of one. But the\ncuckoo flew away to eat barley bread with Spare, saying he was not fit\ncompany for fine people, and liked the old hut where he slept so snugly\nfrom Christmas to Spring.\n\nScrub spent the golden leaves, and Spare kept the merry ones; and I know\nnot how many years passed in this manner, when a great lord, who owned\nthat village, came to dwell near. His castle stood on the moor. It was\nold and strong, with high towers and a deep moat. All the country as far\nas one could see from the highest turret belonged to this lord; but he\nhad not been there for twenty years, and would not have come then, only\nhe was very sad.\n\nThe cause of his grief was that he had been Prime Minister at Court, and\nin high favour, till somebody told the Crown Prince that he had spoken\nwith great disrespect about the turning out of His Royal Highness's\ntoes, and the King that he did not lay on taxes enough; whereon the\nnorth-country lord was turned out of office and sent to his own estate.\nThere he lived for some weeks in very bad temper. The servants said\nnothing would please him, and the people of the village put on their\nworst clothes lest he should raise their rents. But one day, in the\nharvest time, his lordship chanced to meet Spare gathering watercresses\nat a meadow stream, and fell into talk with the cobbler.\n\nHow it was nobody could tell, but from that hour the great lord cast\naway his sadness. He forgot his lost office and his Court enemies, the\nKing's taxes and the Crown Prince's toes, and went about with a noble\ntrain, hunting, fishing, and making merry in his hall, where all\ntravellers were well treated and all the poor were welcome.\n\nThis strange story soon spread through the north country, and a great\ncompany came to the cobbler's hut--rich men who had lost their money,\npoor men who had lost their friends, beauties who had grown old, wits\nwho had gone out of fashion--all came to talk with Spare, and whatever\ntheir troubles had been, all went home merry. The rich gave him\npresents, the poor gave him thanks. Spare's coat was no longer ragged,\nhe had bacon with his cabbage, and the people of the village began to\nthink there was some sense in him after all.\n\nBy this time his fame had reached the chief city of the kingdom, and\neven the Court. There were a great many discontented people there\nbesides the King, who had lately fallen into ill humour because a\nprincess, who lived in a kingdom near his own, and who had seven islands\nfor her dowry, would not marry his eldest son. So a royal page was sent\nto Spare, with a velvet cloak, a diamond ring, and a command that he\nshould come to Court at once.\n\n\"To-morrow is the first of April,\" said Spare, \"and I will go with you\ntwo hours after sunrise.\"\n\nThe page lodged all night at the castle, and the cuckoo came at sunrise\nwith the merry leaf.\n\n\"The Court is a fine place,\" he said, when the cobbler told him he was\ngoing. \"But I cannot come there, they would lay snares and catch me. So\nbe careful of the leaves I have brought you, and give me a farewell\nslice of barley bread.\"\n\nSpare was sorry to part with the cuckoo, little as he had of his\ncompany. But he gave him a slice which would have broken Scrub's heart\nin the former times, it was so large. And having sewed up the leaves in\nthe lining of his leather doublet, he set out with the page on his way\nto the Court.\n\nHis coming caused great surprise there. Everybody wondered what the King\ncould see in such a common-looking man. But hardly had His Majesty\ntalked with him half an hour, when the Princess and her seven islands\nwere forgotten, and orders given that a feast for all-comers should be\nspread in the large dining-hall. The princes of the blood, the great\nlords and ladies, the Ministers of State, and the judges of the land had\na talk with Spare; the more they talked the lighter grew their hearts,\nso that such changes had never been seen at Court. The lords forgot\ntheir spites and the ladies their envies, the princes and Ministers made\nfriends among themselves, and the judges showed no favour.\n\nAs for Spare, he had a room set apart for him in the palace, and a seat\nat the King's table. One sent him rich robes and another costly jewels.\nBut in the midst of all his greatness he still wore the leathern\ndoublet, which the palace servants thought very mean. One day the King's\nattention being drawn to it by the chief page, he asked why Spare didn't\ngive it to a beggar.\n\nBut the cobbler answered: \"High and mighty King, this doublet was with\nme before silk and velvet came. I find it easier to wear than the Court\ncut. Moreover, it serves to keep me humble, by recalling the days when\nit was my holiday dress.\"\n\nThe King thought this was a wise speech, and gave orders that no one\nshould find fault with the leathern doublet. So things went on, till\nnews of his brother's good fortune reached Scrub in the moorland cottage\non another first of April, when the cuckoo came with two golden leaves\nbecause he had none to carry for Spare.\n\n\"Think of that!\" said Fairfeather. \"Here we are spending our lives in\nthis humdrum place, and Spare making his fortune at the Court with two\nor three paltry green leaves! What would they say to our golden ones?\nLet us pack up and make our way to the King's palace. I am sure he will\nmake you a lord and me a lady of honour, not to speak of all the fine\nclothes and presents we shall have.\"\n\nScrub thought there was a great deal in what his wife said, and they\nbegan to pack up. But it was soon found that there were very few things\nin the cottage fit for carrying to the Court. Fairfeather could not\nthink of her wooden bowls, spoons, and plates being seen there. Scrub\nthought his lasts and awls had better be left behind, as without them\nno one would suspect him of being a cobbler. So, putting on their\nholiday clothes, Fairfeather took her looking-glass, and Scrub his\ndrinking-horn, and each carrying a golden leaf wrapped up with great\ncare that none might see it till they reached the palace, the pair set\nout with high hopes.\n\nHow far Scrub and Fairfeather journeyed I cannot say; but when the sun\nwas high and warm at noon, they came into a wood both tired and hungry.\n\n\"Husband,\" said Fairfeather, \"you should not have such mean thoughts.\nHow could one eat barley bread on the way to a palace? Let us rest\nourselves under this tree, and look at our leaves to see if they are\nsafe.\"\n\nIn looking at the leaves, and talking of what they were going to do when\nthey came to the Court, Scrub and Fairfeather did not see that a very\nthin old woman had slipped from behind a tree, with a long staff in her\nhand and a great bag by her side.\n\n\"Noble lord and lady,\" she said,--\"for I know you are such by your\nvoices, though my eyes are dim and my hearing none of the\nsharpest,--will you tell me where I may find some water to mix a bottle\nof mead which I carry in my bag, because it is too strong for me?\"\n\nAs the old woman spoke, she pulled out of her bag a large wooden bottle\nsuch as shepherds used in the olden times, corked with leaves rolled\ntogether, and having a small wooden cup hanging from its handle.\n\n\"Perhaps you will do me the favour to taste it,\" she said. \"It is only\nmade of the best of honey. I have also cream cheese, and a wheaten loaf\nhere, if such noble persons as you eat the like.\"\n\nScrub and Fairfeather were now sure, after this speech, that there must\nbe about them something of the look that noble persons have. Besides,\nthey were very hungry; and having with great haste wrapped up the golden\nleaves, they told the old woman that they were not at all proud,\nnotwithstanding the lands and castles they had left behind them in the\nnorth country, and would willingly help to lighten the bag. The old\nwoman would hardly sit down beside them, she was so humble and modest,\nbut at length she did; and before the bag was half empty, Scrub and\nFairfeather firmly believed that there must be something very\nnoble-looking about them.\n\nThe old woman was a wood-witch. Her name was Buttertongue, and all her\ntime was spent in making mead, which being boiled with strange herbs and\nspells, had the power of making all who drank it fall asleep and dream\nwith their eyes open. She had two dwarfs of sons; one was named Spy and\nthe other Pounce. Wherever their mother went, they were not far behind;\nand whoever tasted her mead was sure to be robbed by the dwarfs.\n\nScrub and Fairfeather sat leaning against the old tree. The cobbler had\na lump of cheese in his hand; his wife held fast a hunch of bread. Their\neyes and mouths were both open, but they were dreaming of the fine\nthings at the Court, when the old woman raised her shrill voice:\n\n\"What ho, my sons! come here, and carry home the harvest.\"\n\nNo sooner had she spoken than the two little dwarfs darted out of the\nnearest thicket.\n\n\"Idle boys!\" cried the mother, \"what have you done to-day to help our\nliving?\"\n\n\"I have been to the city,\" said Spy, \"and could see nothing. These are\nhard times for us--everybody minds his work so contentedly since that\ncobbler came. But here is a leathern doublet which his page threw out of\nthe window. It's of no use, but I brought it to let you see I was not\nidle.\" And he tossed down Spare's doublet, with the merry leaves in it,\nwhich he had carried like a bundle on his little back.\n\nTo let you know how Spy got hold of it, I must tell you that the forest\nwas not far from the great city where Spare lived in such high esteem.\nAll things had gone well with the cobbler till the King thought that it\nwas quite unbecoming to see such a worthy man without a servant. His\nMajesty, therefore, to let all men understand his royal favour towards\nSpare, appointed one of his own pages to wait upon him.\n\nThe name of this youth was Tinseltoes, and, though he was the seventh of\nthe King's pages in rank, nobody in all the Court had grander notions.\nNothing could please him that had not gold or silver about it, and his\ngrandmother feared he would hang himself for being made page to a\ncobbler. As for Spare, if anything could have troubled him, this mark of\nHis Majesty's kindness would have done it.\n\nThe honest man had been so used to serve himself that the page was\nalways in the way; but his merry leaves came to his aid; and, to the\ngreat surprise of his grandmother, Tinseltoes took to the new service in\na wonderful way. Some said it was because Spare gave him nothing to do\nbut play at bowls all day on the palace green. Yet one thing vexed the\nheart of Tinseltoes, and that was his master's leathern doublet. But for\nit, he was sure people would never remember that Spare had been a\ncobbler; and the page took a deal of pains to let him see how much out\nof the fashion it was at the Court. But Spare answered Tinseltoes as he\nhad done the King; and at last, finding nothing better would do, the\npage got up one fine morning earlier than his master, and tossed the\nleathern doublet out of the back window into a lane, where Spy found it\nand brought it to his mother.\n\n\"That nasty thing!\" said the old woman. \"Where is the good in it?\"\n\nBy this time, Pounce had taken everything of value from Scrub and\nFairfeather--the looking-glass, the silver-rimmed horn, the husband's\nscarlet coat, the wife's gay cloak, and, above all, the golden leaves,\nwhich so gladdened the hearts of old Buttertongue and her sons, that\nthey threw the leathern doublet over the sleeping cobbler for a joke,\nand went off to their hut in the middle of the forest.\n\nThe sun was going down when Scrub and Fairfeather awoke from dreaming\nthat they had been made a lord and a lady, and sat clothed in silk and\nvelvet, feasting with the King in his palace hall. They were greatly\ndisappointed to find their golden leaves and all their best things gone.\nScrub tore his hair, and vowed to take the old woman's life, while\nFairfeather uttered loud cries of sorrow. But Scrub, feeling cold for\nwant of his coat, put on the leathern doublet without asking or caring\nwhence it came.\n\nHardly was it buttoned on when a change came over him. He began to talk\nso merrily, that, instead of crying, Fairfeather made the wood ring with\nlaughter. Both busied themselves in getting up a hut of branches, in\nwhich Scrub kindled a fire with a flint and steel, which, together with\nhis pipe, he had brought unknown to Fairfeather, who had told him the\nlike was never heard of at the Court. Then they found a pheasant's nest\nat the root of an old oak, made a meal of roasted eggs, and went to\nsleep on a heap of long green grass which they had gathered, with\nnightingales singing all night long in the old trees about them.\n\nSo it happened that Scrub and Fairfeather stayed day after day in the\nforest, making their hut larger and more cosy against the winter,\nliving on wild birds' eggs, and berries, and never thinking of their\nlost golden leaves, or their journey to the Court.\n\nIn the meantime Spare had got up and missed his doublet. Tinseltoes, of\ncourse, said he knew nothing about it. The whole palace was searched,\nand every servant questioned, till all the Court wondered why such a\nfuss was made about an old leathern doublet. That very day, things came\nback to their old fashion. Quarrels began among the lords, and envies\namong the ladies. The King said his people did not pay him half enough\ntaxes, the Queen wanted more jewels, the servants took to their old\nquarrels and got up some new ones.\n\nSpare found himself getting strangely dull, and very much out of place.\nNobles began to ask what business a cobbler had at the King's table, and\nHis Majesty ordered the palace records to be searched to find out if\nsuch a thing had ever taken place before. The cobbler was too wise to\ntell all he had lost with that doublet; but as by this time he knew the\nCourt customs, he offered a reward of fifty gold pieces to anyone who\nwould bring him news about it.\n\nScarcely was this made known in the city, when the gates and outer\ncourts of the palace were filled by men, women, and children--some\nbringing leathern doublets of every cut and colour, some with tales of\nwhat they had heard and seen in their walks round about the palace. So\nmuch news about all sorts of great people came out of these stories,\nthat lords and ladies ran to complain of Spare as one who spoke against\npeople. His Majesty, being now sure that there was no example in all the\npalace records of such a retainer, sent forth a decree sending the\ncobbler away for ever from the Court, and giving all his goods to the\npage Tinseltoes.\n\nThat royal decree was hardly issued before the page had taken for\nhimself Spare's rich room, his costly garments, and all the presents the\npeople at Court had given him. While Spare, having no longer the fifty\npieces of gold to give, was glad to make his escape out of a back\nwindow, for fear of the nobles, who vowed to have revenge on him, and\nthe crowd, who were ready to stone him for cheating them about his\ndoublet.\n\nThe window from which Spare let himself down with a strong rope, was\nthat from which Tinseltoes had tossed the doublet; and as the cobbler\ncame down late in the twilight, a poor woodman, with a heavy load of\nfagots, stopped and stared at him in great surprise.\n\n\"What is the matter, friend?\" asked Spare. \"Did you never see a man\ncoming down from a back window before?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said the woodman, \"the last morning I passed here, a leathern\ndoublet came out of that very window, and I feel sure you are the owner\nof it.\"\n\n\"That I am, friend,\" said the cobbler eagerly. \"Can you tell me which\nway that doublet went?\"\n\n\"As I walked on,\" said the woodman, \"a dwarf, called Spy, bundled it up\nand ran off to his mother in the forest.\"\n\n\"Honest friend,\" said Spare, taking off the last of his fine clothes (a\ngrass-green cloak edged with gold), \"I will give you this if you will\nfollow the dwarf and bring me back my doublet.\"\n\n\"It would not be good to carry fagots in,\" said the woodman. \"But if you\nwant back your doublet, the road to the forest lies at the end of this\nlane;\" and he trudged away.\n\nHaving made up his mind to find his doublet, and sure that neither crowd\nnor nobles could catch him in the forest, Spare went on his way, and was\nsoon among the tall trees; but neither hut nor dwarf could he see.\nMoreover, the night came on; the wood was dark and thick, but here and\nthere the moon shone through its lanes, the great owls flitted about,\nand the nightingales sang. So he went on, hoping to find some place of\nshelter.\n\nAt last the red light of a fire, shining through a thicket, led him to\nthe door of a low hut. It stood half open, as if there was nothing to\nfear, and within he saw his brother Scrub snoring loudly on a bed of\ngrass, at the foot of which lay his own leathern doublet; while\nFairfeather, in a dress made of plaited rushes, sat roasting pheasants'\neggs by the fire.\n\n\"Good evening, mistress!\" said Spare, stepping in.\n\nThe blaze shone on him, but so changed was her brother-in-law with his\nCourt life, that Fairfeather did not know him, and she answered far more\nkindly than was her wont.\n\n\"Good evening, master! Whence come you so late? but speak low, for my\ngood man has tired himself cutting wood, and is taking a sleep, as you\nsee, before supper.\"\n\n\"A good rest to him!\" said Spare, seeing he was not known. \"I come from\nthe Court for a day's hunting, and have lost my way in the forest.\"\n\n\"Sit down and have a share of our supper,\" said Fairfeather, \"I will put\nsome more eggs in the ashes; and tell me the news of Court--I used to\nthink of it long ago when I was young and foolish.\"\n\n\"Did you never go there?\" said the cobbler. \"So fair a dame as you would\nmake the ladies wonder.\"\n\n\"You are pleased to flatter,\" said Fairfeather; \"but my husband has a\nbrother there, and we left our moorland village to try our fortune also.\nAn old woman at the entrance to this forest, by means of fair words, got\nus to take some strong drink, which caused us to fall asleep and dream\nof great things. But when we woke, everything had been robbed from\nus--my looking-glass, my scarlet cloak, my husband's Sunday coat; and,\nin place of all, the robbers left him that old doublet, which he has\nworn ever since, and he never was so merry in all his life, though we\nlive in this poor hut.\"\n\n\"It is a shabby doublet, that,\" said Spare, taking up the garment, and\nseeing that it was his own, for the merry leaves were still sewed in its\nlining. \"It would be good for hunting in, however--your husband would be\nglad to part with it, I dare say, in exchange for this handsome cloak;\"\nand he pulled off the green mantle and buttoned on the doublet, much to\nFairfeather's delight, who ran and shook Scrub, crying: \"Husband,\nhusband, rise and see what a good bargain I have made!\"\n\nScrub gave one last snore, and muttered something about the root being\nhard. But he rubbed his eyes, gazed up at his brother and said:\n\n\"Spare, is that really you? How did you like the Court, and have you\nmade your fortune?\"\n\n\"That I have, brother,\" said Spare, \"in getting back my own good\nleathern doublet. Come, let us eat eggs, and rest ourselves here this\nnight. In the morning we will return to our own old hut, at the end of\nthe moorland village, where the Christmas Cuckoo will come and bring us\nleaves.\"\n\nScrub and Fairfeather agreed. So in the morning they all returned, and\nfound the old hut little the worse for wear and weather. The people of\nthe village came about them to ask the news of Court, and see if they\nhad made their fortune. Everybody was surprised to find the three poorer\nthan ever, but somehow they liked to go to the hut. Spare brought out\nthe lasts and awls he had hidden in the corner. Scrub and he began their\nold trade again, and the whole north country found out that there never\nwere such cobblers.\n\nThey mended the shoes of lords and ladies as well as the common people;\neverybody was well pleased with the work. Their trade grew greater from\nday to day, and all that were discontented or unlucky came to the hut as\nin old times, before Spare went to the Court.\n\nThe rich brought them presents, the poor did them service. The hut\nitself changed, no one knew how. Flowering honeysuckle grew over its\nroof; red and white roses grew thick about its door. Moreover, the\nChristmas Cuckoo always came on the first of April, bringing three\nleaves of the merry tree--for Scrub and Fairfeather would have no more\ngolden ones. So it was with them when I last heard the news of the north\ncountry.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nLADY GREENSLEEVES\n\n\nOn the evening of the next day King Winwealth again fell into low\nspirits, and gave orders that Snowflower and her wonderful chair should\nbe brought to the highest hall. When Snowflower came, she at once laid\ndown her head on the chair, saying: \"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a\nstory.\"\n\n\"Listen,\" said the clear voice from under the cushion, \"to the story of\nLady Greensleeves.\"\n\nOnce upon a time there lived two noble lords in the east country. Their\nlands lay between a broad river and an old oak forest. In the midst of\nhis land each lord had a stately castle; one was built of white\nfreestone, the other of grey granite. So the one was called Lord of the\nWhite Castle, and the other Lord of the Grey.\n\nNo lords in all the east country were so noble and kind as they. Their\npeople lived in peace and plenty; all strangers were well treated at\ntheir castles. Every autumn they sent men with axes into the forest to\nhew down the great trees, and chop them into firewood for the poor.\nNeither hedge nor ditch divided their lands, but these lords never had a\nquarrel. They had been friends from their youth. Their ladies had died\nlong ago, but the Lord of the Grey Castle had a little son, and the Lord\nof the White a little daughter; and when they feasted in each other's\nhalls it was their custom to say, \"When our children grow up they will\nmarry, and have our castles and our lands, and keep our friendship in\nmemory.\"\n\nSo the lords and their little children, and their people, lived happily\ntill one Michaelmas night, as they were all feasting in the hall of the\nWhite Castle, there came a traveller to the gate, who was welcomed and\nfeasted as usual. He had seen many strange sights and countries, and he\nliked to tell of his travels. The lords were delighted with his tales\nas they sat round the fire after supper, and at length the Lord of the\nWhite Castle, who was always very eager to know all he could about new\ncountries, said:\n\n\"Good stranger, what was the greatest wonder you ever saw in all your\ntravels?\"\n\n\"The most wonderful sight that ever I saw,\" replied the traveller, \"was\nat the end of yonder forest, where in an old wooden house there sits an\nold woman weaving her own hair into grey cloth on an old worn-out loom.\nWhen she wants more yarn she cuts off her own grey hair, and it grows so\nquickly that though I saw it cut in the morning, it was out of the door\nbefore noon. She told me she wished to sell the cloth, but none of all\nwho came that way had yet bought any, she asked so great a price. And,\nif the way were not so long and dangerous through that wide forest,\nwhich is full of bears and wolves, some rich lord like you might buy it\nfor a cloak.\"\n\nAll who heard this story were greatly surprised; but when the traveller\nhad gone on his way, the Lord of the White Castle could neither eat nor\nsleep for wishing to see the old woman that wove her own hair. At length\nhe made up his mind to go through the forest in search of her old house,\nand told the Lord of the Grey Castle what he had made up his mind to do.\nBeing a wise man, this lord replied that travellers' tales were not\nalways to be trusted, and tried hard to advise him against undertaking\nsuch a long and dangerous journey, for few that went far into that\nforest ever returned.\n\nHowever, when the curious lord would go in spite of all he said, he\nvowed to go with him for friendship's sake, and they agreed to set out\nwithout letting anyone know, lest the other lords of the land might\nlaugh at them. The Lord of the White Castle had a steward who had served\nhim many years, and his name was Reckoning Robin. To him he said:\n\n\"I am going on a journey with my friend. Be careful of my goods, deal\njustly with my people, and above all things be kind to my little\ndaughter Loveleaves till my return.\"\n\nThe steward answered: \"Be sure, my lord, I will.\"\n\nThe Lord of the Grey Castle also had a steward who had served him many\nyears, and his name was Wary Will. To him he said:\n\n\"I am going on a journey with my friend. Be careful of my goods, deal\njustly with my people, and above all be kind to my little son Woodwender\ntill my return.\"\n\nHis steward answered him: \"Be sure, my lord, I will.\"\n\nSo these lords kissed their children while they slept, and set out each\nwith his staff and cloak before sunrise through the old oak forest.\n\nThe children missed their fathers, and the people missed their lords.\nNone but the stewards could tell what had become of them; but seven\nmonths wore away, and they did not come back. The lords had thought\ntheir stewards faithful, because they served so well under their eyes;\nbut instead of that, both were proud and cunning, and thinking that some\nevil had happened to their masters, they set themselves to be lords in\ntheir places.\n\nReckoning Robin had a son called Hardhold, and Wary Will a daughter\nnamed Drypenny. There was not a sulkier girl or boy in the country, but\ntheir fathers made up their minds to make a young lord and a young lady\nof them; so they took the silk clothes which Woodwender and Loveleaves\nused to wear, to dress them, putting on the lords' children their coarse\nclothes. Their toys were given to Hardhold and Drypenny; and at last the\nstewards' children sat at the chief tables, and slept in the best rooms,\nwhile Woodwender and Loveleaves were sent to herd the swine, and sleep\non straw in the granary.\n\nThe poor children had no one to take their part. Every morning at\nsunrise they were sent out--each with a barley loaf and a bottle of sour\nmilk, which was to serve them for breakfast, dinner, and supper--to\nwatch a great herd of swine on a wide field near the forest. The grass\nwas scanty, and the swine were always straying into the wood in search\nof acorns. The children knew that if they were lost the wicked stewards\nwould punish them; and between gathering and keeping their herds in\norder, they were readier to sleep on the granary straw at night than\never they had been within their own silken curtains.\n\nStill, Woodwender and Loveleaves were a great help and comfort to each\nother, saying their fathers would come back or God would send them some\nfriends. So, in spite of swine-herding and hard living, they looked as\ncheerful and handsome as ever; while Hardhold and Drypenny grew crosser\nand uglier every day, notwithstanding their fine clothes.\n\nThe false stewards did not like this. They thought their children ought\nto look genteel, and Woodwender and Loveleaves like young swineherds. So\nthey sent them to a wilder field, still nearer the forest, and gave them\ntwo great black hogs, more unruly than all the rest, to keep. One of\nthese hogs belonged to Hardhold, and the other to Drypenny. Every\nevening when they came home the stewards' children used to come down\nand feed them, and it was their delight to reckon up what price they\nwould bring when properly fattened.\n\nOne very hot day, about midsummer, Woodwender and Loveleaves sat down in\nthe shadow of a mossy rock. The swine grazed about them more quietly\nthan usual; and the children plaited rushes and talked to each other,\ntill, as the sun was sloping down the sky, Woodwender saw that the two\ngreat hogs were missing.\n\nThinking they must have gone to the forest, the children ran to search\nfor them. They heard the thrush singing and the wood-doves calling; they\nsaw the squirrels leaping from branch to branch, and the deer bounding\nby. But though they searched for hours, no trace of the hogs could be\nseen.\n\nLoveleaves and Woodwender dared not go home without them. Deeper and\ndeeper they ran into the forest, searching and calling, but all in vain.\nAnd when the woods began to darken with the fall of evening, the\nchildren feared they had lost their way.\n\nIt was known that they never feared the forest, nor all the boars and\nwolves that were in it. But being weary, they wished for some place of\nshelter, and took a green path through the trees, thinking it might lead\nto the dwelling of some hermit or forester.\n\nA fairer way Woodwender and Loveleaves had never walked. The grass was\nsoft and mossy, a hedge of wild roses and honeysuckle grew on either\nside, and the red light of the sunset streamed through the tall trees\nabove. On they went, and it led them straight to a great open dell,\ncovered with the most lovely flowers, bordered with banks of wild\nstrawberries, and all overshadowed by a huge oak, the like of which had\nnever been seen in grove or forest. Its branches were as large as\nfull-grown trees. Its trunk was wider than a country church, and its\nheight like that of a castle.\n\nThere were mossy seats at its great root, and when the tired children\nhad gathered as many strawberries as they cared for, they sat down on\none, close by a small spring that bubbled up as clear as crystal. The\nmighty oak was covered with thick ivy, in which thousands of birds had\ntheir nests. Woodwender and Loveleaves watched them flying home from all\nparts of the forest, and at last they saw a lady coming by the same path\nwhich led them to the dell. She wore a gown of a red colour; her yellow\nhair was braided and bound with a red band. In her right hand she\ncarried a holly branch; but the strangest part of her dress was a pair\nof long sleeves, as green as the very grass.\n\n\"Who are you,\" she said, \"that sit so late beside my well?\"\n\nAnd the children told her their story, how they had first lost the hogs,\nand then their way, and were afraid to go home to the wicked stewards.\n\n\"Well,\" said the lady, \"you are the fairest swineherds that ever came\nthis way. Choose whether you will go home and keep hogs for Hardhold and\nDrypenny, or live in the free forest with me.\"\n\n\"We will stay with you,\" said the children, \"for we do not like keeping\nswine. Besides, our fathers went through this forest, and we may meet\nthem some day coming home.\"\n\nWhile they spoke, the lady slipped her holly branch through the ivy, as\nif it had been a key,--soon a door opened in the oak, and there was a\nfair house. The windows were of rock crystal, but they could not be seen\nfrom without. The walls and floors were covered with thick green moss,\nas soft as velvet. There were low seats and a round table, vessels of\ncarved wood, a hearth inlaid with strange stones, an oven, and a\nstoreroom for food against the winter.\n\nWhen they stepped in, the lady said: \"A hundred years have I lived here,\nand my name is Lady Greensleeves. No friend or servant have I except my\ndwarf Corner, who comes to me at the end of harvest with his handmill,\nhis basket, and his axe. With these he grinds the nuts, and gathers the\nberries, and splits the firewood; and cheerily we live all the winter.\nBut Corner loves the frost and fears the sun; and when the topmost\nbranches begin to bud, he returns to his country far in the north, so I\nam lonely in the summertime.\"\n\nBy these words the children saw how welcome they were. Lady Greensleeves\ngave them deer's milk and cakes of nut-flour, and soft green moss to\nsleep on. And they forgot all their troubles, the wicked stewards, and\nthe straying swine.\n\nEarly in the morning a troop of does came to be milked, fairies brought\nflowers, and birds brought berries, to show Lady Greensleeves what had\nbloomed and ripened. She taught the children to make cheese of the does'\nmilk, and wine of the woodberries. She showed them the stores of honey\nwhich wild bees had made, and left in the hollow trees, the rarest\nplants of the forest, and the herbs that made all the creatures tame.\n\nAll that summer Woodwender and Loveleaves lived with her in the great\noak tree, free from toil and care. The children would have been happy,\nbut they could hear no news of their fathers. At last the leaves began\nto fade, and the flowers to fall. Lady Greensleeves said that Corner was\ncoming. One moonlight night she heaped sticks on the fire, and set her\ndoor open, when Woodwender and Loveleaves were going to sleep, saying\nshe expected some friends to tell her the news of the forest.\n\nLoveleaves was not quite so curious as her father, the Lord of the White\nCastle, but she kept awake to see what would happen, and very much\nafraid the little girl was when in walked a great brown bear.\n\n\"Good evening, lady!\" said the bear.\n\n\"Good evening, bear!\" said Lady Greensleeves. \"What is the news in your\npart of the forest?\"\n\n\"Not much,\" said the bear; \"only the fawns are growing very cunning--one\ncan't catch above three in a day.\"\n\n\"That's bad news,\" said Lady Greensleeves; and at once in walked a great\nwild cat.\n\n\"Good evening, lady!\" said the cat.\n\n\"Good evening, cat!\" said Lady Greensleeves. \"What is the news in your\npart of the forest?\"\n\n\"Not much,\" said the cat; \"only the birds are growing very plentiful--it\nis not worth one's while to catch them.\"\n\n\"That's good news,\" said Lady Greensleeves; and in flew a great black\nraven.\n\n\"Good evening, lady!\" said the raven.\n\n\"Good evening, raven!\" said Lady Greensleeves. \"What is the news in your\npart of the forest?\"\n\n\"Not much,\" said the raven; \"only in a hundred years or so we shall be\nvery genteel and private, the trees will be so thick.\"\n\n\"How is that?\" said Lady Greensleeves.\n\n\"Oh!\" said the raven, \"have you not heard how the king of the forest\nfairies laid a spell on two lords, who were travelling through his\nkingdom to see the old woman that weaves her own hair? They had thinned\nhis oaks every year, cutting firewood for the poor. So the king met them\nin the likeness of a hunter, and asked them to drink out of his oaken\ngoblet, because the day was warm. When the two lords drank, they\nforgot their lands and their people, their castles and their children,\nand minded nothing in all the world but the planting of acorns, which\nthey do day and night, by the power of the spell, in the heart of the\nforest. They will never stop till someone makes them pause in their work\nbefore the sun sets, and then the spell will be broken.\"\n\n[Illustration: A DOOR OPENED IN THE ROCK\n\n_See page 61_]\n\n\"Ah!\" said Lady Greensleeves, \"he is a great prince, that king of the\nforest fairies; and there is worse work in the world than planting\nacorns.\"\n\nSoon after, the bear, the cat, and the raven bade Lady Greensleeves good\nnight. She closed the door, put out the light, and went to sleep on the\nsoft moss as usual.\n\nIn the morning Loveleaves told Woodwender what she had heard, and they\nwent to Lady Greensleeves where she milked the does, and said:\n\n\"We heard what the raven told you last night, and we know the two lords\nare our fathers. Tell us how the spell may be broken.\"\n\n\"I fear the king of the forest fairies,\" said Lady Greensleeves,\n\"because I live here alone, and have no friend but my dwarf Corner. But\nI will tell you what you may do. At the end of the path which leads from\nthis dell turn your faces to the north, and you will find a narrow way\nsprinkled over with black feathers. Keep that path, no matter how it\nwinds, and it will lead you straight to that part of the forest in which\nthe ravens dwell. There you will find your fathers planting acorns under\nthe forest trees. Watch till the sun is near setting, and tell them the\nmost wonderful things you know to make them forget their work. But be\nsure to tell nothing but truth, and drink nothing but running water, or\nyou will fall into the power of the fairy king.\"\n\nThe children thanked her for this good advice. She packed up cakes and\ncheese for them in a bag of woven grass, and they soon found the narrow\nway sprinkled over with black feathers. It was very long, and wound\nthrough the thick trees in so many circles that the children were often\nweary, and sat down to rest. When the night came, they found a mossy\nhollow in the trunk of an old tree, where they laid themselves down, and\nslept all the summer night--for Woodwender and Loveleaves never feared\nthe forest.\n\nSo they went, eating their cakes and cheese when they were hungry,\ndrinking from the running stream, and sleeping in the hollow trees, till\non the evening of the seventh day they came into that part of the forest\nwhere the ravens lived. The tall trees were laden with nests and black\nwith ravens. There was nothing to be heard but cawing.\n\nIn a great opening where the oaks grew thinnest, the children saw their\nown fathers busy planting acorns. Each lord had on the velvet cloak in\nwhich he left his castle, but it was worn to rags with rough work in the\nforest. Their hair and beards had grown long; their hands were soiled\nwith earth; each had an old wooden spade, and on all sides lay heaps of\nacorns.\n\nThe children called their names, and ran to kiss them, each saying:\n\"Dear father, come back to your castle and your people.\"\n\nBut the lords replied: \"We know of no castles and no people. There is\nnothing in all this world but oak leaves and acorns.\"\n\nWoodwender and Loveleaves told them of all their former state in vain.\nNothing would make them pause for a minute. So the poor children first\nsat down and cried, and then slept on the cold grass, for the sun set,\nand the lords worked on.\n\nWhen they awoke it was broad day. Woodwender cheered up Loveleaves,\nsaying: \"We are hungry, and there are two cakes in the bag, let us share\none of them--who knows but something may happen.\"\n\nSo they divided the cake, and ran to the lords, saying: \"Dear fathers,\neat with us.\"\n\nBut the lords said: \"There is no use for meat or drink. Let us plant our\nacorns.\"\n\nLoveleaves and Woodwender sat down, and ate that cake in great sorrow.\nWhen they had finished, both went to a stream that ran close by, and\nbegan to drink the clear water with a large acorn shell. And as they\ndrank there came through the oaks a gay young hunter, his mantle was\ngreen as the grass; about his neck there hung a crystal bugle, and in\nhis hand he carried a huge oaken goblet, carved with flowers and leaves,\nand rimmed with crystal.\n\nUp to the brim the cup was filled with milk, on which the rich cream\nfloated. And as the hunter came near, he said: \"Fair children, leave\nthat muddy water, and come and drink with me.\"\n\nBut Woodwender and Loveleaves answered: \"Thanks, good hunter, but we\nhave promised to drink nothing but running water.\"\n\nStill the hunter came nearer with his goblet, saying: \"The water is\ndirty; it may do for swineherds and woodcutters, but not for such fair\nchildren as you. Tell me, are you not the children of mighty kings? Were\nyou not brought up in palaces?\"\n\nBut the boy and girl answered him: \"No: we were brought up in castles,\nand are the children of yonder lords. Tell us how the spell that is upon\nthem may be broken.\"\n\nAt once the hunter turned from them with an angry look, poured out the\nmilk upon the ground, and went away with his empty goblet.\n\nLoveleaves and Woodwender were sorry to see the rich cream spilled, but\nthey remembered the warning of Lady Greensleeves; and seeing they could\ndo no better, each got a withered branch and began to help the lords,\nscratching up the ground with the sharp end, and planting acorns. But\ntheir fathers took no notice of them, nor of all that they could say.\nWhen the sun grew warm at noon, they went again to drink at the running\nstream.\n\nThen through the oaks came another hunter, older than the first, and\nclothed in yellow. About his neck there hung a silver bugle, and in his\nhand he carried an oaken goblet, carved with leaves and fruit, rimmed\nwith silver, and filled with mead to the brim. This hunter also asked\nthem to drink, told them the stream was full of frogs, and asked them if\nthey were not a young prince and princess dwelling in the woods for\ntheir pleasure.\n\nBut when Woodwender and Loveleaves answered as before: \"We have\npromised to drink only running water, and are the children of yonder\nlords; tell us how the spell may be broken,\" he turned from them with an\nangry look, poured out the mead, and went his way.\n\nAll that afternoon the children worked beside their fathers, planting\nacorns with the withered branches. But the lords would mind neither them\nnor their words. And when the evening drew near they were very hungry.\nSo the children divided their last cake; and since they could not make\nthe lords eat with them, they went to the banks of the stream, and began\nto eat and drink, though their hearts were very heavy.\n\nThe sun was getting low, and the ravens were coming home to their nests\nin the high trees. But one, that seemed old and weary, alighted near\nthem to drink at the stream. As they ate, the raven lingered, and picked\nup the small crumbs that fell.\n\n\"Brother,\" said Loveleaves, \"this raven is surely hungry. Let us give it\na little bit, though it is our last cake.\"\n\nWoodwender agreed, and each gave a bit to the raven. But its great bill\nfinished the morsels in a moment, and hopping nearer, it looked them in\nthe face by turns.\n\n\"The poor raven is still hungry,\" said Woodwender, and he gave it\nanother bit. When that was gobbled, it came to Loveleaves, who gave it a\nbit too, and so on till the raven had eaten the whole of their last\ncake.\n\n\"Well,\" said Woodwender, \"at least we can have a drink.\"\n\nBut as they stooped to the water, there came through the oaks another\nhunter, older than the last, and clothed in scarlet. About his neck\nthere hung a golden bugle, and in his hand he carried a huge oaken\ngoblet, carved with ears of corn and clusters of grapes, rimmed with\ngold, and filled to the brim with wine.\n\nHe also said: \"Leave this muddy water, and drink with me. It is full of\ntoads, and not fit for such fair children. Surely you are from\nfairyland, and were brought up in its queen's palace!\"\n\nBut the children said: \"We will drink nothing but this water, and yonder\nlords are our fathers. Tell us how the spell may be broken.\"\n\nAnd the hunter turned from them with an angry look, poured out the wine\non the grass, and went his way.\n\nWhen he was gone, the old raven looked up into their faces, and said: \"I\nhave eaten your last cake, and I will tell you how the spell may be\nbroken. Yonder is the sun, going down behind the western trees. Before\nit sets, go to the lords, and tell them how their stewards used you, and\nmade you herd hogs for Hardhold and Drypenny. When you see them\nlistening, catch up their wooden spades, and keep them if you can till\nthe sun goes down.\"\n\nWoodwender and Loveleaves thanked the raven, and where it flew they\nnever stopped to see, but running to the lords began to tell as they\nwere bidden. At first the lords would not listen; but as the children\ntold how they had been made to sleep on straw, how they had been sent to\nherd hogs in the wild pasture, and what trouble they had with the\nunruly swine, the acorn planting grew slower, and at last the lords\ndropped their spades.\n\nThen Woodwender, catching up his father's spade, ran to the stream and\nthrew it in. Loveleaves did the same for the Lord of the White Castle.\nThat moment the sun went down behind the western oaks, and the lords\nstood up, looking, like men just awakened, on the forest, on the sky,\nand on their children.\n\nSo this strange story has ended, for Woodwender and Loveleaves went home\nrejoicing with their fathers. Each lord returned to his castle, and all\ntheir people were merry. The fine toys and the silk clothes, the flower\ngardens and the best rooms, were taken from Hardhold and Drypenny, and\nthe lords' children got them again. And the wicked stewards, with their\ncross boy and girl, were sent to herd swine, and live in huts in the\nwild pasture, which everybody said became them better.\n\nThe Lord of the White Castle never again wished to see the old woman\nthat wove her own hair, and the Lord of the Grey Castle continued to be\nhis friend. As for Woodwender and Loveleaves, they met with no more\nmisfortunes, but grew up, and were married, and got the two castles and\nbroad lands of their fathers. Nor did they forget the lonely Lady\nGreensleeves, for it was known in the east country that she and her\ndwarf Corner always came to feast with them in the Christmas time, and\nat midsummer they always went to live with her in the great oak in the\nforest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nCHILDE CHARITY\n\n\nAnother evening King Winwealth fell into low spirits, and sent down a\nmessage for Snowflower to come to the highest hall. So the little girl\nwent up with her grandmother's chair, upon which she laid down her head,\nsaying: \"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story.\" The clear voice from\nunder the cushion said: \"Listen to the story of Childe Charity.\"\n\nOnce upon a time, there lived in the west country a little girl who had\nneither father nor mother. They both died when she was very young, and\nleft their daughter to the care of her uncle, who was the richest farmer\nin all that country. He had houses and lands, flocks and herds, many\nservants to work about his house and fields, a wife who had brought him\na great dowry, and two fair daughters.\n\nAll their neighbours, being poor, looked up to the family--insomuch that\nthey thought themselves great people. The father and mother were as\nproud as peacocks. The daughters thought themselves the greatest\nbeauties in the world, and not one of the family would speak civilly to\nanybody they thought low.\n\nNow it happened that though she was their near relation, they had this\nopinion of the orphan girl, partly because she had no fortune, and\npartly because of her humble, kindly nature. It was said that the more\nneedy any creature was, the more ready was she to befriend it. So the\npeople of the west country called her Childe Charity, and if she had any\nother name, I never heard it.\n\nChilde Charity was thought very mean in that proud house. Her uncle\nwould not own her for his niece. Her cousins would not keep her company.\nHer aunt sent her to work in the dairy, and to sleep in the back garret,\nwhere they kept all sorts of lumber and dry herbs for the winter.\n\nAll the servants learned the same lesson, and Childe Charity had more\nwork than rest among them. All the day she scoured pails, scrubbed\ndishes, and washed crockery ware. But every night she slept in the back\ngarret as sound as a princess could in her palace.\n\nHer uncle's house was large and white, and stood among green meadows by\na river's side. In front it had a porch covered with a vine; behind, it\nhad a farmyard and high granaries. Within were two parlours for the\nrich, and two kitchens for the poor, which the neighbours thought very\ngrand; and one day in the harvest season, when this rich farmer's corn\nhad been all cut down and housed, he invited them to a harvest supper.\n\nThe west-country people came in their holiday clothes. Such heaps of\ncakes and cheese, such baskets of apples and barrels of ale had never\nbeen at a feast before. They were making merry in kitchen and parlour,\nwhen a poor old woman came to the back door, begging for scraps of food\nand a night's lodging. Her clothes were coarse and ragged; her hair was\nscanty and grey; her back was bent; her teeth were gone. She had a\nsquinting eye, a clubbed foot, and crooked fingers. In short, she was\nthe poorest and ugliest old woman that ever came begging.\n\nThe first who saw her was the kitchen maid, and she ordered her to be\ngone for an ugly witch. The next was the herd-boy, and he threw her a\nbone. But Childe Charity, hearing the noise, came out from her seat at\nthe foot of the lowest table, and asked the old woman to take her share\nof the supper, and sleep that night in her bed in the back garret.\n\nThe old woman sat down without a word of thanks. All the people laughed\nat Childe Charity for giving her bed and her supper to a beggar. Her\nproud cousins said it was just like her mean spirit, but Childe Charity\ndid not mind them. She scraped the pots for her supper that night, and\nslept on a sack among the lumber, while the old woman rested in her warm\nbed. And next morning, before the little girl awoke, she was up and\ngone, without so much as saying thank you, or good morning.\n\nThat day all the servants were sick after the feast, and mostly cross\ntoo--so you may judge how civil they were; when, at supper time, who\nshould come to the back door but the old woman, again asking for broken\nscraps of food and a night's lodging. No one would listen to her or give\nher a morsel, till Childe Charity rose from her seat at the foot of the\nlowest table, and kindly asked her to take her supper, and sleep in her\nbed in the back garret.\n\nAgain the old woman sat down without a word. Childe Charity scraped the\npots for her supper, and slept on the sack. In the morning the old woman\nwas gone; but for six nights after, as sure as the supper was spread,\nthere was she at the back door, and the little girl always asked her in.\n\nChilde Charity's aunt said she would let her get enough of beggars. Her\ncousins made game of what they called her genteel visitor. Sometimes the\nold woman said: \"Child, why don't you make this bed softer? and why are\nyour blankets so thin?\" but she never gave her a word of thanks, nor\na civil good morning.\n\n[Illustration: THERE CAME IN A COMPANY OF LITTLE LADIES\n\n_See page 84_]\n\nAt last, on the ninth night from her first coming, when Childe Charity\nwas getting used to scrape the pots and sleep on the sack, her knock\ncame to the door, and there she stood with an ugly ashy-coloured dog, so\nstupid-looking and clumsy that no herd-boy would keep him.\n\n\"Good evening, my little girl!\" she said, when Childe Charity opened the\ndoor. \"I will not have your supper and bed to-night. I am going on a\nlong journey to see a friend. But here is a dog of mine, whom nobody in\nall the west country will keep for me. He is a little cross, and not\nvery handsome; but I leave him to your care till the shortest day in all\nthe year. Then you and I will count for his keeping.\"\n\nWhen the old woman had said the last word, she set off with such speed\nthat Childe Charity lost sight of her in a minute. The ugly dog began to\nfawn upon her, but he snarled at everybody else. The servants said he\nwas a disgrace to the house. The cousins wanted him drowned, and it was\nwith great trouble that Childe Charity got leave to keep him in an old\nruined cow-house.\n\nUgly and cross as the dog was, he fawned on her, and the old woman had\nleft him to her care. So the little girl gave him part of all her meals;\nand when the hard frost came, took him to her own back garret, because\nthe cow-house was damp and cold in the long nights. The dog lay quietly\non some straw in a corner. Childe Charity slept soundly, but every\nmorning the servants would say to her:\n\n\"What great light and fine talking was that in your back garret?\"\n\n\"There was no light but the moon shining in through the shutterless\nwindow, and no talk that I heard,\" said Childe Charity; and she thought\nthey must have been dreaming.\n\nBut night after night, when any of them awoke in the dark and silent\nhour that comes before the morning, they saw a light brighter and\nclearer than the Christmas fire, and heard voices like those of lords\nand ladies in the back garret.\n\nPartly from fear, and partly from laziness, none of the servants would\nrise to see what might be there; till at length, when the winter nights\nwere at the longest, the little parlour maid, who did least work and got\nmost favour, because she gathered news for her mistress, crept out of\nbed when all the rest were sleeping, and set herself to watch at a small\nhole in the door.\n\nShe saw the dog lying quietly in the corner, Childe Charity sleeping\nsoundly in her bed, and the moon shining through the shutterless window.\nBut an hour before daybreak there came a glare of lights, and a sound of\nfar-off bugles. The window opened, and in marched a troop of little men\nclothed in crimson and gold, and bearing every man a torch, till the\nroom looked bright as day.\n\nThey marched up with great respect to the dog, where he lay on the\nstraw, and the most richly clothed among them said: \"Royal Prince, we\nhave prepared the banquet hall. What will your Highness please that we\ndo next?\"\n\n\"You have done well,\" said the dog. \"Now prepare the feast, and see that\nall things are in the best order; for the Princess and I mean to bring a\nstranger who never feasted in our halls before.\"\n\n\"Your Highness's commands shall be obeyed,\" said the little man, making\nanother bow; and he and his company passed out of the window. By and by\nthere was another glare of lights, and a sound like far-off flutes. The\nwindow opened, and there came in a company of little ladies clad in\nvelvet, and carrying each a crystal lamp.\n\nThey also walked up to the dog, and the gayest one said: \"Royal Prince,\nwe have prepared the carpets and curtains. What will your Highness\nplease that we do next?\"\n\n\"You have done well,\" said the dog. \"Now prepare the robes, and let all\nthings be of the best; for the Princess and I will bring with us a\nstranger who never feasted in our halls before.\"\n\n\"Your Highness's commands shall be obeyed,\" said the little lady, making\na low curtsy; and she and her company passed out through the window,\nwhich closed quietly behind them.\n\nThe dog stretched himself out upon the straw, the little girl turned in\nher sleep, and the moon shone in on the back garret. The parlour maid\nwas so much amazed, and so eager to tell this story to her mistress,\nthat she could not close her eyes that night, and was up before\ncock-crow. But when she told it, her mistress called her a silly wench\nto have such foolish dreams, and scolded her so that she did not dare to\nspeak about what she had seen to the servants.\n\nNevertheless Childe Charity's aunt thought there might be something in\nit worth knowing. So next night, when all the house were asleep, she\ncrept out of bed, and set herself to watch at the back garret door.\nThere she saw just what the maid told her--the little men with the\ntorches, and the little ladies with the crystal lamps, come in to the\ndog, and the same words pass, only he said to the one, \"Now prepare the\npresents,\" and to the other, \"Prepare the jewels.\" When they were gone,\nthe dog stretched himself on the straw, Childe Charity turned in her\nsleep, and the moon shone in on the back garret.\n\nThe mistress could not close her eyes any more than the maid, so eager\nwas she to tell the story. She woke up Childe Charity's rich uncle\nbefore cock-crow. But when he heard it, he laughed at her for a foolish\nwoman, and advised her not to repeat the like before her neighbours,\nlest they should think she had lost her senses.\n\nThe mistress could say no more, and the day passed. But that night the\nmaster thought he would like to see what went on in the garret. So when\nall the house were asleep he slipped out of bed, and set himself to\nwatch at the hole in the door. The same thing happened again that the\nmaid and the mistress saw. The little men in crimson with their torches,\nand the little ladies in rose-coloured velvet with their lamps, came in\nat the window and bowed low to the dog, the one saying, \"Royal Prince,\nwe have prepared the presents,\" and the other, \"Royal Prince, we have\nprepared the jewels.\"\n\nThe dog said to them all: \"You have done well. To-morrow, come and meet\nme and the Princess with horses and chariots, and let all things be done\nin the best way. For we will bring a stranger from this house who has\nnever travelled with us, nor feasted in our halls before.\"\n\nThe little men and the little ladies said: \"Your Highness's commands\nshall be obeyed.\"\n\nWhen they had gone out through the window, the ugly dog stretched\nhimself out on the straw, Childe Charity turned in her sleep, and the\nmoon shone in on the back garret.\n\nThe master could not close his eyes any more than the maid or the\nmistress. He remembered to have heard his grandfather say, that\nsomewhere near his meadows there lay a path leading to the fairies'\ncountry, and the haymakers used to see it shining through the grey\nsummer morning, as the fairy bands went home.\n\nNobody had heard or seen the like for many years; but the master thought\nthat the doings in his back garret must be a fairy business, and the\nugly dog a person of great account. His chief wonder was, however, what\nvisitor the fairies intended to take from his house; and after thinking\nthe matter over, he was sure it must be one of his daughters--they were\nso handsome, and had such fine clothes.\n\nSo Childe Charity's rich uncle made it his first business that morning\nto get ready a breakfast of roast mutton for the ugly dog, and carry it\nto him in the cow-house. But not a morsel would the dog taste.\n\n\"The fairies have strange ways,\" said the master to himself. But he\ncalled his daughters and bade them dress themselves in their best, for\nhe could not say which of them might be called into great company before\nnightfall. Childe Charity's cousins, hearing this, put on the richest of\ntheir silks and laces, and strutted like peacocks from kitchen to\nparlour all day.\n\nThey were in very bad humour when night fell, and nobody had come. But\njust as the family were sitting down to supper the ugly dog began to\nbark, and the old woman's knock was heard at the back door.\n\nChilde Charity opened it, and was going to offer her bed and supper as\nusual, when the old woman said: \"This is the shortest day in all the\nyear, and I am going home to hold a feast after my travels. I see you\nhave taken good care of my dog, and now if you will come with me to my\nhouse, he and I will do our best to entertain you. Here is our company.\"\n\nAs the old woman spoke there was a sound of far-off flutes and bugles,\nthen a glare of lights. And a great company, clad so grandly that they\nshone with gold and jewels, came in open chariots, covered with gilding\nand drawn by snow-white horses. The first and finest of the chariots was\nempty. The old woman led Childe Charity to it by the hand, and the ugly\ndog jumped in before her.\n\nThe proud cousins, in all their finery, had by this time come to the\ndoor, but nobody wanted them. No sooner was the old woman and her dog\nwithin the chariot than a wonderful change passed over them, for the\nugly old woman turned at once to a beautiful young princess, with long\nyellow curls and a robe of green and gold; while the ugly dog at her\nside started up a fair young prince, with nut-brown hair and a robe of\npurple and silver.\n\n\"We are,\" said they, as the chariots drove on, \"a prince and princess of\nFairyland, and there was a wager between us whether or not there were\ngood people still to be found in these false and greedy times. One said\n'Yes', and the other said 'No'.\"\n\n\"And I have lost,\" said the Prince, \"and must pay the feast and\npresents.\"\n\nChilde Charity never heard any more of that story. Some of the farmer's\nhousehold, who were looking after them, said the chariots had gone one\nway across the meadows, some said they had gone another, and till this\nday they cannot agree upon the way they went.\n\nBut Childe Charity went with that noble company into a country such as\nshe had never seen--for primroses covered all the ground, and the light\nwas always like that of a summer evening. They took her to a royal\npalace, where there was nothing but feasting and dancing for seven days.\nShe had robes of pale green and velvet to wear, and slept in a room\ninlaid with ivory.\n\nWhen the feast was done, the Prince and Princess gave her such heaps of\ngold and jewels that she could not carry them; but they gave her a\nchariot to go home in, drawn by six white horses. On the seventh night,\nwhich happened to be Christmas time, when the farmer's family had\nsettled in their own minds that she would never come back, and were\nsitting down to supper, they heard the sound of her coachman's bugle,\nand saw her alight with all the jewels and gold at the very back door\nwhere she had brought in the ugly old woman.\n\nThe fairy chariot drove away, and never again came back to that\nfarmhouse after. But Childe Charity scoured and scrubbed no more, for\nshe grew a great lady, even in the eyes of her proud cousins.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nSOUR AND CIVIL\n\n\nOnce again King Winwealth wished to hear a story told by the wonderful\nchair, and orders were given for Snowflower to bring it to the King's\nhall. She again brought the chair and laid her head on the cushion,\nsaying: \"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story.\" The voice from under\nthe cushion at once said: \"Listen to the story of Sour and Civil.\"\n\nOnce upon a time there stood upon the seacoast of the west country a\nsmall village of low cottages, where no one lived but fishermen. All\nround it was a broad beach of snow-white sand, where nothing was to be\nseen but gulls and other seabirds, and long tangled seaweeds cast up by\nthe tide that came and went night and day, summer and winter.\n\nThere was no harbour or port on all that shore. Ships passed by at a\ndistance, with their white sails set, and on the land side there lay\nwide grassy downs, where peasants lived and shepherds fed their flocks.\nThere families never wanted for plenty of herrings and mackerel; and\nwhat they had to spare the landsmen bought from them at the village\nmarkets on the downs, giving them in exchange butter, cheese, and corn.\n\nThe two best fishermen in that village were the sons of two old widows,\nwho had no other children, and happened to be near neighbours. Their\nfamily names were short, for they called the one Sour and the other\nCivil. They were not related to one another so far as I ever heard. But\nthey had only one boat, and always fished together, though their names\nexpressed the difference of their natures--for Civil never used a hard\nword where a soft one would do, and when Sour was not snarling at\nsomebody, he was sure to be grumbling at everything.\n\nNevertheless they agreed very well, and were lucky fishers. Both were\nstrong, active, and of good courage. On winter's night or summer's\nmorning they would steer out to sea far beyond the boats of their\nneighbours, and never came home without some fish to cook and some to\nspare. Their mothers were proud of them, each in her own way--for the\nsaying held good, \"Like mother, like son\". Dame Civil thought the whole\nworld didn't hold a better than her son; and her boy was the only\ncreature at whom Dame Sour didn't scold and frown.\n\nThe village was divided in opinion about the young fishermen. Some\nthought Civil the better; some said, without Sour he would catch\nnothing. So things went on, till one day about the fall of winter, when\nmists were gathering darkly on sea and sky, and the air was chill and\nfrosty, all the boat-men of the hamlet went out to fish, and so did Sour\nand Civil.\n\nThat day they had not their usual luck. Cast their nets where they\nwould, not a single fish came in. Their neighbours caught boatfuls, and\nwent home, Sour said, laughing at them. But when the sea was growing\ncrimson with the sunset, their nets were empty, and they were tired.\nCivil himself did not like to go home without fish--it would hurt the\nhigh opinion formed of them in the village. Besides, the sea was calm\nand the evening fair, and, as a last attempt, they steered still farther\nout, and cast their nets beside a rock which rose rough and grey above\nthe water, and was called the Merman's Seat--from an old report that the\nfishermen's fathers had seen the mermen, or sea-people, sitting there on\nmoonlight nights.\n\nNobody believed that rumour now, but the villagers did not like to fish\nthere. The water was said to be very deep, and sudden squalls were apt\nto trouble it. But Sour and Civil were right glad to see by the moving\nof their lines that there was something in their net, and gladder still\nwhen they found it so heavy that all their strength was required to draw\nit up.\n\nScarcely had they landed it on the Merman's Seat, when their joy was\nchanged to sorrow, for besides a few starved mackerel, the net held\nnothing but a huge ugly fish as long as Civil (who was taller than\nSour), with a large snout, a long beard, and a skin covered with\nprickles.\n\n\"Such a horrid ugly creature!\" said Sour, as they shook it out of the\nnet on the rough rock, and gathered up the mackerel. \"We needn't fish\nhere any more. How they will mock us in the village for staying out so\nlate, and bringing home so little!\"\n\n\"Let us try again,\" said Civil, as he set his creel of mackerel in the\nboat.\n\n\"Not another cast will I make to-night;\" and what more Sour would have\nsaid, was cut short by the great fish, for, looking round at them, it\nspoke out:\n\n\"I suppose you don't think me worth taking home in your dirty boat; but\nI can tell you that if you were down in my country, neither of you would\nbe thought fit to keep me company.\"\n\nSour and Civil were very much surprised to hear the fish speak. The\nfirst could not think of a cross word to say, but Civil made answer in\nhis usual way.\n\n\"Indeed, my lord, we beg your pardon, but our boat is too light to carry\nsuch a fish as you.\"\n\n\"You do well to call me lord,\" said the fish, \"for so I am, though it\nwas hard to expect you could have known how great I was in this dress.\nHowever, help me off the rock, for I must go home; and for your civil\nway of speaking I will give you my daughter in marriage, if you will\ncome and see me this day twelvemonth.\"\n\nCivil helped the great fish off the rock with as great respect as his\nfear would allow him. Sour was so frightened at the whole business, that\nhe said not a word till they got safe home. But from that day forward,\nwhen he wanted to put Civil down, it was his custom to tell him and his\nmother that he would get no wife but the ugly fish's daughter.\n\nOld Dame Sour heard this story from her son, and told it over the whole\nvillage. Some people wondered, but the most part laughed at it as a\ngood joke; and Civil and his mother were never known to be angry but on\nthat day. Dame Civil advised her son never to fish with Sour again; and\nCivil got an old skiff which one of the fishermen was going to break up\nfor firewood, and cobbled it up for himself.\n\nIn that skiff he went to sea all the winter, and all the summer. But\nthough Civil was brave and skilful, he could catch little, because his\nboat was bad--and everybody but his mother began to think him of no\nvalue. Sour having the good boat, got a new comrade, and had the praise\nof being the best fisherman.\n\nPoor Civil's heart was getting low as the summer wore away. The fish had\ngrown scarce on that coast, and the fishermen had to steer farther out\nto sea. One evening when he had toiled all day and caught nothing, Civil\nthought he would go farther too, and try his fortune beside the Merman's\nrock.\n\nThe sea was calm and the evening fair. Civil did not remember that it\nwas the very day on which his troubles began by the great fish talking\nto him twelve months before. As he neared the rock the sun was setting,\nand much surprised was the fisherman to see upon it three fair ladies,\nwith sea-green gowns and strings of great pearls wound round their long\nfair hair.\n\nTwo of them were waving their hands to him. They were the tallest and\nmost stately ladies he had ever seen. But Civil could perceive as he\ncame nearer that there was no colour in their cheeks, that their hair\nhad a strange bluish shade, like that of deep sea-water, and there was a\nfiery look in their eyes that frightened him.\n\nThe third, who was not so tall, did not notice him at all, but kept her\neyes fixed on the setting sun. Though her look was full of sadness,\nCivil could see that there was a faint rosy bloom on her cheek, that her\nhair was a golden yellow, and her eyes were mild and clear like those of\nhis mother.\n\n\"Welcome! welcome! noble fisherman!\" cried the two ladies. \"Our father\nhas sent us for you to visit him.\"\n\nWith one bound they leaped into his boat, bringing with them the smaller\nlady, who said: \"Oh! bright sun and brave sky that I see so seldom!\"\n\nBut Civil heard no more, for his boat went down miles deep in the sea,\nand he thought himself drowning. But one lady had caught him by the\nright arm, and the other by the left, and pulled him into the mouth of a\nrocky cave, still down and down, as if on a steep hillside. The cave was\nvery long, but it grew wider as they came to the bottom.\n\nThen Civil saw a faint light, and walked out with his fair company into\nthe country of the sea-people. In that land there grew neither grass nor\nflowers, bushes nor trees, but the ground was covered with\nbright-coloured shells and pebbles. There were hills of marble, and\nrocks of spar. Over all was a cold blue sky with no sun, but a light\nclear and silvery as that of the harvest moon. The fisherman could see\nno smoking chimneys, but there were caves in the rocks of spar, and\nhalls in the marble hills, where lived the sea-people--with whom, as\nold stories say, fishermen and sailors used to meet on lonely capes and\nheadlands in the simple times of the world.\n\nForth they came from all parts to see the stranger. Mermen with long\nwhite beards, and mermaids such as walk with the fishermen, all clad in\nsea-green and decked with strings of pearls; but every one with the same\ncolourless face, and the same wild light in their eyes.\n\nThe mermaids led Civil up one of the marble hills to a great cavern with\nhalls and rooms like a palace. Their floors were of white marble, their\nwalls of red granite, and the roofs inlaid with coral. Thousands of\ncrystal lamps lit the palace. There were seats and tables hewn out of\nshining spar, and a great company sat feasting. But what most amazed\nCivil was the number of cups, flagons, and goblets, made of gold and\nsilver, of such different shapes and patterns that they seemed to have\nbeen gathered from all the countries in the world. In the chief hall\nthere sat a merman on a stately chair, with more jewels than all the\nrest about him.\n\nBefore him the mermaids brought Civil, saying: \"Father, here is our\nguest.\"\n\n\"Welcome, noble fisherman!\" cried the merman, in a voice which Civil\nremembered with terror, for it was that of the great ugly fish; \"welcome\nto our halls! Sit down and feast with us, and then choose which of my\ndaughters you will have for a bride.\"\n\nCivil had never felt himself so greatly frightened in all his life. How\nwas he to get home to his mother? and what would the old dame think when\nthe dark night came without bringing him home? There was no use in\ntalking--Civil had wisdom enough to see that. He therefore tried to take\nthings quietly; and, having thanked the merman for so kindly inviting\nhim, he took the seat set apart for him on his right hand.\n\nCivil was hungry with the long day at sea, but there was no want of fare\non that table; meats and wines, such as he had never tasted, were set\nbefore him in the richest of golden dishes, but, hungry as he was, the\nfisherman felt that everything there had the taste and smell of the\nsea.\n\nIf the fisherman had been the lord of lands and castles he would not\nhave been treated with more respect. The two mermaids sat by him--one\nfilled his plate, another filled his goblet; but the third only looked\nat him in a hidden, warning way when nobody saw her. Civil soon finished\nhis share of the feast, and then the merman showed him all the fine\nthings of his cavern.\n\nThe halls were full of company, some feasting, some dancing, and some\nplaying all kinds of games, and in every hall there was a large number\nof gold and silver vessels. But Civil was most surprised when the merman\nbrought him to a marble room full of heaps of precious stones. There\nwere diamonds there whose value the fisherman knew not--pearls larger\nthan ever a diver had gathered--emeralds and rubies, that would have\nmade the jewellers of the world wonder.\n\nThe merman then said: \"This is my eldest daughter's dowry.\"\n\n\"Good luck attend her!\" said Civil. \"It is the dowry of a queen.\"\n\nBut the merman led him on to another room. It was filled with heaps of\ngold coin, which seemed gathered from all times and nations. The images\nof all the kings that ever reigned were there.\n\nThe merman said: \"This is my second daughter's dowry.\"\n\n\"Good luck attend her!\" said Civil. \"It is a dowry for a princess.\"\n\n\"So you may say,\" replied the merman. \"But make up your mind which of\nthe maidens you will marry, for the third has no portion at all, because\nshe is not my daughter; but only, as you may see, a poor silly girl\ntaken into my family for charity.\"\n\n\"Truly, my lord,\" said Civil, whose mind was already made up, \"both your\ndaughters are too rich and far too noble for me; therefore I choose the\nthird. Since she is poor she will best do for a poor fisherman.\"\n\n\"If you choose her,\" said the merman, \"you must wait long for a wedding.\nI cannot allow a girl of lower estate to be married before my own\ndaughters.\" And he said a great deal more to persuade him. But Civil\nwould not change his mind, and they returned to the hall.\n\nThere was no more attention for the fisherman, but everybody watched him\nwell. Turn where he would, master or guest had their eyes upon him,\nthough he made them the best speeches he could remember, and praised all\ntheir splendid things. One thing, however, was strange--there was no end\nto the fun and feasting. Nobody seemed tired, and nobody thought of\nsleep.\n\nWhen Civil's very eyes closed with weariness, and he slept on one of the\nmarble benches--no matter how many hours--there were the company\nfeasting and dancing away; there were the thousand lamps within, and the\ncold moonlight without. Civil wished himself back with his mother, his\nnet, and his cobbled skiff. Fishing would have been easier than those\neverlasting feasts; but there was nothing else among the sea-people--no\nnight of rest, no working day.\n\nCivil knew not how time went on, till, waking up from a long sleep, he\nsaw, for the first time, that the feast was over, and the company gone.\nThe lamps still burned, and the tables, with all their riches, stood in\nthe empty halls; but there was no face to be seen, no sound to be heard,\nonly a low voice singing beside the outer door. And there, sitting all\nalone, he found the mild-eyed maiden.\n\n\"Fair lady,\" said Civil, \"tell me what means this quietness, and where\nare all the merry company?\"\n\n\"You are a man of the land,\" said the lady, \"and know not the\nsea-people. They never sleep but once a year, and that is at Christmas\ntime. Then they go into the deep caverns, where there is always\ndarkness, and sleep till the new year comes.\"\n\n\"It is a strange habit,\" said Civil; \"but all folks have their way. Fair\nlady, as you and I are to be good friends, tell me, whence come all the\nwines and meats, and gold and silver vessels, seeing there are neither\ncornfields nor flocks here, nor any workmen?\"\n\n\"The sea-people are heirs of the sea,\" replied the maiden; \"to them come\nall the stores and riches that are lost in it. I know not the ways by\nwhich they come; but the lord of these halls keeps the keys of seven\ngates, where they go out and in. But one of the gates, which has not\nbeen open for thrice seven years, leads to a path under the sea, by\nwhich, I heard the merman say in his cups, one might reach the land.\n\n\"Good fisherman,\" she went on, \"if by chance you gain his favour, and\never open that gate, let me bear you company; for I was born where the\nsun shines and the grass grows, though my country and my parents are\nunknown to me. All I remember is sailing in a great ship, when a storm\narose, and it was wrecked, and not one soul escaped drowning but me. I\nwas then a little child, and a brave sailor had bound me to a floating\nplank before he was washed away. Here the sea-people came round me like\ngreat fishes, and I went down with them to this rich and weary country.\nSometimes, as a great favour, they take me up with them to see the sun;\nbut that is seldom, for they never like to part with one who has seen\ntheir country; and, fisherman, if you ever leave them, remember to take\nnothing with you that belongs to them, for if it were but a shell or a\npebble, that will give them power over you and yours.\"\n\n\"Thanks for your news, fair lady,\" said Civil. \"A lord's daughter,\ndoubtless, you must have been, while I am but a poor fisherman. Yet, as\nwe have fallen into the same misfortune, let us be friends, and it may\nbe we shall find means to get back to the sunshine together.\"\n\n\"You are a man of good manners,\" said the lady, \"therefore I shall\ngladly be your friend; but my fear is that we shall never see the\nsunshine again.\"\n\n\"Fair speeches brought me here,\" said Civil, \"and fair speeches may help\nme back, but be sure I will not go without you.\"\n\nThis promise cheered the lady's heart, and she and Civil spent that\nChristmas time seeing the wonders of the sea country. They wandered\nthrough caves like that of the great merman. The feast that had been\nleft was spread in every hall; the tables were covered with the most\ncostly vessels; and heaps of jewels lay on the floors of unlocked\nrooms. But for the lady's warning, Civil would have liked to put away\nsome of them for his mother.\n\nThe poor woman was sad of heart by this time, believing her son to be\ndrowned. On the first night when he did not come home, she had gone to\nthe sea and watched till morning. Then the fishermen steered out again,\nand Sour having found the skiff floating about, brought it home, saying\nthe foolish young man was no doubt lost; but what better could be\nexpected when he had no discreet person to take care of him?\n\nThis vexed Dame Civil sore. She never expected to see her son again;\nbut, feeling lonely in her cottage at the evening hour when he used to\ncome home, the good woman got into the habit of going down at sunset and\nsitting beside the sea. That winter happened to be mild on the coast of\nthe west country, and one evening when the Christmas time was near, and\nthe rest of the village preparing to make merry, Dame Civil sat, as\nusual, on the sands.\n\nThe tide was ebbing and the sun going down, when from the eastward came\na lady clad in black, mounted on a black horse, and followed by a squire\nin the same sad clothing.\n\nAs the lady came near, she said: \"Woe is me for my daughter, and for all\nthat I have lost by the sea!\"\n\n\"You say well, noble lady,\" said Dame Civil. \"Woe is me also for my son,\nfor I have none beside him.\"\n\nWhen the lady heard that, she alighted from her horse, and sat down by\nthe fisherman's mother, saying: \"Listen to my story. I was the widow of\na great lord in the heart of the east country. He left me a fair castle,\nand an only daughter, who was the joy of my heart. Her name was Faith\nFeignless. But, while she was yet a child, a great fortune-teller told\nme that my daughter would marry a fisherman. I thought this would be a\ngreat disgrace to my noble family, and therefore sent my daughter with\nher nurse in a good ship, bound for a far-away city where my relations\nlive, intending to follow myself as soon as I could get my lands and\ncastles sold.\n\n\"But the ship was wrecked,\" the lady went on, \"and my daughter drowned;\nand I have wandered over the world with my good Squire Trusty, mourning\non every shore with those who have lost friends by the sea. Some with\nwhom I have mourned grew to forget their sorrow, and would lament with\nme no more. Others being sour and selfish, mocked me, saying, my grief\nwas nothing to them. But you have good manners, and I will remain with\nyou, however humble be your dwelling. My squire carries gold enough to\npay for all I need.\"\n\nSo the mourning lady and her good Squire Trusty went home with Dame\nCivil, and she was no longer lonely in her sorrow, for when the dame\nsaid:\n\n\"Oh! if my son were alive, I should never let him go to sea in a cobbled\nskiff!\" the lady answered:\n\n\"Oh! if my daughter were but living, I should never think it a disgrace\nthough she married a fisherman!\"\n\nThe Christmas passed as it always does in the west country--shepherds\nmade merry on the downs, and fishermen on the shore. But when the\nmerrymakings and ringing of bells were over in all the land, the\nsea-people woke up to their feasts and dances.\n\nLike one who had forgotten all that was past, the merman again showed\nCivil the room of gold and the room of jewels, advising him to choose\nbetween his two daughters. But the fisherman still answered that the\nladies were too noble, and far too rich for him.\n\nYet as he looked at the glittering heap, Civil could not help\nremembering the poor people of the west country, and the thought slipped\nout, \"How happy my old neighbours would be to find themselves here!\"\n\n\"Say you so?\" said the merman, who always wanted visitors.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Civil, \"I have neighbours up yonder in the west country,\nwhom it would be hard to send home again if they got sight of half this\nwealth.\" And the honest fisherman thought of Dame Sour and her son.\n\nThe merman was greatly pleased with these speeches--he thought there\nwas a chance of getting many land-people down, and by and by said to\nCivil, \"Suppose you took up a few jewels, and went up to tell your poor\nneighbours how welcome we might make them?\"\n\nThe hope of getting back to his country made Civil's heart glad, but he\nhad promised not to go without the lady, and therefore answered\nprudently what was indeed true.\n\n\"Many thanks, my lord,\" he said, \"for choosing such a humble man as I am\nto carry your message. But the people of the west country never believe\nanything without two witnesses at the least. Yet if the poor maid whom I\nhave chosen could be allowed to go with me, I think they would believe\nus both.\"\n\nThe merman said nothing in reply; but his people, who had heard Civil's\nspeech, talked it over among themselves till they grew sure that the\nwhole west country would come down, if they only had news of the riches,\nand asked their lord to send up Civil and the poor maid in order to let\nthem know.\n\nAs it seemed for the public good, the great merman agreed. But, having\nmade up his mind to have them back, he gathered out of his rich rooms\nsome of the largest pearls and diamonds, and said:\n\n\"Take these as a present from me, to let the west-country people see\nwhat I can do for my visitors.\"\n\nCivil and the lady took the presents, saying: \"Oh, my lord, you are too\nkind. We want nothing but the pleasure of telling of your wonderful\nriches up yonder.\"\n\n\"Tell everybody to come down, and they will get the like,\" said the\nmerman; \"and follow my eldest daughter, for she carries the key of the\nland gate.\"\n\nCivil and the lady followed the mermaid through a winding gallery, which\nled from the chief hall far into the marble hill. All was dark, and they\nhad neither lamp nor torch, but at the end of the gallery they came to a\ngreat stone gate, which creaked like thunder on its hinges. Beyond that\nthere was a narrow cave, sloping up and up like a steep hillside.\n\nCivil and the lady thought they would never reach the top. But at last\nthey saw a gleam of daylight, then a strip of blue sky, and the mermaid\nbade them stoop and creep through what seemed a narrow crack in the\nground, and both stood on the broad seabeach as the day was breaking and\nthe tide ebbing fast away.\n\n\"Good times to you among your west-country people,\" said the mermaid.\n\"Tell any of them that would like to come down to visit us, that they\nmust come here midway between the high and low watermark, when the tide\nis going out at morning or evening. Call thrice on the sea-people, and\nwe will show them the way.\"\n\nBefore they could make answer, she had sunk down from their sight, and\nthere was no track or passage there, but all was covered by the loose\nsand and seashells.\n\n\"Now,\" said the lady to Civil, \"we have seen the heavens once more, and\nwe will not go back. Cast in the merman's present quickly before the sun\nrises.\"\n\nTaking the bag of pearls and diamonds, she flung it as far as she could\ninto the sea.\n\nCivil never was so unwilling to part with anything as that bag, but he\nthought it better to do as the lady had done, and tossed his into the\nsea also. They thought they heard a long moan come up from the waters;\nbut Civil saw his mother's chimney beginning to smoke, and with the fair\nlady in her sea-green gown he hastened to the good dame's cottage.\n\nThe whole village were awakened that morning with cries of \"Welcome\nback, my son!\" \"Welcome back, my daughter!\" for the mournful lady knew\nit was her lost daughter, Faith Feignless, whom the fisherman had\nbrought back, and all the neighbours gathered together to hear their\nstory. When it was told, everybody praised Civil for the prudence he had\nshown, except Sour and his mother. They did nothing but rail upon him\nfor losing such great chances of making himself and the whole country\nrich.\n\nAt last, when they heard over and over again of the merman's riches,\nneither mother nor son would stay any longer in the west country; and\nas nobody persuaded them, and they would not do what Civil told them,\nSour got out his boat and steered away with his mother toward the\nMerman's rock.\n\nFrom that voyage they never came back to the hamlet. Some say they went\ndown and lived among the sea-people. Others say--I know not how they\nlearned it--that Sour and his mother grumbled and growled so much that\neven the sea-people grew weary of them, and turned them and their boat\nout on the open sea. What part of the world they chose to land on nobody\nis sure of. By all accounts they have been seen everywhere, and I should\nnot be surprised if they were in this good company. As for Civil he\nmarried Faith Feignless, and became a great lord.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nPRINCE WISEWIT'S RETURN\n\n\nKing Winwealth was so pleased with the stories told by the wonderful\nchair that he gave Snowflower many presents, among which was a golden\ngirdle, and promised that she should no longer go into low company, but\nfeast with him and his nobles in the chief hall, and sleep in one of the\nbest rooms of the palace.\n\nSnowflower was delighted at the promise of feasting with those noble\nlords and ladies, whose wonderful stories she had heard from the chair.\nShe bowed very low, and thanked King Winwealth from the bottom of her\nheart. All the company were glad to make room for her, and when her\ngolden girdle was put on, little Snowflower looked as fine as the best\nof them.\n\n\"Mamma,\" whispered the Princess Greedalind, while she looked ready to\ncry for spite, \"only see that low little girl who came here in a coarse\nfrock and barefooted, what finery and favour she has gained by her\nstory-telling chair! All the Court are praising her and overlooking me,\nthough the feast was made in honour of my birthday. Mamma, I must have\nthat chair from her. What business has a common little girl with\nanything so amusing?\"\n\n\"So you shall, my daughter,\" said Queen Wantall--for by this time she\nsaw that King Winwealth had, according to custom, fallen asleep on his\nthrone. So calling two of her pages, Screw and Hardhands, she ordered\nthem to bring the chair from the other end of the hall where Snowflower\nsat, and at once made it a present to Princess Greedalind.\n\nNobody in that Court ever thought of disputing Queen Wantall's commands,\nand poor Snowflower sat down in a corner to cry. While Princess\nGreedalind, putting on what she thought a very grand air, laid down her\nhead on the cushion, saying: \"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a\nstory.\"\n\n\"Where did you get a grandmother?\" cried the clear voice from under the\ncushion. And up went the chair with such force as to throw Princess\nGreedalind off on the floor, where she lay screaming, a good deal more\nangry than hurt.\n\nAll those at Court tried in vain to comfort her. But Queen Wantall,\nwhose temper was still worse, vowed that she would punish the impudent\nthing, and sent for Sturdy, her chief woodman, to chop it up with his\naxe.\n\nAt the first stroke the cushion was cut open, and to the surprise of\neverybody a bird, whose snow-white feathers were tipped with purple,\ndarted out, and flew away through an open window.\n\n\"Catch it! catch it!\" cried the Queen and the Princess; and all but King\nWinwealth, who still slept on his throne, rushed out after the bird. It\nflew over the palace garden and into a wild common, where houses had\nbeen before Queen Wantall pulled them down to search for a gold mine,\nwhich Her Majesty never found, though three deep pits were dug to come\nat it.\n\nTo make the place look smart at the feast time, these pits had been\ncovered over with loose branches and turf. All the rest of the company\nremembered this but Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind. They were\nnearest to the bird, and poor Snowflower, by running hard, came close\nbehind them, but Fairfortune, one of the King's pages, drew her back by\nthe purple mantle, when, coming to the covered pit, branches and turf\ngave way, and down went the Queen and the Princess.\n\nEverybody looked for the bird, but it was nowhere to be seen. But on the\ncommon where the people saw it alight, there stood a fair and royal\nPrince, clad in a robe of purple and a crown of changing colours, for\nsometimes it seemed of gold and sometimes of forest leaves.\n\nMost of the people stood not knowing what to think, but all the fairy\npeople and all the lords and ladies of the chair's stories, knew him,\nand cried: \"Welcome to Prince Wisewit!\"\n\nKing Winwealth heard that sound where he slept, and came out glad of\nheart to welcome back his brother. When her own pages came out with\nropes and lanterns to search for Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind,\nthey found them safe and well at the bottom of the pit, having fallen on\na heap of loose sand. The pit was of great depth, but some daylight\nshone down, and whatever were the yellow grains they saw glittering\namong the sand, the Queen and the Princess believed it was full of gold.\n\nThey called the miners false knaves, lazy rogues, and a score of bad\nnames beside, for leaving so much wealth behind them, and utterly\nrefused to come out of the pit; saying, that since Prince Wisewit was\ncome, they could find no pleasure in the palace, but would stay there\nand dig for gold, and buy the world with it for themselves.\n\nKing Winwealth thought the plan was a good one for keeping peace in his\npalace. He commanded shovels and picks to be lowered to the Queen and\nPrincess. The two pages, Screw and Hardhands, went down to help them, in\nhopes of halving the profits; and there they stayed, digging for gold.\nSome of the people about the Court said they would find it. Others\nbelieved they never could, and the gold was not found when this story\nwas written.\n\nAs for Prince Wisewit, he went home with the rest of the company,\nleading Snowflower by the hand, and telling them all how he had been\nturned into a bird by the cunning fairy Fortunetta, who found him off\nhis guard in the forest; how she had shut him up under the cushion of\nthat curious chair, and given it to old Dame Frostyface; and how all his\ncomfort had been in little Snowflower, to whom he told so many stories.\n\nKing Winwealth was so rejoiced to find his brother again, that he\ncommanded another feast to be held for many days. All that time the\ngates of the palace stood open; all-comers were welcome, all complaints\nheard. The houses and lands which Queen Wantall had taken away, were\ngiven back to their rightful owners. Everybody got what they wanted\nmost. There were no more noises of strife without, nor discontents\nwithin the palace; and on the last day of the feast who should arrive\nbut Dame Frostyface, in her grey hood and cloak.\n\nSnowflower was right glad to see her grandmother--so were the King and\nPrince, for they had known the Dame in their youth. They kept the feast\nfor a few days more; and when it was ended everything was right in the\nkingdom. King Winwealth and Prince Wisewit reigned once more together;\nand because Snowflower was the best girl in all that country, they chose\nher to be their heiress, instead of Princess Greedalind.\n\nFrom that day forward she wore white velvet and satin; she had seven\npages, and lived in the grandest part of the palace. Dame Frostyface,\ntoo, was made a great lady. They put a new velvet cushion on her chair,\nand she sat in a gown of grey cloth, edged with gold, spinning on an\nivory wheel in a fine painted parlour.\n\nPrince Wisewit built a great summer-house covered with vines and roses,\non the spot where her old cottage stood. He also made a highway through\nthe forest, that all good people might come and go there at their\nleisure; and the cunning fairy Fortunetta, finding that her reign was\nover in those parts, set off on a journey round the world, and did not\nreturn in the time of this story.\n\nGood boys and girls, who may chance to read it, that time is long ago.\nGreat wars, work, and learning have passed over the world since then,\nand changed all its fashions. Kings make no seven-day feasts for\nall-comers now. Queens and princesses, however greedy, do not mine for\ngold. Chairs tell no tales. Wells work no wonders; and there are no such\ndoings on hills and forests, for the fairies dance no more. Some say it\nwas the hum of schools--some think it was the din of factories that\nfrightened them. But nobody has seen them for many a year, except, it is\nsaid, one Hans Christian Andersen, in Denmark, whose tales of the\nfairies are so good that they must have been heard from themselves.\n\nIt is certain that no living man knows the later history of King\nWinwealth's country, nor what became of the people who lived and\nvisited at his palace. Yet there are people who believe that the King\nstill falls asleep on his throne and into low spirits in the evening;\nthat Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind have found the gold, and\nbegun to buy; that Dame Frostyface yet spins--they cannot tell where;\nthat Snowflower may still be seen at the new year's time in her dress of\nwhite velvet, looking out for the early spring; that Prince Wisewit has\nsomehow fallen under a stronger spell and a thicker cushion, that he\nstill tells stories to Snowflower and her friends, and when cushion and\nspell are broken by another stroke of Sturdy's hatchet--which they\nexpect will happen some time--the Prince will make all things right\nagain, and bring back the fairy times to the world.\n\n\n          PRINTED AND BOUND IN GREAT BRITAIN\n          _By Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\nThe original lacked a Table of Contents. One was created for this\nedition.\n\nThis text often closed a quote before adding the final punctuation. An\nexample may be found on page 7:\n\n          Then Snowflower remembered her grandmother's\n          words, and, laying her head gently down, she said:\n          \"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story\".","title":"Granny's Wonderful Chair","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":22898}