{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_35820/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_35820","id":"gutenberg_35820","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35820","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Children's stories, English","Fairy tales"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Hilary Caws-Elwitt in honor of Margaret Lippitt Rorison\n\n\n\n\n\n\n        EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY\n       EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS\n\n\n\n\n         CHILDREN'S BOOKS\n\n\n\n\n      GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR\n      WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY\n           DOLLIE RADFORD\n\n\n     THE PUBLISHERS OF _EVERYMAN'S\n    LIBRARY_ WILL BE PLEASED TO SEND\n    FREELY TO ALL APPLICANTS A LIST\n     OF THE PUBLISHED AND PROJECTED\n     VOLUMES TO BE COMPRISED UNDER\n     THE FOLLOWING TWELVE HEADINGS:\n\n     TRAVEL -- SCIENCE -- FICTION\n        THEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY\n         HISTORY -- CLASSICAL\n           CHILDREN'S BOOKS\n          ESSAYS -- ORATORY\n            POETRY & DRAMA\n              BIOGRAPHY\n               ROMANCE\n\n    IN TWO STYLES OF BINDING, CLOTH,\n      FLAT BACK, COLOURED TOP, AND\n    LEATHER, ROUND CORNERS, GILT TOP.\n\n        LONDON : J. M. DENT & CO.\n\n\n\n\n               THIS IS\n                FAIRY\n                GOLD,\n              BOY; AND\n                 'TWIL\n               PROVE SO\n\n             SHAKESPEARE\n\n\n\n\n       GRANNYS\n       WONDERFUL\n       CHAIR   &\n       ITS TALES OF\n       FAIRY TIMES\n       BY FRANCES\n       BROWNE\n\n    LONDON: PUBLISHED\n    by J M DENT & CO\n    AND IN NEW YORK\n    BY E P DUTTON & CO\n\n\n\n\nRICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,\nBREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND\nBUNGAY, SUFFOLK\n\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nThe writer of \"Granny's Wonderful Chair\" was a poet, and blind. That she\nwas a poet the story tells on every page, but of her blindness it tells\nnot a word. From beginning to end it is filled with pictures; each\nlittle tale has its own picturesque setting, its own vividly realised\nscenery. Her power of visualisation would be easy to understand had she\nbecome blind in the later years of her life, when the beauties of the\nphysical world were impressed on her mind; but Frances Browne was blind\nfrom infancy. The pictures she gives us in her stories were created, in\ndarkness, from material which came to her only through the words of\nothers. In her work are no blurred lines or uncertainties, her drawing\nis done with a firm and vigorous hand. It would seem that the\ncompleteness of her calamity created, within her, that serenity of\nspirit which contrives the greatest triumphs in Life and in Art. Her\nendeavour was to realise the world independently of her own personal\nemotion and needs. She, who, out of her darkness and poverty, might have\ntouched us so surely with her longing for her birthright of light, for\nher share of the world's good things, gives help and encouragement to\nthe more fortunate.\n\nIn reading the very few details of her life we feel the stimulation as\nof watching one who, in a desperate fight, wins against great odds.\n\nThe odds against Frances Browne were heavy. She was born at Stranorlar,\na mountain village in Donegal, on January 16, 1816. Her\ngreat-grandfather was a man of considerable property, which he\nsquandered; and the younger generation would seem to have inherited\nnothing from its ancestor but his irresponsibility. Frances Browne's\nfather was the village post-master, and she, the seventh in a family of\ntwelve children, learning privation and endurance from the cradle. But\nno soil is the wrong one for genius. Whether or not hers would have\ndeveloped more richly in more generous surroundings, it is difficult to\nsay. The strong mind that could, in blindness and poverty, secure its\nown education, and win its way to the company of the best, the\nthoroughly equipped and well tended, gained a victory which genius alone\nmade possible.\n\nShe was one of the elect, had no creative achievement crowned her\ntriumph.\n\nShe tells us how she herself learned by heart the lessons which her\nbrothers and sisters said aloud every evening, in readiness for the next\nday's school; and how she bribed them to read to her by doing their\nshare of the household work.\n\nWhen the usual bribe failed, she invented stories for them, and, in\nreturn for these, books were read to her which, while they seemed dull\nand uninteresting enough to the readers, built up for the eager listener\nthose enchanted steps by which she was to climb into her intellectual\nkingdom.\n\nHer habit was to say these lessons aloud at night, when every one else\nwas asleep, to impress untiringly upon her memory the knowledge for\nwhich she persistently fought through the day.\n\nThere were no book-shops at Stranorlar, or within three counties of it,\nand had there been one, Frances Browne had no pennies for the luxury of\nbooks. But she had friends, and from those who were richer than herself\nin possession, she borrowed her tools. From the village teacher she\nlearned French, in exchange for those lessons in grammar and geography\nwhich, her brothers and sisters had given away to her, in return for\nnumberless wipings and scrubbings in the kitchen. Scott's novels marked\nan era in her mental life; and of Pope's Iliad--which she heard read\nwhen she was about fifteen--she says, \"It was like the discovery of a\nnew world, and effected a total change in my ideas and thoughts on the\nsubject of poetry. There was at the time a considerable MS. of my own\nproduction in existence, which of course I regarded with some\npartiality; but Homer had awakened me, and in a fit of sovereign\ncontempt I committed the whole to the flames. After Homer's the work\nthat produced the greatest impression on my mind was Byron's 'Childe\nHarold.' The one had induced me to burn my first MS., the other made me\nresolve against verse-making in future.\"\n\nHer first poem was written at the age of seven, but, after this resolve\nof her fifteenth year, she wrote no more for nearly ten years. Then, in\n1840, when she was four and twenty, a volume of Irish Songs was read to\nher, and her own music reawakened. She wrote a poem called \"The Songs of\nour Land.\" It was published in the \"Irish Penny Journal,\" and can be\nfound still in Duffy's \"Ballad Poetry of Ireland.\" After this her poems\ngrew apace: she wrote lyrics for the \"Athenaeum,\" \"Hood's Magazine,\" and\n\"Lady Blessington's Keepsake.\" Her work was much appreciated, and her\npoems were reprinted in many of the contemporary journals.\n\nShe published a complete volume of poems in 1844, and a second volume in\n1848 which she called \"Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems.\"\n\nThe first use to which she put her literary earnings, was the education\nof a sister, to be her reader and amanuensis. In Frances Browne's life\neach step was in the direction of her goal. From its beginning to its\nend the strong mind pressed unhesitatingly forward to its complete\ndevelopment, seeking the inner light more steadfastly for the absence of\nexternal vision.\n\nHer income was a pension of L20, from the Royal Bounty Fund; and with\nthis, for all security, she set out, in 1847, with her sister to\nEdinburgh, determined to make her own way in the literary world. At\nleaving her native land she says:\n\n\"I go as one that comes no more, yet go without regret; The summers\nother memories store 'twere summer to forget; I go without one parting\nword, one grasp of parting hand, As to the wide air goes the bird--yet\nfare thee well, my land!\"\n\nShe quickly made friends in Edinburgh, won by her genius and character,\nin the circle which included Christopher North. Her industry was\namazing: she wrote essays, reviews, leaders, lyrics, stories--indeed,\nshe wrote anything she was asked to write, and under the pressure of her\nwork her prose strengthened and developed. But all her energy could not\nmake her rich. \"The waters of her lot,\" she says, \"were often troubled,\nthough not by angels.\" Her own health interfered with her work, and,\nfrom the beginning, she out of her own poverty tried to relieve that of\nher mother.\n\nIn 1852 she moved to London, and here, by the gift of L100 from the\nMarquis of Lansdowne, she was for the time released from the pressure of\ndaily necessity. She concentrated on a more important work than she had\nyet attempted, and wrote a novel which she called \"My Share of the\nWorld.\"\n\nIt is written in the form of an autobiography of one Frederick\nFavoursham, a youthful straggler through journalism and tutorship, who\nwins nothing better, in the end, than a lonely possession of vast\nestates. But one realises fully, in this story, the strength of a mind\nwhose endeavour is to probe the heart of things, and whose firm incisive\nexpression translates precisely what the mind discovers.\n\nThere are in this work, and it is natural it should be so, one or two\ntouches of self-revelation; the only ones, I think, which she, in all\nher writing, permitted herself. She makes her hero say of his\nmother--\"Well I remember her old blue gown, her hands hard with rough\nwork, het still girlish figure and small pale face, from which the bloom\nand the prettiness had gone so early; but the hard hand had, in its\nkindly pressure, the only genuine love I ever knew; the pale face looks\nyet on my sleep with a blessing, and the old gown has turned, in my\ndreams, to the radiant robe of an angel.\"\n\nAnd the delicate sensitive character of Lucy, the heroine, reads like\nthe expression of the writer's own personality: into it she has put a\ntouch of romance. In all her work there is never a word of personal\ncomplaint, but the words she puts into the mouth of her hero, when Lucy\ncommits suicide, must have been born of her own suffering: \"When the\nburden outgrows the strength so far that moral as well as physical\nenergies begin to fail, and there is no door but death's that will\nwelcome our weariness, what remains but to creep into that quiet\nshelter? I think it had come to that with Lucy. Her days were threatened\nby a calamity, the most terrible in the list of human ills, which the\nwise Manetho, the last of the Egyptians, with his brave Pagan heart and\nlarge philosophy, thought good and sufficient warrant for a man's\nresigning his place on the earth.\"\n\nAmong other mental qualities, she had, for the fortification of her\nspirit, a sense of humour. In this same book she writes of \"a little man\nof that peculiar figure which looks as if a not very well filled sack\nhad somehow got legs;\" and commenting on a little difficulty of her\nhero's making, she says, \"It is rather an awkward business to meet a\nfamily at breakfast whose only son one has kicked overnight.\"\n\nAnd how elastic and untarnished must that nature have been which, after\nyears of continuous struggle for bare subsistence, could put her\nmoney-wise people on to paper and quietly say of them that \"To keep a\ndaily watch over passing pence did not disturb the Fentons--it was a\nmental exercise suited to their capacities.\" The turning of that\nsentence was surely an exquisite pleasure to its author. And \"My Share\nof the World\" is full of cleverly-turned sentences--\"Hartley cared for\nnobody, and I believe the corollary of the miller's song was verified in\nhis favour.\"\n\nBut we must not linger longer over her novel, its pages are full of\npassages which tell of the vigorous quality of her mind.\n\nFrances Browne's poetry is as impersonal as her prose. She belonged to\nthe first order of artists, if there be distinction in our gratitude.\nThe material with which she tried to deal was Life--apart from\nherself--a perhaps bigger, and, certainly, a harder piece of work than\nthe subjective expression of a single personality.\n\nThe subjects of her poems are in many lands and periods. The most\nambitious--\"The Star of Atteghei\"--is a tale of Circassia, another is of\na twelfth-century monk and the philosopher's stone, another of an Arab;\nand another is of that Cyprus tree which is said to have been planted at\nthe birth of Christ, and to spare which Napoleon deviated from his\ncourse when he ordered the making of the road over the Simplon.\n\n    \"Why came it not, when o'er my life\n      A cloud of darkness hung,\n    When years were lost in fruitless strife,\n      But still my heart was young?\n    How hath the shower forgot the spring,\n      And fallen on Autumn's withering?\"\n\nThese lines are from a poem called \"The Unknown Crown.\" The messenger\nwho came to tell Tasso the laureate crown had been decreed him, found\nhim dying in a convent.\n\nThen she has verses on Boston, on Protestant Union in New England, on\nthe Abolition of Slavery in the United States, on the Parliament grant\nfor the improvement of the Shannon. Her mind compelled externals to its\nuse.\n\nA love of nature was in her soul, a perception of the beauty of the\nworld. She, with her poet's spirit, saw all the green and leafy places\nof the earth, all its flowery ways--while they, may be, were trodden\nheedlessly by those about her with their gift of sight.\n\n    \"Sing on by fane and forest old\n      By tombs and cottage eaves,\n    And tell the waste of coming flowers\n      The woods of coming leaves;--\n    The same sweet song that o'er the birth\n      Of earliest blossoms rang,\n    And caught its music from the hymn\n      The stars of morning sang.\"\n                        (\"The Birds of Spring.\")\n\n    \"Ye early minstrels of the earth,\n      Whose mighty voices woke\n    The echoes of its infant woods,\n      Ere yet the tempest spoke;\n    How is it that ye waken still\n      The young heart's happy dreams,\n    And shed your light on darkened days\n      O bright and blessed streams?\"\n                                    (\"Streams.\")\n\n    \"Words--words of hope!--oh! long believed,\n      As oracles of old,\n    When stars of promise have deceived.\n      And beacon-fires grown cold!\n    Though still, upon time's stormy steeps,\n      Such sounds are faint and few,\n    Yet oft from cold and stranger lips\n      Hath fallen that blessed dew,--\n    That, like the rock-kept rain, remained\n      When many a sweeter fount was drained.\"\n                                        (\"Words.\")\n\nMany and many such verses there are which might be quoted, but her work\nfor children is waiting.--For them she wrote many stories, and in their\nemploy her imagination travelled into many lands. The most popular was\n\"Granny's Wonderful Chair,\" published in 1856. It was at once a\nfavourite, and quickly out of print, and, strangely enough, was not\nreprinted until 1880. Then new editions were issued in 1881, '82, '83,\n'84, '87, and '89. In 1887 Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnet published it,\nwith a preface, under the title \"Stories from the Lost Fairy Book,\"\nre-told by the child who read them. \"The Lost Fairy Book\" was \"Granny's\nWonderful Chair.\"\n\nOne has not far to read to discover the secret of its popularity with\nchildren. It is full of word-pictures, of picturesque settings. Her\npower of visualisation is shown in these fairy-tales more, perhaps, than\nin any other of her writings. Truly, she was fortunate in having the\nIrish fairies to lead her into their gossamer-strewn ways, to touch her\nfancy with their magic, and put upon her the glamour of their land. When\nthe stories are of them she is, perhaps, at her best; but each story in\nthe book makes a complete picture, each has enough and no more of colour\nand scene. And the little pictures are kept in their places, pinned down\nto reality, by delightful touches of humour. Of the wonderful chair Dame\nFrostyface says in the beginning of the story, \"It was made by a cunning\nfairy who lived in the forest when I was young, and she gave it to me\nbecause she knew nobody would keep what they got hold of better.\"\n\nHow did a writer who never saw a coach, or a palace, or the picture of a\ncoach or a palace, tell of the palace and the people and the multitudes,\nof the roasting and boiling, of the spiced ale and the dancing?\n\nWhence came her vision of the old woman who weaved her own hair into\ngrey cloth at a crazy loom; of the fortified city in the plain, with\ncornfields and villages; of floors of ebony and ceilings of silver; of\nswallows that built in the eaves while the daisies grew thick at the\ndoor?\n\nHad her descriptions been borrowed, the wonder of them would cease. But\nher words are her own, and they are used sparingly, as by one who sees\ntoo vividly what she is describing to add one unnecessary or indistinct\ntouch. She seems as much at home under the sea, among hills of marble\nand rocks of spa, as with the shepherds on the moorland, or when she\ntells of the spring and the budding of the topmost boughs.\n\nThe enrichment of little Snowflower, by the King's gifts, links these\nstories together as artistically as the telling of the princess's\nraiment in that beautiful book \"A Digit of the Moon;\" and right glad we\nare when the poorly clad little girl takes her place among the grand\ncourtiers, and is led away to happiness by the Prince.\n\nFrances Browne's list of contributions to children's literature is a\nlong one. In reading these books one is surprised by the size of her\nimaginative territory; by the diversity of the knowledge she acquired.\n\nOne, \"The Exile's Trust,\" is a story of the French Revolution, in which\nCharlotte Corday is introduced; and in it are descriptions of the\nscenery of Lower Normandy; another, \"The First of the African Diamonds,\"\nis a tale of the Dutch and the banks of the Orange River. Then, in \"The\nYoung Foresters,\" she conducts her young heroes to Archangel, to see the\nfine frost and clear sky, the long winter nights and long summer days,\nto adventure with wolves in the forest and with pirates by sea.\n\nIn \"The Dangerous Guest\" she is in the time of the Young Pretender, and\nin \"The Eriksons,\" \"The Clever Boy,\" and \"Our Uncle the Traveller,\" she\nwanders far and wide.\n\nIn reviewing her subjects one realises afresh the richness of the world\nshe created within her own darkness.\n\nA wonderful law of Exchange keeps safe the precious things of Life, and\nit operates by strange and unexpected means. In this instance it was\nmost beautifully maintained; for Frances Browne, the iron of calamity\nwas transmuted to gold.\n\nThus it has been, and thus it shall be; so long as the world shall last,\ncircumstance shall not conquer a strong and beautiful spirit.\n\n                                                    D. R.\n_August_ 1906.\n\n\n\n\nBibliography\n\nThe following are the works of Frances Browne:\n\nThe Star of Atteghei; The Vision of Schwartz, and other Poems, 1844;\nLyrics and Miscellaneous Poems, 1848; The Ericksens; The Clever Boy, or\nConsider One Another, 1852; Pictures and Songs of Home, 1856; Granny's\nWonderful Chair, and its Tales of Fairy Times: illustrated by Kenny\nMeadows, 1857; illustrated by Mr. Seymour Lucas, 1891, 1900; with an\nintroduction by F. Hodgson Burnett, entitled The Story of the Lost Fairy\nBook, 1904; Our Uncle the Traveller's Stories, 1859; The Young\nForesters; The Orphans of Elfholm (Magnet Stories, 1860, etc., coll.\ned. 1864); My Share of the World: an Autobiography, 3 vols., 1861; The\nCastleford Case, 3 vols., 1862; The Hidden Sin, 1866; The Exile's Trust:\na Tale of the French Revolution, and other Stories, 1869; My Nearest\nNeighbour, and other Stories, 1875; The Foundling of the Fens: a Story\nof a Flood, 1886; The Dangerous Guest: a Story of 1745, 1886; The First\nof the African Diamonds, 1887.\n\nCONTENTS\n\n      CHAP.                                 PAGE\n\n   I. INTRODUCTORY                             3\n  II. THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO                    17\n III. THE LORDS OF THE WHITE AND GREY CASTLES 48\n  IV. THE GREEDY SHEPHERD                     72\n   V. THE STORY OF FAIRYFOOT                  84\n  VI. THE STORY OF CHILDE CHARITY            105\n VII. SOUR AND CIVIL                         120\nVIII. THE STORY OF MERRYMIND                 146\n  IX. PRINCE WISEWIT'S RETURN                170\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n                                                              PAGE\nGranny's Wonderful Chair                                         2\nThe fortified city                                               9\nThe cuckoo with the gold and green leaves                       25\nThe cobbler Spare receives a royal messenger                    31\nThe page Tinseltoes throws the doublet out of the window        39\nWoodwender and Loveleaves tend the swine                        53\nThe gay young hunter comes to Woodwender and Loveleaves         65\nClutch returns with his sack                                    82\nThe Princess Maybloom                                           95\nThe old woman begs at the door                                 108\nCivil and the three sea maidens                                127\nMerrymind at the fair                                          149\nDame Dreary dances and grows strong                            167\nPrince Wisewit, disguised as a bird, escapes out of the window 173\n\n[Illustration: GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR]\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 uncommonly fair and pleasant of look, that they\ncalled her Snowflower. This girl was good as well as pretty. No one had\never seen her frown or heard her say a cross word, and young and old\nwere glad 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, but always kind to\nSnowflower; and they lived together in a little cottage built of peat,\nand thatched with reeds, on the edge of a great forest; tall trees\nsheltered its back from the north wind; the mid-day sun made its front\nwarm and cheerful; swallows built in the eaves; daisies grew thick at\nthe door; but there were none in all that country poorer than Snowflower\nand her grandmother. A cat and two hens were all their live-stock: their\nbed was dry grass, and the only good piece of furniture in the cottage\nwas a great arm-chair with wheels on its feet, a black velvet cushion,\nand many curious carvings of flowers and fawns on its dark oaken back.\n\nOn that chair Dame Frostyface sat spinning from morning till night to\nmaintain herself and her granddaughter, while Snowflower gathered sticks\nfor firing, looked after the hens and the cat, and did whatever else her\ngrandmother bade her. There was nobody in the shire could spin such fine\nyarn as Dame Frostyface, but she spun very slowly. Her wheel was as old\nas herself, and far the more worn; indeed, the wonder was that it did\nnot fall to pieces. So the dame's earnings were small, and their living\nmeagre. Snowflower, however, felt no want of good dinners or fine\nclothes. Every evening, when the fire was heaped with the sticks she had\ngathered till it blazed and crackled up the cottage chimney, Dame\nFrostyface set aside her wheel, and told her a new story. Often did the\nlittle girl wonder where her grandmother had gathered so many stories,\nbut she soon learned that. One sunny morning, at the time of the\nswallows coming, the dame rose up, put on the grey hood and mantle in\nwhich she carried her yarn to the fairs, and said, \"My child, I am going\na long journey to visit an aunt of mine, who lives far in the north\ncountry. I cannot take you with me, because my aunt is the crossest\nwoman alive, and never liked young people: but the hens will lay eggs\nfor you; there is barley-meal in the barrel; and, as you have been a\ngood girl, I'll tell you what to do when you feel lonely. Lay your head\ngently down on the cushion of the arm-chair, and say, 'Chair of my\ngrandmother, tell me a story.' It was made by a cunning fairy, who lived\nin the forest when I was young, and she gave it to me because she knew\nnobody could keep what they got hold of better. Remember, you must never\nask a story more than once in the day; and if there be any occasion to\ntravel, you have only to seat yourself in it, and say, 'Chair of my\ngrandmother, take me such a way.' It will carry you wherever you wish;\nbut mind to oil the wheels before you set out, for I have sat on it\nthese forty years in that same corner.\"\n\nHaving said this, Dame Frostyface set forth to see her aunt in the north\ncountry. Snowflower gathered firing and looked after the hens and cat as\nusual. She baked herself a cake or two of the barley-meal; but when the\nevening fell the cottage looked lonely. Then Snowflower remembered her\ngrandmother's words, and, laying her head gently down, she said, \"Chair\nof my grandmother, tell me a story.\"\n\nScarce were the words spoken, when a clear voice from under the velvet\ncushion began to tell a new and most wonderful tale, which surprised\nSnowflower so much that she forgot to be frightened. After that the good\ngirl was lonely no more. Every morning she baked a barley cake, and\nevery evening the chair told her a new story; but she could never find\nout who owned the voice, though Snowflower showed her gratitude by\npolishing up the oaken back, and dusting the velvet cushion, till the\nchair looked as good as new. The swallows came and built in the eaves,\nthe daisies grew thicker than ever at the door; but great misfortunes\nfell upon Snowflower. Notwithstanding all her care, she forgot to clip\nthe hens' wings, and they flew away one morning to visit their friends,\nthe pheasants, who lived far in the forest; the cat followed them to see\nits relations; the barley-meal was eaten up, except a couple of\nhandfuls; and Snowflower had often strained her eyes in hopes of seeing\nthe grey mantle, but there was no appearance of Dame Frostyface.\n\n\"My grandmother stays long,\" said Snowflower to herself; \"and by and by\nthere will be nothing to eat. If I could get to her, perhaps she would\nadvise me what to do; and this is a good occasion for travelling.\"\n\nNext day, at sunrise, Snowflower oiled the chair's wheels, baked a cake\nout of the last of the meal, took it in her lap by way of provision for\nthe journey, seated herself, and said, \"Chair of my grandmother, take me\nthe way she went.\"\n\nPresently 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 style of travelling, but the chair never stopped nor stayed the\nwhole summer day, till as the sun was setting they came upon an open\nspace, where a hundred men were hewing down the tall trees with their\naxes, a hundred more were cleaving them for firewood, and twenty\nwaggoners, with horses and waggons, were carrying the wood away. \"Oh!\nchair of my grandmother, stop!\" said Snowflower, for she was tired, and\nalso wished to know what this might mean. The chair immediately stood\nstill, and Snowflower, seeing an old woodcutter, who looked civil,\nstepped up to him, and said, \"Good father, tell me why you cut all this\nwood?\"\n\n\"What ignorant country girl are you?\" replied the man, \"not to have\nheard of the great feast which our sovereign, King Winwealth, means to\ngive on the birthday of his only daughter, the Princess Greedalind. It\nwill last seven days. Everybody will be feasted, and this wood is to\nroast the oxen and the sheep, the geese and the turkeys, amongst whom\nthere is a great lamentation throughout the land.\"\n\nWhen Snowflower heard that she could not help wishing to see, and\nperhaps 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 amazement of the woodcutters,\nwho, never having seen such a sight before, threw down their axes, left\ntheir waggons, and followed Snowflower to the gates of a great and\nsplendid city, fortified with strong walls and high towers, and standing\nin the midst of a wide plain covered with cornfields, orchards, and\nvillages.\n\n[Illustration: The fortified city.]\n\nIt was the richest city in all the land; merchants from every quarter\ncame there to buy and sell, and there was a saying that people had only\nto live seven years in it to make their fortunes. Rich as they were,\nhowever, Snowflower thought she had never seen so many discontented,\ncovetous faces as looked out from the great shops, grand houses, and\nfine coaches, when her chair rattled along the streets; indeed, the\ncitizens did not stand high in repute 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 together--Wisewit was a\nwonderful prince for knowledge and prudence. He knew the whole art of\ngovernment, the tempers of men, and the powers of the stars; moreover,\nhe was a great magician, and it was said of him that he could never die\nor grow old. In his time there was neither discontent nor sickness in\nthe city--strangers were hospitably entertained without price or\nquestions. Lawsuits there were none, and no one locked his door at\nnight. The fairies used to come there at May-day and Michaelmas, for\nthey were Prince Wisewit's friends--all but one, called Fortunetta, a\nshortsighted but very cunning fairy, who hated everybody wiser than\nherself, and the prince especially, because she could never deceive\nhim.\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 herb for his garden, but he never came back; and\nthough the king, with all his guards, searched 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 certain princess, called Wantall,\nand brought her home to be his queen. This princess was neither handsome\nnor agreeable. People thought she must have gained the king's love by\nenchantment, for her whole dowry was a desert island, with a huge pit in\nit that never could be filled, and her disposition was so covetous, that\nthe more she got the greedier she grew. In process of time the king and\nqueen had an only daughter, who was to be the heiress of all their\ndominions. Her name was the Princess Greedalind, and the whole city were\nmaking preparations to celebrate her birthday--not that they cared much\nfor the princess, who was remarkably like her mother both in looks and\ntemper, but being King Winwealth's only daughter, people came from far\nand near to the festival, and among them strangers and fairies who had\nnot been there since the day of Prince Wisewit.\n\nThere was surprising bustle about the palace, a most noble building, so\nspacious that it had a room for every day in the year. All the floors\nwere of ebony, and all the ceilings of silver, and there was such a\nsupply of golden dishes used by the household, that five hundred armed\nmen kept guard night and day lest any of them should be stolen. When\nthese guards saw Snowflower and her chair, they ran one after the other\nto tell the king, for the like had never been seen nor heard of in his\ndominions, and the whole 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 embroidered 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 courtiers had\nlearned the same fashion, and all turned away in high disdain except the\nold king, who, thinking the chair might amuse him sometimes when he got\nout of spirits, allowed Snowflower to stay and feast with the scullion\nin his worst kitchen. The poor little girl was glad of any quarters,\nthough nobody made her welcome--even the servants despised her bare feet\nand linen gown. They would give her chair no room but in a dusty corner\nbehind the back door, where Snowflower was told she might sleep at\nnight, and eat up the scraps the cook threw away.\n\nThat very day the feast began; it was fine to see the multitudes of\ncoaches and people on foot and on horseback who crowded to the palace,\nand filled every room according to their rank. Never had Snowflower seen\nsuch roasting and boiling. There was wine for the lords and spiced ale\nfor the common people, music and dancing of all kinds, and the best of\ngay dresses; but with all the good cheer there seemed little merriment,\nand a 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 dissatisfied because they did not get presents. There was\nsomebody caught every hour stealing the cups, and a multitude of people\nwere always at the gates clamouring for goods and lands, which Queen\nWantall had taken from them. The guards continually drove them away, but\nthey came back again, and could be heard plainly in the highest banquet\nhall: so it was not wonderful that the old king's spirits got uncommonly\nlow that evening after supper. His favourite page, who always stood\nbehind him, perceiving this, reminded his majesty of the little girl and\nher 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 instantly!\"\n\nThe favourite page sent a messenger to the first kitchen, who told the\nmaster-cook, the master-cook told the kitchen-maid, the kitchen-maid\ntold the chief-scullion, the chief-scullion told the dust-boy, and he\ntold Snowflower to wash her face, rub up her chair, and go to the\nhighest banquet 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\nsaid:--\"Chair of my grandmother, take me to the highest banquet hall.\"\n\nInstantly the chair marched in a grave and courtly fashion out of the\nkitchen, up the grand staircase, and into the highest hall. The chief\nlords and ladies of the land were entertained there, besides many\nfairies and notable people from distant countries. There had never been\nsuch company in the palace since the time of Prince Wisewit; nobody wore\nless than embroidered satin. King Winwealth sat on his ivory throne in a\nrobe of purple velvet, stiff with flowers of gold; the queen sat by his\nside in a robe of silver cloth, clasped with pearls; but the Princess\nGreedalind was finer still, the feast being in her honour. She wore a\nrobe of cloth of gold clasped with diamonds; two waiting-ladies in white\nsatin stood, one on either side, to hold her fan and handkerchief; and\ntwo pages, in gold-lace livery, stood behind her chair. With all that\nPrincess Greedalind looked ugly and spiteful; she and her mother were\nangry to see a barefooted girl and an old chair allowed to enter the\nbanquet 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 an\nhumble courtesy to the king, the queen, the princess, and the good\ncompany, most of whom scarcely noticed her, the poor little girl sat\ndown upon the carpet, laid her head on the velvet cushion, as she used\nto do in the old cottage, and said:--\"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a\nstory.\"\n\nEverybody was astonished, even to the angry queen and the spiteful\nprincess, when a clear voice from under the cushion, said:--\"Listen to\nthe story of the Christmas Cuckoo!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO\n\n\n\"Once upon a time there stood in the midst of a bleak moor, in the north\ncountry, a certain village; all its inhabitants were poor, for their\nfields were barren, and they had little trade, but the poorest of them\nall were two brothers called Scrub and Spare, who followed the cobbler's\ncraft, and had but one stall between them. It was a hut built of clay\nand wattles. The door was low and always open, for there was no window.\nThe roof did not entirely keep out the rain, and the only thing\ncomfortable about it was a wide hearth, for which the brothers could\nnever find wood enough to make a sufficient fire. There they worked in\nmost brotherly friendship, though with little encouragement.\n\n\"The people of that village were not extravagant in shoes, and better\ncobblers than Scrub and Spare might be found. Spiteful people said there\nwere no shoes so bad that they would not be worse for their mending.\nNevertheless Scrub and Spare managed to live between their own trade, a\nsmall barley field, and a cottage garden, till one unlucky day when a\nnew cobbler arrived in the village. He had lived in the capital city of\nthe kingdom, and, by his own account, cobbled for the queen and the\nprincesses. His awls were sharp, his lasts were new; he set up his stall\nin a neat cottage with two windows. The villagers soon found out that\none patch of his would wear two of the brothers'. In short, all the\nmending left Scrub and Spare, and went to the new cobbler. The season\nhad been wet and cold, their barley did not ripen well, and the cabbages\nnever half closed in the garden. So the brothers were poor that winter,\nand when Christmas came they had nothing to feast on but a barley loaf,\na piece of rusty bacon, and some small beer of their own brewing. Worse\nthan that, the snow was very deep, and they could get no firewood. Their\nhut stood at the end of the village, beyond it spread the bleak moor,\nnow all white and silent; but that moor had once been a forest, great\nroots of old trees were still to be found in it, loosened from the soil\nand laid bare by the winds and rains--one of these, a rough, gnarled\nlog, lay hard by their door, the half of it above the snow, and Spare\nsaid to his brother--\n\n\"'Shall we sit here cold on Christmas while the great root lies yonder?\nLet us chop it up for firewood, the work 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 broken with any hatchet.'\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\n\"Scrub liked a little grandeur, and in hopes of having a fine yule log,\nboth brothers strained and strove with all their might till, between\npulling and pushing, the great old root was safe on the hearth, and\nbeginning 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 boughs, and ornamented with holly, looked cheerful as the ruddy\nblaze flared up and rejoiced their hearts.\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\n\"Spare set down the drinking-horn, and the brothers listened astonished,\nfor out of the blazing root they heard, 'Cuckoo! cuckoo!' as plain as\never the spring-bird's voice came over the moor on a May morning.\n\n\"'It is something bad,' said Scrub, terribly frightened.\n\n\"'May be not,' said Spare; and out of the deep hole at the side which\nthe fire had not reached flew a large grey cuckoo, and lit on the table\nbefore them. Much as the cobblers had been surprised, they were still\nmore so when it said--\n\n\"'Good gentlemen, what season is this?'\n\n\"'It's Christmas,' said Spare.\n\n\"'Then a merry Christmas to you!' said the cuckoo. 'I went to sleep in\nthe hollow of that old root one evening last summer, and never woke till\nthe heat of your fire made me think it was summer again; but now since\nyou have burned my lodging, let me stay in your hut till the spring\ncomes round--I only want a hole to sleep in, and when I go on my travels\nnext summer be assured I will bring you some present 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?--here is a slice of barley\nbread. Come help us to keep Christmas!'\n\n\"The cuckoo ate up the slice, drank water from the brown jug, for he\nwould take no beer, and flew into a snug hole which Spare scooped for\nhim in the thatch of the hut.\n\n\"Scrub said he was afraid it wouldn't be lucky; but as it slept on, and\nthe days passed he forgot his fears. So the snow melted, the heavy rains\ncame, the cold grew less, the days lengthened, and one sunny morning the\nbrothers were awoke by the cuckoo shouting its own cry to let them know\nthe spring had come.\n\n\"'Now I'm going on my travels,' said the bird, 'over the world to tell\nmen of the spring. There is no country where trees bud or flowers bloom,\nthat I will not cry in before the year goes round. Give me another slice\nof barley bread to keep me on my journey, and tell me what present I\nshall bring you at the twelve-month's end.'\n\n\"Scrub would have been angry with his brother for cutting so large a\nslice, their store of barley-meal being low; but his mind was occupied\nwith what present would be most prudent 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 to\nbe found, one of a tolerable size brought in your beak would help such\npoor men as my brother and I to provide something better than barley\nbread for your next entertainment.'\n\n\"'I know nothing of diamonds or pearls,' said the cuckoo; 'they are in\nthe hearts of rocks and the sands of rivers. My knowledge is only of\nthat which grows on the earth. But there are two trees hard by the well\nthat lies at the world's end--one of them is called the golden tree, for\nits leaves are all of beaten gold: every winter they fall into the well\nwith a sound like scattered coin, and I know not what becomes of them.\nAs for the other, it is always green like a laurel. Some call it the\nwise, and some the merry tree. Its leaves never fall, but they that get\none of them keep a blithe heart in spite of all misfortunes, 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\nbeaten gold! Dear master cuckoo, bring me one of them!'\n\n\"Before another word could be spoken, the cuckoo had flown out of the\nopen door, and was shouting its spring cry over moor and meadow. The\nbrothers were poorer than ever that year; nobody would send them a\nsingle shoe to mend. The new cobbler said, in scorn, they should come to\nbe his apprentices; and Scrub and Spare would have left the village but\nfor their barley field, their cabbage garden, and a certain maid called\nFairfeather, whom both the cobblers had courted for seven years without\neven knowing which she meant to favour.\n\n\"Sometimes Fairfeather seemed inclined to Scrub, sometimes she smiled on\nSpare; but the brothers never disputed for that. They sowed their\nbarley, planted their cabbage, and now that their trade was gone,\nworked in the rich villagers' fields to make out a scanty living. So the\nseasons came and passed: spring, summer, harvest, and winter followed\neach other as they have done from the beginning. At the end of the\nlatter, Scrub and Spare had grown so poor and ragged that Fairfeather\nthought them beneath her notice. Old neighbours forgot to invite them to\nwedding feasts or merrymaking; and they thought the cuckoo had forgotten\nthem too, when at daybreak, on the first of April, they heard a hard\nbeak knocking at their door, and a voice crying--\n\n\"'Cuckoo! cuckoo! Let me in with my presents.'\n\n\"Spare ran to open the door, and in came the cuckoo, carrying on one\nside of 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\nis a long carriage from the world's end. Give me a slice of barley\nbread, for I must tell the north country that the spring has come.'\n\n\"Scrub did not grudge the thickness of that slice, though it was cut\nfrom their 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 a\nsensible bird would carry the like so far.'\n\n[Illustration: The cuckoo with the gold and green leaves.]\n\n\"'Good master cobbler,' cried the cuckoo, finishing the slice, 'your\nconclusions are more hasty than courteous. If your brother be\ndisappointed this time, I go on the same journey every year, and for\nyour hospitable entertainment will think it no trouble to bring each of\nyou whichever leaf you desire.'\n\n\"'Darling cuckoo!' cried Scrub, 'bring me a golden one;' and Spare,\nlooking up from the green leaf on which he gazed as though it were a\ncrown-jewel, said--\n\n\"'Be sure to bring me one from the merry tree,' and away flew the\ncuckoo.\n\n\"'This is the Feast of All Fools, and it ought to be your birthday,'\nsaid Scrub. 'Did ever man fling away such an opportunity of getting\nrich! Much good your merry leaves will do in the midst of rags and\npoverty!' So he went on, but Spare laughed at him, and answered with\nquaint old proverbs concerning the cares that come with gold, till\nScrub, at length getting angry, vowed his brother was not fit to live\nwith a respectable man; and taking his lasts, his awls, and his golden\nleaf, he left the wattle hut, and went to tell the villagers.\n\n\"They were astonished at the folly of Spare and charmed with Scrub's\ngood sense, particularly when he showed them the golden leaf, and told\nthat the cuckoo would bring him one every spring. The new cobbler\nimmediately took him into partnership; the greatest people sent him\ntheir shoes to mend; Fairfeather smiled graciously upon him, and in the\ncourse of that summer they were married, with a grand wedding feast, at\nwhich the whole village danced, except Spare, who was not invited,\nbecause the bride could not bear his low-mindedness, and his brother\nthought him a disgrace to the family.\n\n\"Indeed, all who heard the story concluded that Spare must be mad, and\nnobody would associate with him but a lame tinker, a beggar-boy, and a\npoor woman reputed to be a witch because she was old and ugly. As for\nScrub, he established himself with Fairfeather in a cottage close by\nthat of the new cobbler, and quite as fine. There he mended shoes to\neverybody's satisfaction, had a scarlet coat for holidays, and a fat\ngoose for dinner every wedding-day. Fairfeather, too, had a crimson gown\nand fine blue ribands; but neither she nor Scrub were content, for to\nbuy this grandeur the golden leaf had to be broken and parted with piece\nby piece, so the last morsel was gone before the cuckoo came with\nanother.\n\n\"Spare lived on in the old hut, and worked in the cabbage garden. (Scrub\nhad got the barley field because he was the eldest.) Every day his coat\ngrew more ragged, and the hut more weatherbeaten; but people remarked\nthat he never looked sad nor sour; and the wonder was, that from the\ntime they began to keep his company, the tinker grew kinder to the poor\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\n\"Every first of April the cuckoo came tapping at their doors with the\ngolden leaf to Scrub and the green to Spare. Fairfeather would have\nentertained him nobly with wheaten bread and honey, for she had some\nnotion of persuading him to bring two gold leaves instead of one; but\nthe cuckoo flew away to eat barley bread with Spare, saying he was not\nfit company for fine people, and liked the old hut where he slept so\nsnugly from Christmas till Spring.\n\n\"Scrub spent the golden leaves, and Spare kept the merry ones; and I\nknow not how many years passed in this manner, when a certain great\nlord, who owned that village came to the neighbourhood. His castle stood\non the moor. It was ancient and strong, with high towers and a deep\nmoat. All the country, as far as one could see from the highest turret,\nbelonged to its lord; but he had not been there for twenty years, and\nwould not have come then, only he was melancholy. The cause of his grief\nwas that he had been prime-minister at court, and in high favour, till\nsomebody told the crown-prince that he had spoken disrespectfully\nconcerning the turning out of his royal highness's toes, and the king\nthat he did not lay on taxes enough, whereon the north country lord was\nturned out of office, and banished to his own estate. There he lived for\nsome weeks in very bad temper. The servants said nothing would please\nhim, and the villagers put on their worst clothes lest he should raise\ntheir rents; but one day in the harvest time his lordship chanced to\nmeet Spare gathering water cresses at a meadow stream, and fell into\ntalk with the cobbler.\n\n\"How it was nobody could tell, but from the hour of that discourse the\ngreat lord cast away his melancholy: he forgot his lost office and his\ncourt enemies, the king's taxes and the crown-prince's toes, and went\nabout with a noble train hunting, fishing, and making merry in his hall,\nwhere all travellers were entertained and all the poor were welcome.\nThis strange story spread through the north country, and great company\ncame to the cobbler's hut--rich men who had lost their money, poor men\nwho had lost their friends, beauties who had grown old, wits who had\ngone out of fashion, all came to talk with Spare, and whatever their\ntroubles had been, all went home merry. The rich gave him presents, the\npoor gave him thanks. Spare's coat ceased to be ragged, he had bacon\nwith his cabbage, and the villagers began to think there was some sense\nin him.\n\n\"By this time his fame had reached the capital city, and even the court.\nThere were a great many discontented people there besides the king, who\nhad lately fallen into ill-humour because a neighbouring princess, with\nseven islands for her dowry, would not marry his eldest son. So a royal\nmessenger was sent to Spare, with a velvet mantle, a diamond ring, and a\ncommand that he should repair to court immediately.\n\n\"'To-morrow is the first of April,' said Spare, 'and I will go with you\ntwo hours after sunrise.'\n\n\"The messenger lodged all night at the castle, and the cuckoo came at\nsunrise with the merry leaf.\n\n\"'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\n\"Spare 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 former times, it was so thick and large; and having sewed up the\nleaves in the lining of his leather doublet, he set out with the\nmessenger on his way to court.\n\n[Illustration: The cobbler Spare receives a royal messenger.]\n\n\"His coming caused great surprise there. Everybody wondered what the\nking could see in such a common-looking man; but scarce had his majesty\nconversed 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 banquet hall. The princes of the blood, the great lords\nand ladies, ministers of state, and judges of the land, after that\ndiscoursed with Spare, and the more they talked the lighter grew their\nhearts, so that such changes had never been seen at court. The lords\nforgot their spites and the ladies their envies, the princes and\nministers made friends among themselves, and the judges showed no\nfavour.\n\n\"As for Spare, he had a chamber assigned 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 grandeur he still wore the leathern doublet,\nwhich the palace servants thought remarkably mean. One day the king's\nattention being drawn to it by the chief page, his majesty inquired why\nSpare didn't give it to a beggar? But the cobbler answered--\n\n\"'High and mighty monarch, this doublet was with me before silk and\nvelvet came--I find it easier to wear than the court cut; moreover, it\nserves to keep me humble, by recalling the days when it was my holiday\ngarment.'\n\n\"The king thought this a wise speech, and commanded that no one should\nfind fault with the leathern doublet. So things went, till tidings of\nhis brother's good fortune reached Scrub in the moorland cottage on\nanother 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 court with two or\nthree paltry green leaves! What would they say to our golden ones? Let\nus pack up and make our way to the king's palace; I'm sure he will make\nyou a lord and me a lady of honour, not to speak of all the fine clothes\nand presents we shall have.'\n\n\"Scrub thought this excellent reasoning, and their packing up began: but\nit was soon found that the cottage contained few things fit for carrying\nto court. Fairfeather could not think of her wooden bowls, spoons, and\ntrenchers being seen there. Scrub considered his lasts and awls better\nleft behind, as without them, he concluded, no one would suspect him of\nbeing a cobbler. So putting on their holiday clothes, Fairfeather took\nher looking-glass and Scrub his drinking horn, which happened to have a\nvery thin rim of silver, and each carrying a golden leaf carefully\nwrapped up that none might see it till they reached the palace, the pair\nset out in great expectation.\n\n\"How 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\"'If I had known it was so far to court,' said Scrub, 'I would have\nbrought the end of that barley loaf which we left in the cupboard.'\n\n\"'Husband,' said Fairfeather, 'you shouldn't 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 golden leaves to see if they\nare safe.' In looking at the leaves, and talking of their fine\nprospects, Scrub and Fairfeather did not perceive that a very thin old\nwoman had slipped from behind the tree, with a long staff in her hand\nand a great wallet by her side.\n\n\"'Noble lord and lady,' she said, 'for I know ye are such by your\nvoices, though my eyes are dim and my hearing none of the sharpest,\nwill ye condescend to tell me where I may find some water to mix a\nbottle of mead which I carry in my wallet, because it is too strong for\nme?'\n\n\"As the old woman spoke, she pulled out a large wooden bottle such as\nshepherds used in the ancient times, corked with leaves rolled together,\nand having a small wooden cup hanging from its handle.\n\n\"'Perhaps ye will do me the favour to taste,' she said. 'It is only made\nof the best honey. I have also cream cheese, and a wheaten loaf here, if\nsuch honourable persons as you would eat the like.'\n\n\"Scrub and Fairfeather became very condescending after this speech. They\nwere now sure that there must be some appearance of nobility about them;\nbesides, they were very hungry, and having hastily wrapped up the golden\nleaves, they assured the old woman 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 wallet. The old\nwoman could scarcely be persuaded to sit down for pure humility, but at\nlength she did, and before the wallet was half empty, Scrub and\nFairfeather firmly believed that there must be something remarkably\nnoble-looking about them. This was not entirely owing to her ingenious\ndiscourse. The old woman was a wood-witch; her name was Buttertongue;\nand all her time was spent in making mead, which, being boiled with\ncurious herbs and spells, had the power of making all who drank it fall\nasleep and dream with their eyes open. She had two dwarfs of sons; one\nwas named Spy, and the other Pounce. Wherever their mother went they\nwere not far behind; and whoever tasted her mead was sure to be robbed\nby the dwarfs.\n\n\"Scrub 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 great grandeur\nat court, when the old woman raised her shrill voice--\n\n\"'What ho, my sons! come here and carry home the harvest.'\n\n\"No sooner had she spoken, than the two little dwarfs darted out of the\nneighbouring thicket.\n\n\"'Idle boys!' cried the mother, 'what have ye 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 their business so contentedly since\nthat cobbler came; but here is a leathern doublet which his page threw\nout of the window; it's of no use, but I brought it to let you see I was\nnot idle.' And he tossed down Spare's doublet, with the merry leaves in\nit, which he had carried like a bundle on his little back.\n\n\"To explain how Spy came by it, I must tell you that the forest was not\nfar from the great city where Spare lived in such high esteem. All\nthings had gone well with the cobbler till the king thought that it was\nquite unbecoming to see such a worthy man without a servant. His\nmajesty, therefore, to let all men understand his royal favour toward\nSpare, appointed one of his own pages to wait upon him. The name of\nthis youth was Tinseltoes, and, though he was the seventh of the king's\npages, nobody in all the court had grander notions. Nothing could please\nhim that had not gold or silver about it, and his grandmother feared he\nwould hang himself for being appointed page to a cobbler. As for Spare,\nif anything could have troubled him, this token of his majesty's\nkindness would have done it.\n\n\"The honest man had been so used to serve himself that the page was\nalways in the way, but his merry leaves came to his assistance; and, to\nthe great surprise of his grandmother, Tinseltoes took wonderfully to\nthe new service. Some said it was because Spare gave him nothing to do\nbut play at bowls all day on the palace-green. Yet one thing grieved the\nheart of Tinseltoes, and that was his master's leathern doublet, but for\nit he was persuaded people would never remember that Spare had been a\ncobbler, and the page took a deal of pains to let him see how\nunfashionable it was at court; but Spare answered Tinseltoes as he had\ndone the king, and at last, finding nothing better would do, the page\ngot up one fine morning earlier than his master, and tossed the leathern\ndoublet out of the back window into a certain 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\n\"By 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 mantle, and, above all, the golden leaves,\nwhich so rejoiced old Buttertongue and her sons, that they threw the\nleathern doublet over the sleeping cobbler for a jest, and went off to\ntheir hut in the heart of the forest.\n\n\"The 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. It was a great\ndisappointment to find their golden leaves and all their best things\ngone. Scrub tore his hair, and vowed to take the old woman's life, while\nFairfeather lamented sore; but Scrub, feeling cold for want of his coat,\nput on the leathern doublet without asking or caring whence it came.\n\n[Illustration: The page Tinseltoes throws the doublet out of the\nwindow.]\n\n\"Scarcely was it buttoned on when a change came over him; he addressed\nsuch merry discourse to Fairfeather, that, instead of lamentations, she\nmade the wood ring with laughter. Both busied themselves in getting up\na hut of boughs, in which Scrub kindled a fire with a flint and steel,\nwhich, together with his pipe, he had brought unknown to Fairfeather,\nwho had told him the like was never heard of at court. Then they found a\npheasant's nest at the root of an old oak, made a meal of roasted eggs,\nand went to sleep on a heap of long green grass which they had gathered,\nwith nightingales singing all night long in the old trees about them. So\nit happened that Scrub and Fairfeather stayed day after day in the\nforest, making their hut larger and more comfortable against the winter,\nliving on wild birds' eggs and berries, and never thinking of their lost\ngolden leaves, or their journey to court.\n\n\"In 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\njealousies among the ladies. The king said his subjects did not pay him\nhalf enough taxes, the queen wanted more jewels, the servants took to\ntheir old bickerings and got up some new ones. Spare found himself\ngetting wonderfully dull, and very much out of place: nobles began to\nask what business a cobbler had at the king's table, and his majesty\nordered the palace chronicles to be searched for a precedent. The\ncobbler was too wise to tell all he had lost with that doublet, but\nbeing by this time somewhat familiar with court customs, he proclaimed a\nreward of fifty gold pieces to any who would bring him news concerning\nit.\n\n\"Scarcely 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 about the neighbourhood; and\nso much news concerning all sorts of great people came out of these\nstories, that lords and ladies ran to the king with complaints of Spare\nas a speaker of slander; and his majesty, being now satisfied that there\nwas no example in all the palace records of such a retainer, issued a\ndecree banishing the cobbler for ever from court, and confiscating all\nhis goods in favour of Tinseltoes.\n\n\"That royal edict was scarcely published before the page was in full\npossession of his rich chamber, his costly garments, and all the\npresents the courtiers had given him; while Spare, having no longer the\nfifty pieces of gold to give, was glad to make his escape out of the\nback window, for fear of the nobles, who vowed to be revenged on him,\nand the crowd, who were prepared to stone him for cheating them about\nhis doublet.\n\n\"The 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 astonishment.\n\n\"'What's the matter, friend?' said 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'll be bound you are the\nowner of it.'\n\n\"'That I am, friend,' said the cobbler. 'Can you tell me which way that\ndoublet 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 mantle edged with gold), 'I'll 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\nyou want back your doublet, the road to the forest lies at the end of\nthis lane,' and he trudged away.\n\n\"Determined to find his doublet, and sure that neither crowd nor\ncourtiers 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 tangled, but here and\nthere the moon shone through its alleys, the great owls flitted about,\nand the nightingales sang. So he went on, hoping to find some place of\nshelter. At last the red light of a fire, gleaming through a thicket,\nled him to the door of a low hut. It stood half open, as if there was\nnothing to fear, and within he saw his brother Scrub snoring loudly on a\nbed of grass, at the foot of which lay his own leathern doublet; while\nFairfeather, in a kirtle made of plaited rushes, sat roasting pheasants'\neggs by the fire.\n\n\"'Good evening, mistress,' said Spare, stepping in.\n\n\"The 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\ncourteously than was her wont.\n\n\"'Good evening, master. Whence come ye so late? but speak low, for my\ngood man has sorely tired himself cleaving wood, and is taking a sleep,\nas you see, before supper.'\n\n\"'A good rest to him,' said Spare, perceiving he was not known. 'I come\nfrom the 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\nput some more eggs in the ashes; and tell me the news of court--I used\nto think 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\nwould make the ladies marvel.'\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 enticed us with fair words and strong drink at the entrance\nof this forest, where we fell asleep and dreamt of great things; but\nwhen we woke, everything had been robbed from us--my looking-glass, my\nscarlet cloak, my husband's Sunday coat; and, in place of all, the\nrobbers left him that old leathern doublet, which he has worn ever\nsince, and never was so merry in all his life, though we live in this\npoor 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--\n\n\"'Husband! husband! rise and see what a good bargain I have made.'\n\n\"Scrub gave one closing snore, and muttered something about the root\nbeing hard; 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\n\"Scrub and Fairfeather agreed. So in the morning they all returned, and\nfound the old hut little the worse for wear and weather. The neighbours\ncame about them to ask the news of court, and see if they had made their\nfortune. Everybody was astonished to find the three poorer than ever,\nbut somehow they liked to go back to the hut. Spare brought out the\nlasts and awls he had hidden in a corner; Scrub and he began their old\ntrade, and the whole north country found out that there never were such\ncobblers.\n\n\"They mended the shoes of lords and ladies as well as the common people;\neverybody was satisfied. Their custom increased from day to day, and all\nthat were disappointed, discontented, or unlucky, came to the hut as in\nold times, before Spare went to court.\n\n\"The 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\"What a summer-house that hut would make for me, mamma!\" said the\nPrincess Greedalind.\n\n\"We must have it brought here bodily,\" said Queen Wantall; but the chair\nwas silent, and a lady and two noble squires, clad in russet-coloured\nsatin and yellow buskins, the like of which had never been seen at that\ncourt, rose up and said--\n\n\"That's our story.\"\n\n\"I have not heard such a tale,\" said King Winwealth, \"since my brother\nWisewit went from me, and was lost in the forest. Redheels, the seventh\nof my pages, go and bring this little maid a pair of scarlet shoes with\ngolden buckles.\"\n\nThe seventh page immediately brought from the royal store a pair of\nscarlet satin shoes with buckles of gold. Snowflower never had seen the\nlike before, and joyfully thanking the king, she dropped a courtesy,\nseated herself and said--\"Chair of my grandmother, take me to the worst\nkitchen.\" Immediately the chair marched away as it came, to the\nadmiration of that noble company.\n\nThe little girl was allowed to sleep on some straw at the kitchen fire\nthat night. Next day they gave her ale with the scraps the cook threw\naway. The feast went on with great music and splendour, and the people\nclamoured without; but in the evening King Winwealth again fell into low\nspirits, and the royal command was told to Snowflower by the chief\nscullion, that she and her chair should go to the highest banquet hall,\nfor his majesty wished to hear another story.\n\nWhen Snowflower had washed her face, and dusted her chair, she went up\nseated as before, only that she had on the scarlet shoes. Queen Wantall\nand her daughter looked more spiteful than ever, but some of the company\ngraciously noticed Snowflower's courtesy, and were pleased when she laid\ndown her head, saying, \"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story.\"\n\n\"Listen,\" said the clear voice from under the cushion, \"to the story of\nLady Greensleeves.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTHE LORDS OF THE WHITE AND GREY CASTLES\n\n\n\"Once upon a time there lived two noble lords in the east country. Their\nlands lay between a broad river and an old oak forest, whose size was so\ngreat that no man knew it. In the midst of his land each lord had a\nstately castle; one was built of the white freestone, the other of the\ngrey granite. So the one was called Lord of the White Castle, and the\nother Lord of the Grey.\n\n\"There were no lords like them in all the east country for nobleness and\nbounty. Their tenants lived in peace and plenty; all strangers were\nhospitably entertained at their castles; and every autumn they sent men\nwith axes into the forest to hew down the great trees, and chop them up\ninto firewood for the poor. Neither hedge nor ditch divided their lands,\nbut these lords never disputed. They had been friends from their youth.\nTheir ladies had died long ago, but the Lord of the Grey Castle had a\nlittle son, and the Lord of the White a little daughter; and when they\nfeasted in each other's halls it was their custom to say, 'When our\nchildren grow up they will marry, and have our castles and our lands,\nand keep our friendship in memory.'\n\n\"So the lords and their little children, and tenants, lived happily till\none Michaelmas night, as they were all feasting in the hall of the White\nCastle, there came a traveller to the gate, who was welcomed and feasted\nas usual. He had seen many strange sights and countries, and, like most\npeople, he liked to tell his travels. The lords were delighted with his\ntales, as they sat round the fire drinking wine after supper, and at\nlength the Lord of the White Castle, who was very curious, 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 ancient wooden house there sits\nan old woman weaving her own hair into grey cloth on an old crazy 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 it was her purpose to sell the cloth, but none\nof all who came that way had yet bought any, she asked so great a price;\nand, only the way is so long and dangerous through that wide forest full\nof boars and wolves, some rich lord like you might buy it for a mantle.'\n\n\"All who heard this story were astonished; but when the traveller had\ngone on his way the Lord of the White Castle could neither eat nor sleep\nfor wishing to see the old woman that wove her own hair. At length he\nmade up his mind to explore the forest in search of her ancient house,\nand told the Lord of the Grey Castle his intention. Being a prudent man,\nthis lord replied that traveller's tales were not always to be trusted,\nand earnestly advised him against undertaking such a long and dangerous\njourney, for few that went far into that forest ever returned. However,\nwhen the curious lord would go in spite of all, he vowed to bear him\ncompany for friendship's sake, and they agreed to set out privately,\nlest the other lords of the land might laugh at them. The Lord of the\nWhite Castle had a steward who had served him many years, and his name\nwas Reckoning Robin. To him he said--\n\n\"'I am going on a long journey with my friend. Be careful of my goods,\ndeal justly with my tenants, and above all things be kind to my little\ndaughter Loveleaves till my return;' and the steward answered--\n\n\"'Be sure, my lord, I will.'\n\n\"The 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 tenants, and above all things be kind to my little son\nWoodwender till my return;' and his steward answered him--\n\n\"'Be sure, my lord, I will.'\n\n\"So these lords kissed their children while they slept, and set out each\nwith his staff and mantle before sunrise through the old oak forest. The\nchildren missed their fathers, the tenants missed their lords. None but\nthe stewards could tell what had become of them; but seven months wore\naway, and they did not come back. The lords had thought their stewards\nfaithful, because they served so well under their eyes; but instead of\nthat, both were proud and crafty, and thinking that some evil had\nhappened to their masters, they set themselves to be lords in their\nroom.\n\n\"Reckoning Robin had a son called Hardhold, and Wary Will, a daughter\ncalled Drypenny. There was not a sulkier girl or boy in the country, but\ntheir fathers resolved to make a young lord and lady of them; so they\ntook the silk clothes which Woodwender and Loveleaves used to wear, to\ndress them, clothing the lord's children in frieze and canvas. Their\ngarden flowers and ivory toys were given to Hardhold and Drypenny; and\nat last the steward's children sat at the chief tables, and slept in the\nbest chambers, while Woodwender and Loveleaves were sent to herd the\nswine and sleep on straw in the granary.\n\n[Illustration: Woodwender and Loveleaves tend the swine.]\n\n\"The 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 unfenced pasture hard by the\nforest. The grass was scanty, and the swine were continually straying\ninto the wood in search of acorns; the children knew that if they were\nlost the wicked stewards would punish them, and between gathering and\nkeeping their herds in order, they were readier to sleep on the granary\nstraw at night than ever they had been within their own silken curtains.\nStill Woodwender and Loveleaves helped and comforted each other, saying\ntheir fathers would come back, or God would send them some friends: so,\nin spite of swine-herding and hard living, they looked blithe and\nhandsome as ever; while Hardhold and Drypenny grew crosser and uglier\nevery day, notwithstanding their fine clothes and the best of all\nthings.\n\n\"The crafty stewards did not like this. They thought their children\nought to look genteel, and Woodwender and Loveleaves like young\nswineherds; so they sent them to a wilder pasture, still nearer the\nforest, and gave them two great black hogs, more unruly than all the\nrest, to keep. One of these hogs belonged to Hardhold, and the other to\nDrypenny. Every evening when they came home the steward's children used\nto come down and feed them, and it was their delight to reckon up what\nprice they would bring when properly fattened.\n\n\"One sultry 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 they plaited rushes and talked to each other, till, as\nthe sun was sloping down the sky, Woodwender saw that the two great hogs\nwere missing. Thinking they must have gone to the forest, the poor\nchildren ran to search for them. They heard the thrush singing and the\nwood-doves calling; they saw the squirrels leaping from bough to bough,\nand the great deer bounding by; but though they searched for hours, no\ntrace of the favourite hogs could be seen. Loveleaves and Woodwender\ndurst not go home without them. Deeper and deeper they ran into the\nforest, searching and calling, but all in vain; and when the woods began\nto darken with the fall of evening, the children feared they had lost\ntheir way.\n\n\"It 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. A fairer way Woodwender and\nLoveleaves had never walked. The grass was soft and mossy, a hedge of\nwild roses and honeysuckle grew on either side, and the red light of\nsunset streamed through the tall trees above. On they went, and it led\nthem straight to a great open dell, covered with the loveliest flowers,\nbordered with banks of wild strawberries, and all overshadowed by one\nenormous oak, whose like had never been seen in grove or forest. Its\nbranches were as large as full-grown trees. Its trunk was wider than a\ncountry church, and its height like that of a castle. There were mossy\nseats at its great root, and when the tired children had gathered as\nmany strawberries as they cared for, they sat down on one, hard by a\nsmall spring that bubbled up as clear as crystal. The huge oak was\ncovered with thick ivy, in which thousands of birds had their nests.\nWoodwender and Loveleaves watched them flying home from all parts of the\nforest, and at last they saw a lady coming by the same path which led\nthem to the dell. She wore a gown of russet colour; her yellow hair was\nbraided and bound with a crimson fillet. In her right hand she carried a\nholly branch; but the most remarkable part of her attire was a pair of\nlong sleeves, as green as the very grass.\n\n\"'Who are you?' she said, 'that sit so late beside my well?' and the\nchildren told her their story, how they had first lost the hogs, then\ntheir way, and were afraid to go home to the wicked stewards.\n\n\"'Well,' said the lady, 'ye are the fairest swineherds that ever came\nthis way. Choose whether ye 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 like not keeping\nswine. Besides, our fathers went through this forest, and we may meet\nthem some day coming home.'\n\n\"While they spoke, the lady slipped her holly branch through the ivy, as\nif it had been a key--presently a door opened in the oak, and there was\na fair house. The windows were of rock crystal, but they could not be\nseen from without. The walls and floor were covered with thick green\nmoss, as soft as velvet. There were low seats and a round table, vessels\nof carved wood, a hearth inlaid with curious stones, an oven, and a\nstore chamber for provisions against the winter. When they stepped in,\nthe lady said--\n\n\"'A hundred years have I lived here, and my name is Lady Greensleeves.\nNo friend or servant have I had except my dwarf Corner, who comes to me\nat the end of harvest with his handmill, his pannier, and his axe: with\nthese he grinds the nuts, and gathers the berries, and cleaves the\nfirewood, and blithely we live all the winter. But Corner loves the\nfrost and fears the sun, and when the topmost boughs begin to bud, he\nreturns to his country far in the north, so I am lonely in the summer\ntime.'\n\n\"By this discourse the children saw how welcome they were. Lady\nGreensleeves gave them deer's milk and cakes of nut-flour, and soft\ngreen moss to sleep on; and they forgot all their troubles, the wicked\nstewards, and the straying swine. Early in the morning a troop of does\ncame to be milked, fairies brought flowers, and birds brought berries,\nto show Lady Greensleeves what had bloomed and ripened. She taught the\nchildren to make cheese of the does' milk, and wine of the wood-berries.\nShe showed them the stores of honey which wild bees had made, and left\nin hollow trees, the rarest plants of the forest, and the herbs that\nmade all its creatures tame.\n\n\"All that summer Woodwender and Loveleaves lived with her in the great\noak-tree, free from toil and care; and the children would have been\nhappy, but they could hear no tidings of their fathers. At last the\nleaves began to fade, and the flowers to fall; Lady Greensleeves said\nthat Corner was coming; and one moonlight night she heaped sticks on the\nfire, and set her door open, when Woodwender and Loveleaves were going\nto sleep, saying she expected some old friends to tell her the news of\nthe forest.\n\n\"Loveleaves was not quite so curious as her father, the Lord of the\nWhite Castle: but she kept awake to see what would happen, and terribly\nfrightened 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\nneighbourhood?'\n\n\"'Not much,' said the bear; 'only the fawns are growing very\ncunning--one can't catch above three in a day.'\n\n\"'That's bad news,' said Lady Greensleeves; and immediately in walked a\ngreat wild cat.\n\n\"'Good evening, lady,' said the cat.\n\n\"'Good evening, cat,' said Lady Greensleeves. 'What is the news in your\nneighbourhood?'\n\n\"'Not much,' said the cat; 'only the birds are growing very\nplentiful--it is 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\nyour neighbourhood?'\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 noble lords, who were travelling through his\ndominions to see the old woman that weaves her own hair? They had\nthinned his oaks every year, cutting firewood for the poor: so the king\nmet them in the likeness of a hunter, and asked them to drink out of his\noaken goblet, because the day was warm; and when the two lords drank,\nthey forgot their lands and their tenants, their castles and their\nchildren, and minded nothing in all this world but the planting of\nacorns, which they do day and night, by the power of the spell, in the\nheart of the forest, and will never cease till some one makes them pause\nin their work before the sun sets, and then the spell will be broken.'\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\n\"Soon after, the bear, the cat, and the raven bade Lady Greensleeves\ngood night. She closed the door, put out the light, and went to sleep on\nthe soft moss as usual.\n\n\"In 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 last night, and we know the two lords are\nour 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 the ravens' neighbourhood, where\nyou will find your fathers planting acorns under the forest trees. Watch\ntill the sun is near setting, and tell them the most wonderful things\nyou know to make them forget their work; but be sure to tell nothing but\ntruth, and drink nothing but running water, or you will fall into the\npower of the fairy king.'\n\n\"The children thanked her for this good counsel. She packed up cakes\nand cheese for them in a bag of woven grass, and they soon found the\nnarrow way sprinkled over with black feathers. It was very long, and\nwound through the thick trees in so many circles that the children were\noften weary, and sat down to rest. When the night came, they found a\nmossy hollow in the trunk of an old tree, where they laid themselves\ndown, and slept all the summer night--for Woodwender and Loveleaves\nnever feared the forest. So they went, eating their cakes and cheese\nwhen they were hungry, drinking from the running stream, and sleeping in\nthe hollow trees, till on the evening of the seventh day they came into\nthe ravens' neighbourhood. The tall trees were laden with nests and\nblack with ravens. There was nothing to be heard but continual cawing;\nand in a great opening where the oaks grew thinnest, the children saw\ntheir own fathers busy planting acorns. Each lord had on the velvet\nmantle in which he left his castle, but it was worn to rags with rough\nwork in the forest. Their hair and beards had grown long; their hands\nwere soiled with earth; each had an old wooden spade, and on all sides\nlay heaps of acorns. The children called them by their names, and ran to\nkiss them, each saying--'Dear father, come back to your castle and your\npeople!' but the lords replied--\n\n\"'We know of no castles and no people. There is nothing in all this\nworld but oak-trees and acorns.'\n\n\"Woodwender and Loveleaves told them of all their former state in\nvain--nothing would make them pause for a minute: so the poor children\nfirst sat down and cried, and then slept on the cold grass, for the sun\nset, and the lords worked on. When they awoke it was broad day;\nWoodwender cheered up his sister, saying--'We are hungry, and there are\nstill two cakes in the bag, let us share one of them--who knows but\nsomething may happen?'\n\n\"So they divided the cake, and ran to the lords, saying--'Dear fathers,\neat with us:' but the lords said--\n\n\"'There is no use for meat or drink. Let us plant our acorns.'\n\n\"Loveleaves and Woodwender sat down, and ate that cake in great sorrow.\nWhen they had finished, both went to a stream hard by, and began to\ndrink the clear water with a large acorn shell; and as they drank there\ncame through the oaks a gay young hunter, his mantle was green as the\ngrass: about his neck there hung a crystal bugle, and in his hand he\ncarried a huge oaken goblet, carved with flowers and leaves, and rimmed\nwith crystal. Up to the brim it was filled with milk, on which the rich\ncream floated; and as the hunter came near, he said--'Fair children,\nleave that muddy water, and come and drink with me;' but Woodwender and\nLoveleaves answered--\n\n\"'Thanks, good hunter; but we have promised to drink nothing but running\nwater.' Still the hunter came nearer with his goblet, saying--\n\n\"'The water is foul: it may do for swineherds and woodcutters, but not\nfor such fair children as you. Tell me, are you not the children of\nmighty kings? Were you not reared in palaces?' But the boy and girl\nanswered him--\n\n\"'No: we were reared in castles, and are the children of yonder lords;\ntell us how the spell that is upon them may be broken!' and immediately\nthe hunter turned from them with an angry look, poured out the milk upon\nthe ground and went away with his empty goblet.\n\n[Illustration: The gay young hunter comes to Woodwender and Loveleaves.]\n\n\"Loveleaves and Woodwender were sorry to see the rich cream spilled, but\nthey remembered Lady Greensleeves' warning, and seeing they could do no\nbetter, 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 all that they could say; and\nwhen the sun grew warm at noon, they went again to drink at the running\nstream. Then there came through the oaks another hunter, older than the\nfirst, and clothed in yellow: about his neck there hung a silver bugle,\nand in his hand he carried an oaken goblet, carved with leaves and\nfruit, rimmed with silver, and filled with mead to the brim. This hunter\nalso asked them to drink, told them the stream was full of frogs, and\nasked them if they were not a young prince and princess dwelling in the\nwoods for their pleasure? but when Woodwender and Loveleaves answered as\nbefore--'We have promised to drink only running water, and are the\nchildren of yonder lords: tell us how the spell may be broken!'--he\nturned from them with an angry look, poured out the mead, and went his\nway.\n\n\"All 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 when no persuasion would\nmake the lords eat with them, they went to the banks of the stream, and\nbegan to eat and drink, though their hearts were heavy.\n\n\"The 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\nit a little bit, though it is our last cake.'\n\n\"Woodwender agreed, and each gave a bit to the raven; but its great\nbill finished the morsels in a moment, and hopping nearer, it looked\nthem in the 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.' But as they\nstooped to the water, there came through the oaks another hunter, older\nthan the last, and clothed in scarlet: about his neck there hung a\ngolden bugle, and in his hand he carried a huge oaken goblet, carved\nwith ears of corn and clusters of grapes, rimmed with gold, and filled\nto the brim with wine. He also said--\n\n\"'Leave this muddy water, and drink with me. It is full of toads, and\nnot fit for such fair children. Surely ye are from fairyland, and were\nreared in its queen's palace!' But the children said--\n\n\"'We will drink nothing but this water, and yonder lords are our\nfathers: tell us how the spell may be broken!' And the hunter turned\nfrom them with an angry look, poured out the wine on the grass, and\nwent his way. When he was gone, the old raven looked up into their\nfaces, and said--\n\n\"'I have eaten your last cake, and I will tell you how the spell may be\nbroken. Yonder is the sun, going down behind yon 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\n\"Woodwender 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\nrelated how they had been made to sleep on straw, how they had been sent\nto herd hogs in the wild pasture, and what trouble they had with the\nunruly swine, the acorn planting grew slower, and at last they dropped\ntheir spades. Then Woodwender, catching up his father's spade, ran to\nthe stream and threw it in. Loveleaves did the same for the Lord of the\nWhite Castle. That moment the sun disappeared behind the western oaks,\nand the lords stood up, looking, like men just awoke, on the forest, on\nthe sky, and on their children.\n\n\"So this strange story has ended, for Woodwender and Loveleaves went\nhome rejoicing with their fathers. Each lord returned to his castle, and\nall their tenants made merry. The fine toys and the silk clothes, the\nflower-gardens and the best chambers, were taken from Hardhold and\nDrypenny, for the lords' children got them again; and the wicked\nstewards, with their cross boy and girl, were sent to herd swine, and\nlive in huts in the wild pasture, which everybody said became them\nbetter. The Lord of the White Castle never again wished to see the old\nwoman that wove her own hair, and the Lord of the Grey Castle continued\nto be his friend. As for Woodwender and Loveleaves, they met with no\nmore misfortunes, but grew up, and were married, and inherited the two\ncastles and the broad lands of their fathers. Nor did they forget the\nlonely Lady Greensleeves, for it was known in the east country that she\nand her dwarf Corner always came to feast with them in the Christmas\ntime, and at midsummer they always went to live with her in the great\noak in the forest.'\n\n\n\"Oh! mamma, if we had that oak!\" said the Princess Greedalind.\n\n\"Where does it grow?\" said Queen Wantall: but the chair was silent, and\na noble lord and lady, clad in green velvet, flowered with gold, rose up\nand said--\n\n\"That's our story.\"\n\n\"Excepting the tale of yesterday,\" said King Winwealth, \"I have not\nheard such a story since my brother Wisewit went from me, and was lost\nin the forest. Gaygarters, the sixth of my pages, go and bring this\nmaiden a pair of white silk hose with golden clocks on them.\"\n\nQueen Wantall and Princess Greedalind at this looked crosser than ever;\nbut Gaygarters brought the white silk hose, and Snowflower, having\ndropped her courtesy, and taken her seat, was carried once more to the\nkitchen, where they gave her a mattress that night, and next day she got\nthe ends of choice dishes.\n\nThe feast, the music, and the dancing went on, so did the envies within\nand the clamours without the palace. In the evening King Winwealth fell\nagain into low spirits after supper, and a message coming down from the\nbanquet hall, the kitchen-maid told Snowflower to prepare herself, and\ngo up with her grandmother's chair, for his majesty wished to hear\nanother story. Having washed her face and combed her hair, put on her\nscarlet shoes, and her gold-clocked hose, Snowflower went up as before,\nseated in her grandmother's chair; and after courtesying as usual to the\nking, the queen, the princess, and the noble company, the little girl\nlaid down her head, saying--\"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story;\"\nand a clear voice from under the cushion said--\n\n\"Listen to the story of the Greedy Shepherd.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE GREEDY SHEPHERD\n\n\n\"Once upon a time there lived in the south country two brothers, whose\nbusiness it was to keep sheep on a great grassy plain, which was bounded\non the one side by a forest, and on the other by a chain of high hills.\nNo one lived on that plain but shepherds, who dwelt in low cottages\nthatched with heath, and watched their sheep so carefully that no lamb\nwas ever lost, nor had one of the shepherds ever travelled beyond the\nfoot of the hills and the skirts of the forest.\n\n\"There were none among them more careful than these two brothers, one of\nwhom was called Clutch, and the other Kind. Though brethren born, two\nmen of distant countries could not be more unlike in disposition. Clutch\nthought of nothing in this world but how to catch and keep some profit\nfor himself, while Kind would have shared his last morsel with a hungry\ndog. This covetous mind made Clutch keep all his father's sheep when the\nold man was dead and gone, because he was the eldest brother, allowing\nKind nothing but the place of a servant to help him in looking after\nthem. Kind wouldn't quarrel with his brother for the sake of the sheep,\nso he helped him to keep them, and Clutch had all his own way. This\nmade him agreeable. For some time the brothers lived peaceably in their\nfather's cottage, which stood low and lonely under the shadow of a great\nsycamore-tree, and kept their flock with pipe and crook on the grassy\nplain, till new troubles arose through Clutch's covetousness.\n\n\"On that plain there was neither town, nor city, nor market-place, where\npeople might sell or buy, but the shepherds cared little for trade. The\nwool of their flocks made them clothes; their milk gave them butter and\ncheese. At feast times every family killed a lamb or so; their fields\nyielded them wheat for bread. The forest supplied them with firewood for\nwinter; and every midsummer, which is the sheep-shearing time, traders\nfrom a certain far-off city came through it by an ancient way to\npurchase all the wool the shepherds could spare, and give them in\nexchange either goods or money.\n\n\"One midsummer it so happened that these traders praised the wool of\nClutch's flock above all they found on the plain, and gave him the\nhighest price of it. That was an unlucky happening for the sheep: from\nthenceforth Clutch thought he could never get enough wool off them. At\nthe shearing time nobody clipped so close, and, in spite of all Kind\ncould do or say, he left the poor sheep as bare as if they had been\nshaven; and as soon as the wool grew long enough to keep them warm, he\nwas ready with the shears again--no matter how chilly might be the days,\nor how near the winter. Kind didn't like these doings, and many a debate\nthey caused between him and his brother. Clutch always tried to persuade\nhim that close clipping was good for the sheep, and Kind always strove\nto make him think he had got all the wool--so they were never done with\ndisputes. Still Clutch sold the wool, and stored up his profits, and one\nmidsummer after another passed. The shepherds began to think him a rich\nman, and close clipping might have become the fashion, but for a strange\nthing which happened to his flock.\n\n\"The wool had grown well that summer. He had taken two crops off them,\nand was thinking of a third,--though the misty mornings of autumn were\ncome, and the cold evenings made the shepherds put on their winter\ncloaks,--when first the lambs, and then the ewes, began to stray away;\nand search as the brothers would, none of them was ever found again.\nClutch blamed Kind with being careless, and watched with all his might.\nKind knew it was not his fault, but he looked sharper than ever. Still\nthe straying went on. The flocks grew smaller every day, and all the\nbrothers could find out was, that the closest clipped were the first to\ngo; and, count the flock when they might, some were sure to be missed\nat the folding.\n\n\"Kind grew tired of watching, and Clutch lost his sleep with vexation.\nThe other shepherds, over whom he had boasted of his wool and his\nprofits, were not sorry to see pride having a fall. Most of them pitied\nKind, but all of them agreed that they had marvellous ill luck, and kept\nas far from them as they could for fear of sharing it. Still the flock\nmelted away as the months wore on. Storms and cold weather never stopped\nthem from straying, and when the spring came back nothing remained with\nClutch and Kind but three old ewes, the quietest and lamest of their\nwhole flock. They were watching these ewes one evening in the primrose\ntime, when Clutch, who had never kept his eyes off them that day, said--\n\n\"'Brother, there is wool to be had on their backs.'\n\n\"'It is too little to keep them warm,' said Kind. 'The east wind still\nblows sometimes;' but Clutch was off to the cottage for the bag and\nshears.\n\n\"Kind was grieved to see his brother so covetous, and to divert his\nmind he looked up at the great hills: it was a sort of comfort to him,\never since their losses began, to look at them evening and morning. Now\ntheir far-off heights were growing crimson with the setting sun, but as\nhe looked, three creatures like sheep scoured up a cleft in one of them\nas fleet as any deer: and when Kind turned, he saw his brother coming\nwith the bag and shears, but not a single ewe was to be seen. Clutch's\nfirst question was, what had become of them; and when Kind told him what\nhe saw, the eldest brother scolded him with might and main for ever\nlifting his eyes off them--\n\n\"'Much good the hills and the sunset do us,' said he, 'now that we have\nnot a single sheep. The other shepherds will hardly give us room among\nthem at shearing time or harvest; but for my part, I'll not stay on this\nplain to be despised for poverty. If you like to come with me, and be\nguided by my advice, we shall get service somewhere. I have heard my\nfather say that there were great shepherds living in old times beyond\nthe hills; let us go and see if they will take us for sheep-boys.'\n\n\"Kind would rather have stayed and tilled his father's wheat-field, hard\nby the cottage; but since his elder brother would go, he resolved to\nbear him company. Accordingly, next morning Clutch took his bag and\nshears, Kind took his crook and pipe, and away they went over the plain\nand up the hills. All who saw them thought that they had lost their\nsenses, for no shepherd had gone there for a hundred years, and nothing\nwas to be seen but wide moorlands, full of rugged rocks, and sloping up,\nit seemed, to the very sky. Kind persuaded his brother to take the\ndirection the sheep had taken, but the ground was so rough and steep\nthat after two hours' climbing they would gladly have turned back, if it\nhad not been that their sheep were gone, and the shepherds would laugh\nat them.\n\n\"By noon they came to the stony cleft, up which the three old ewes had\nscoured like deer; but both were tired, and sat down to rest. Their feet\nwere sore, and their hearts were heavy; but as they sat there, there\ncame a sound of music down the hills, as if a thousand shepherds had\nbeen playing on their tops. Clutch and Kind had never heard such music\nbefore. As they listened, the soreness passed from their feet, and the\nheaviness from their hearts; and getting up, they followed the sound up\nthe cleft, and over a wide heath, covered with purple bloom; till at\nsunset, they came to the hill-top, and saw a broad pasture, where\nviolets grew thick among the grass, and thousands of snow-white sheep\nwere feeding, while an old man sat in the midst of them, playing on his\npipe. He wore a long coat, the colour of the holly leaves; his hair hung\nto his waist, and his beard to his knees; but both were as white as\nsnow, and he had the countenance of one who had led a quiet life, and\nknown no cares nor losses.\n\n\"'Good father,' said Kind, for his eldest brother hung back and was\nafraid, 'tell us what land is this, and where can we find service; for\nmy brother and I are shepherds, and can well keep flocks from straying,\nthough we have lost our own.'\n\n\"'These are the hill pastures,' said the old man, 'and I am the ancient\nshepherd. My flocks never stray, but I have employment for you. Which of\nyou can shear best?'\n\n\"'Good father,' said Clutch, taking courage, 'I am the closest shearer\nin all the plain country: you would not find as much wool as would make\na thread on a sheep when I have done with it.'\n\n\"'You are the man for my business,' replied the old shepherd. 'When the\nmoon rises, I will call the flock you have to shear. Till then sit down\nand rest, and take your supper out of my wallet.'\n\n\"Clutch and Kind gladly sat down by him among the violets, and opening a\nleathern bag which hung by his side, the old man gave them cakes and\ncheese, and a horn cup to drink from a stream hard by. The brothers felt\nfit for any work after that meal; and Clutch rejoiced in his own mind at\nthe chance he had got for showing his skill with the shears. 'Kind will\nsee how useful it is to cut close,' he thought to himself: but they sat\nwith the old man, telling him the news of the plain, till the sun went\ndown and the moon rose, and all the snow-white sheep gathered and laid\nthemselves down behind him. Then he took his pipe and played a merry\ntune, when immediately there was heard a great howling, and up the hills\ncame a troop of shaggy wolves, with hair so long that their eyes could\nscarcely be seen. Clutch would have fled for fear, but the wolves\nstopped, and the old man said to him--\n\n\"'Rise, and shear--this flock of mine have too much wool on them.'\n\n\"Clutch had never shorn wolves before, yet he couldn't think of losing\nthe good service, and went forward with a stout heart; but the first of\nthe wolves showed its teeth, and all the rest raised such a howl the\nmoment he came near them, that Clutch was glad to throw down his shears,\nand run behind the old man for safety.\n\n\"'Good father,' cried he, 'I will shear sheep, but not wolves.'\n\n\"'They must be shorn,' said the old man, 'or you go back to the plains,\nand them after you; but whichever of you can shear them will get the\nwhole flock.'\n\n\"On hearing this, Clutch began to exclaim on his hard fortune, and his\nbrother who had brought him there to be hunted and devoured by wolves;\nbut Kind, thinking that things could be no worse, caught up the shears\nhe had thrown away in his fright, and went boldly up to the nearest\nwolf. To his great surprise the wild creature seemed to know him, and\nstood quietly to be shorn, while the rest of the flock gathered round as\nif waiting their turn. Kind clipped neatly, but not too close, as he had\nwished his brother to do with the sheep, and heaped up the hair on one\nside. When he had done with one, another came forward, and Kind went on\nshearing by the bright moonlight till the whole flock were shorn. Then\nthe old man said--\n\n\"'Ye have done well, take the wool and the flock for your wages, return\nwith them to the plain, and if you please, take this little-worth\nbrother of yours for a boy to keep them.'\n\n\"Kind did not much like keeping wolves, but before he could make answer,\nthey had all changed into the very sheep which had strayed away so\nstrangely. All of them had grown fatter and thicker of fleece, and the\nhair he had cut off lay by his side, a heap of wool so fine and soft\nthat its like had never been seen on the plain.\n\n[Illustration: Clutch returns with his sack.]\n\n\"Clutch gathered it up in his empty bag, and glad was he to go back to\nthe plain with his brother; for the old man sent them away with their\nflock, saying no man must see the dawn of day on that pasture but\nhimself, for it was the ground of the fairies. So Clutch and Kind went\nhome with great gladness. All the shepherds came to hear their wonderful\nstory, and ever after liked to keep near them because they had such good\nluck. They keep the sheep together till this day, but Clutch has grown\nless greedy, and Kind alone uses the shears.\"\n\n\nWith these words the voice ceased, and two shepherds, clad in\ngrass-green and crowned with garlands, rose up, and said--\n\n\"That's our story.\"\n\n\"Mamma,\" said Princess Greedalind, \"what a lovely playground that violet\npasture would make for me!\"\n\n\"What wool could be had off all those snow-white sheep!\" said Queen\nWantall: but King Winwealth said--\n\n\"Excepting yesterday's tale, and the one that went before it, I have not\nheard such a story as that since my brother Wisewit went from me, and\nwas lost in the forest. Spangledhose, the fifth of my pages, rise, and\nbring this maiden a white satin gown.\"\n\nSnowflower took the white satin gown, thanked the king, courtseyed to\nthe good company, and went down on her chair to the best kitchen. That\nnight they gave her a new blanket, and next day she had a cold pie for\ndinner. The music, the feast, and the spite continued within the palace:\nso did the clamours without; and his majesty, falling into low spirits,\nas usual, after supper, one of the under cooks told Snowflower that a\nmessage had come down from the highest banquet hall for her to go up\nwith her grandmother's chair, and tell another story. Snowflower\naccordingly dressed herself in the red shoes, the gold-clocked hose, and\nthe white satin gown. All the company were glad to see her and her chair\ncoming, except the queen and the Princess Greedalind; and when the\nlittle girl had made her courtesy and laid down her head saying, \"Chair\nof my grandmother, tell me a story,\" the same clear voice said--\n\n\"Listen to the story of Fairyfoot.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE STORY OF FAIRYFOOT\n\n\n\"Once upon a time there stood far away in the west country a town called\nStumpinghame. It contained seven windmills, a royal palace, a market\nplace, and a prison, with every other convenience befitting the capital\nof a kingdom. A capital city was Stumpinghame, and its inhabitants\nthought it the only one in the world. It stood in the midst of a great\nplain, which for three leagues round its walls was covered with corn,\nflax, and orchards. Beyond that lay a great circle of pasture land,\nseven leagues in breadth, and it was bounded on all sides by a forest so\nthick and old that no man in Stumpinghame knew its extent; and the\nopinion of the learned was, that it reached to the end of the world.\n\n\"There were strong reasons for this opinion. First, that forest was\nknown to be inhabited time out of mind by the fairies, and no hunter\ncared to go beyond its borders--so all the west country believed it to\nbe solidly full of old trees to the heart. Secondly, the people of\nStumpinghame were no travellers--man, woman, and child had feet so large\nand heavy that it was by no means convenient to carry them far. Whether\nit was the nature of the place or the people, I cannot tell, but great\nfeet had been the fashion there time immemorial, and the higher the\nfamily the larger were they. It was, therefore, the aim of everybody\nabove the degree of shepherds, and such-like rustics, to swell out and\nenlarge their feet by way of gentility; and so successful were they in\nthese undertakings that, on a pinch, respectable people's slippers\nwould have served for panniers.\n\n\"Stumpinghame had a king of its own, and his name was Stiffstep; his\nfamily was very ancient and large-footed. His subjects called him Lord\nof the World, and he made a speech to them every year concerning the\ngrandeur of his mighty empire. His queen, Hammerheel, was the greatest\nbeauty in Stumpinghame. Her majesty's shoe was not much less than a\nfishing-boat; their six children promised to be quite as handsome, and\nall went well with them till the birth of their seventh son.\n\n\"For a long time nobody about the palace could understand what was the\nmatter--the ladies-in-waiting looked so astonished, and the king so\nvexed; but at last it was whispered through the city that the queen's\nseventh child had been born with such miserably small feet that they\nresembled nothing ever seen or heard of in Stumpinghame, except the feet\nof the fairies.\n\n\"The chronicles furnished no example of such an affliction ever before\nhappening in the royal family. The common people thought it portended\nsome great calamity to the city; the learned men began to write books\nabout it; and all the relations of the king and queen assembled at the\npalace to mourn with them over their singular misfortune. The whole\ncourt and most of the citizens helped in this mourning, but when it had\nlasted seven days they all found out it was of no use. So the relations\nwent to their homes, and the people took to their work. If the learned\nmen's books were written, nobody ever read them; and to cheer up the\nqueen's spirits, the young prince was sent privately out to the pasture\nlands, to be nursed among the shepherds.\n\n\"The chief man there was called Fleecefold, and his wife's name was\nRough Ruddy. They lived in a snug cottage with their son Blackthorn and\ntheir daughter Brownberry, and were thought great people, because they\nkept the king's sheep. Moreover, Fleecefold's family were known to be\nancient; and Rough Ruddy boasted that she had the largest feet in all\nthe pastures. The shepherds held them in high respect, and it grew still\nhigher when the news spread that the king's seventh son had been sent to\ntheir cottage. People came from all quarters to see the young prince,\nand great were the lamentations over his misfortune in having such small\nfeet.\n\n\"The king and queen had given him fourteen names, beginning with\nAugustus--such being the fashion in that royal family; but the honest\ncountry people could not remember so many; besides, his feet were the\nmost remarkable thing about the child, so with one accord they called\nhim Fairyfoot. At first it was feared this might be high-treason, but\nwhen no notice was taken by the king or his ministers, the shepherds\nconcluded it was no harm, and the boy never had another name throughout\nthe pastures. At court it was not thought polite to speak of him at all.\nThey did not keep his birthday, and he was never sent for at Christmas,\nbecause the queen and her ladies could not bear the sight. Once a year\nthe undermost scullion was sent to see how he did, with a bundle of his\nnext brother's cast-off clothes; and, as the king grew old and cross, it\nwas said he had thoughts of disowning him.\n\n\"So Fairyfoot grew in Fleecefold's cottage. Perhaps the country air made\nhim fair and rosy--for all agreed that he would have been a handsome boy\nbut for his small feet, with which nevertheless he learned to walk, and\nin time to run and to jump, thereby amazing everybody, for such doings\nwere not known among the children of Stumpinghame. The news of court,\nhowever, travelled to the shepherds, and Fairyfoot was despised among\nthem. The old people thought him unlucky; the children refused to play\nwith him. Fleecefold was ashamed to have him in his cottage, but he\ndurst not disobey the king's orders. Moreover, Blackthorn wore most of\nthe clothes brought by the scullion. At last, Rough Ruddy found out that\nthe sight of such horrid jumping would make her children vulgar; and, as\nsoon as he was old enough, she sent Fairyfoot every day to watch some\nsickly sheep that grazed on a wild, weedy pasture, hard by the forest.\n\n\"Poor Fairyfoot was often lonely and sorrowful; many a time he wished\nhis feet would grow larger, or that people wouldn't notice them so much;\nand all the comfort he had was running and jumping by himself in the\nwild pasture, and thinking that none of the shepherds' children could do\nthe like, for all their pride of their great feet.\n\n\"Tired of this sport, he was lying in the shadow of a mossy rock one\nwarm summer's noon, with the sheep feeding around, when a robin, pursued\nby a great hawk, flew into the old velvet cap which lay on the ground\nbeside him. Fairyfoot covered it up, and the hawk, frightened by his\nshout, flew away.\n\n\"'Now you may go, poor robin!' he said, opening the cap: but instead of\nthe bird, out sprang a little man dressed in russet-brown, and looking\nas if he were an hundred years old. Fairyfoot could not speak for\nastonishment, but the little man said--\n\n\"'Thank you for your shelter, and be sure I will do as much for you.\nCall on me if you are ever in trouble, my name is Robin Goodfellow;' and\ndarting off, he was out of sight in an instant. For days the boy\nwondered who that little man could be, but he told nobody, for the\nlittle man's feet were as small as his own, and it was clear he would be\nno favourite in Stumpinghame. Fairyfoot kept the story to himself, and\nat last midsummer came. That evening was a feast among the shepherds.\nThere were bonfires on the hills, and fun in the villages. But Fairyfoot\nsat alone beside his sheepfold, for the children of his village had\nrefused to let him dance with them about the bonfire, and he had gone\nthere to bewail the size of his feet, which came between him and so many\ngood things. Fairyfoot had never felt so lonely in all his life, and\nremembering the little man, he plucked up spirit, and cried--\n\n\"'Ho! Robin Goodfellow!'\n\n\"'Here I am,' said a shrill voice at his elbow; and there stood the\nlittle man himself.\n\n\"'I am very lonely, and no one will play with me, because my feet are\nnot large enough,' said Fairyfoot.\n\n\"'Come then and play with us,' said the little man. 'We lead the\nmerriest lives in the world, and care for nobody's feet; but all\ncompanies have their own manners, and there are two things you must mind\namong us: first, do as you see the rest doing; and secondly, never speak\nof anything you may hear or see, for we and the people of this country\nhave had no friendship ever since large feet came in fashion.'\n\n\"'I will do that, and anything more you like,' said Fairyfoot; and the\nlittle man taking his hand, led him over the pasture into the forest,\nand along a mossy path among old trees wreathed with ivy (he never knew\nhow far), till they heard the sound of music, and came upon a meadow\nwhere the moon shone as bright as day, and all the flowers of the\nyear--snowdrops, violets, primroses, and cowslips--bloomed together in\nthe thick grass. There were a crowd of little men and women, some clad\nin russet colour, but far more in green, dancing round a little well as\nclear as crystal. And under great rose-trees which grew here and there\nin the meadow, companies were sitting round low tables covered with cups\nof milk, dishes of honey, and carved wooden flagons filled with clear\nred wine. The little man led Fairyfoot up to the nearest table, handed\nhim one of the flagons, and said--\n\n\"'Drink to the good company!'\n\n\"Wine was not very common among the shepherds of Stumpinghame, and the\nboy had never tasted such drink as that before; for scarcely had it gone\ndown, when he forgot all his troubles--how Blackthorn and Brownberry\nwore his clothes, how Rough Ruddy sent him to keep the sickly sheep, and\nthe children would not dance with him: in short, he forgot the whole\nmisfortune of his feet, and it seemed to his mind that he was a king's\nson, and all was well with him. All the little people about the well\ncried--\n\n\"'Welcome! welcome!' and every one said--'Come and dance with me!' So\nFairyfoot was as happy as a prince, and drank milk and ate honey till\nthe moon was low in the sky, and then the little man took him by the\nhand, and never stopped nor stayed till he was at his own bed of straw\nin the cottage corner.\n\n\"Next morning Fairyfoot was not tired for all his dancing. Nobody in the\ncottage had missed him, and he went out with the sheep as usual; but\nevery night all that summer, when the shepherds were safe in bed, the\nlittle man came and took him away to dance in the forest. Now he did not\ncare to play with the shepherds' children, nor grieve that his father\nand mother had forgotten him, but watched the sheep all day singing to\nhimself or plaiting rushes; and when the sun went down, Fairyfoot's\nheart rejoiced at the thought of meeting that merry company.\n\n\"The wonder was that he was never tired nor sleepy, as people are apt to\nbe who dance all night; but before the summer was ended Fairyfoot found\nout the reason. One night, when the moon was full, and the last of the\nripe corn rustling in the fields, Robin Goodfellow came for him as\nusual, and away they went to the flowery green. The fun there was high,\nand Robin was in haste. So he only pointed to the carved cup from which\nFairyfoot every night drank the clear red wine.\n\n\"'I am not thirsty, and there is no use losing time,' thought the boy to\nhimself, and he joined the dance; but never in all his life did\nFairyfoot find such hard work as to keep pace with the company. Their\nfeet seemed to move like lightning; the swallows did not fly so fast or\nturn so quickly. Fairyfoot did his best, for he never gave in easily,\nbut at length, his breath and strength being spent, the boy was glad to\nsteal away, and sit down behind a mossy oak, where his eyes closed for\nvery weariness. When he awoke the dance was nearly over, but two little\nladies clad in green talked close beside him.\n\n\"'What a beautiful boy!' said one of them. 'He is worthy to be a king's\nson. Only see what handsome feet he has!'\n\n\"'Yes,' said the other, with a laugh that sounded spiteful; 'they are\njust like the feet Princess Maybloom had before she washed them in the\nGrowing Well. Her father has sent far and wide throughout the whole\ncountry searching for a doctor to make them small again, but nothing in\nthis world can do it except the water of the Fair Fountain, and none but\nI and the nightingales know where it is.'\n\n\"'One would not care to let the like be known,' said the first little\nlady: 'there would come such crowds of these great coarse creatures of\nmankind, nobody would have peace for leagues round. But you will surely\nsend word to the sweet princess!--she was so kind to our birds and\nbutterflies, and danced so like one of ourselves!'\n\n[Illustration: The Princess Maybloom.]\n\n\"'Not I, indeed!' said the spiteful fairy. 'Her old skinflint of a\nfather cut down the cedar which I loved best in the whole forest, and\nmade a chest of it to hold his money in; besides, I never liked the\nprincess--everybody praised her so. But come, we shall be too late for\nthe last dance.'\"\n\n\"When they were gone, Fairyfoot could sleep no more with astonishment.\nHe did not wonder at the fairies admiring his feet, because their own\nwere much the same; but it amazed him that Princess Maybloom's father\nshould be troubled at hers growing large. Moreover, he wished to see\nthat same princess and her country, since there were really other places\nin the world than Stumpinghame.\n\n\"When Robin Goodfellow came to take him home as usual he durst not let\nhim know that he had overheard anything; but never was the boy so\nunwilling to get up as on that morning, and all day he was so weary that\nin the afternoon Fairyfoot fell asleep, with his head on a clump of\nrushes. It was seldom that any one thought of looking after him and the\nsickly sheep; but it so happened that towards evening the old shepherd,\nFleecefold, thought he would see how things went on in the pastures. The\nshepherd had a bad temper and a thick staff, and no sooner did he catch\nsight of Fairyfoot sleeping, and his flock straying away, than shouting\nall the ill names he could remember, in a voice which woke up the boy,\nhe ran after him as fast as his great feet would allow; while Fairyfoot,\nseeing no other shelter from his fury, fled into the forest, and never\nstopped nor stayed till he reached the banks of a little stream.\n\n\"Thinking it might lead him to the fairies' dancing-ground, he followed\nthat stream for many an hour, but it wound away into the heart of the\nforest, flowing through dells, falling over mossy rocks and at last\nleading Fairyfoot, when he was tired and the night had fallen, to a\ngrove of great rose-trees, with the moon shining on it as bright as day,\nand thousands of nightingales singing in the branches. In the midst of\nthat grove was a clear spring, bordered with banks of lilies, and\nFairyfoot sat down by it to rest himself and listen. The singing was so\nsweet he could have listened for ever, but as he sat the nightingales\nleft off their songs, and began to talk together in the silence of the\nnight--\n\n\"'What boy is that,' said one on a branch above him, 'who sits so lonely\nby the Fair Fountain? He cannot have come from Stumpinghame with such\nsmall and handsome feet.'\n\n\"'No, I'll warrant you,' said another, 'he has come from the west\ncountry. How in the world did he find the way?'\n\n\"'How simple you are!' said a third nightingale. 'What had he to do but\nfollow the ground-ivy which grows over height and hollow, bank and bush,\nfrom the lowest gate of the king's kitchen garden to the root of this\nrose-tree? He looks a wise boy, and I hope he will keep the secret, or\nwe shall have all the west country here, dabbling in our fountain, and\nleaving us no rest to either talk or sing.'\n\n\"Fairyfoot sat in great astonishment at this discourse, but by and by,\nwhen the talk ceased and the songs began, he thought it might be as well\nfor him to follow the ground-ivy, and see the Princess Maybloom, not to\nspeak of getting rid of Rough Ruddy, the sickly sheep, and the crusty\nold shepherd. It was a long journey; but he went on, eating wild berries\nby day, sleeping in the hollows of old trees by night, and never losing\nsight of the ground-ivy, which led him over height and hollow, bank and\nbush, out of the forest, and along a noble high road, with fields and\nvillages on every side, to a great city, and a low old-fashioned gate of\nthe king's kitchen-garden, which was thought too mean for the scullions,\nand had not been opened for seven years.\n\n\"There was no use knocking--the gate was overgrown with tall weeds and\nmoss; so, being an active boy, he climbed over, and walked through the\ngarden, till a white fawn came frisking by, and he heard a soft voice\nsaying sorrowfully--\n\n\"'Come back, come back, my fawn! I cannot run and play with you now, my\nfeet have grown so heavy;' and looking round he saw the loveliest young\nprincess in the world, dressed in snow-white, and wearing a wreath of\nroses on her golden hair; but walking slowly, as the great people did in\nStumpinghame, for her feet were as large as the best of them.\n\n\"After her came six young ladies, dressed in white and walking slowly,\nfor they could not go before the princess; but Fairyfoot was amazed to\nsee that their feet were as small as his own. At once he guessed that\nthis must be the Princess Maybloom, and made her an humble bow, saying--\n\n\"'Royal princess, I have heard of your trouble because your feet have\ngrown large: in my country that's all the fashion. For seven years past\nI have been wondering what would make mine grow, to no purpose; but I\nknow of a certain fountain that will make yours smaller and finer than\never they were, if the king, your father, gives you leave to come with\nme, accompanied by two of your maids that are the least given to\ntalking, and the most prudent officer in all his household; for it would\ngrievously offend the fairies and the nightingales to make that fountain\nknown.'\n\n\"When the princess heard that, she danced for joy in spite of her large\nfeet, and she and her six maids brought Fairyfoot before the king and\nqueen, where they sat in their palace hall, with all the courtiers\npaying their morning compliments. The lords were very much astonished to\nsee a ragged, bare-footed boy brought in among them, and the ladies\nthought Princess Maybloom must have gone mad; but Fairyfoot, making an\nhumble reverence, told his message to the king and queen, and offered to\nset out with the princess that very day. At first the king would not\nbelieve that there could be any use in his offer, because so many great\nphysicians had failed to give any relief. The courtiers laughed\nFairyfoot to scorn, the pages wanted to turn him out for an impudent\nimpostor, and the prime-minister said he ought to be put to death for\nhigh-treason.\n\n\"Fairyfoot wished himself safe in the forest again, or even keeping the\nsickly sheep; but the queen, being a prudent woman, said--\n\n\"'I pray your majesty to notice what fine feet this boy has. There may\nbe some truth in his story. For the sake of our only daughter, I will\nchoose two maids who talk the least of all our train, and my\nchamberlain, who is the most discreet officer in our household. Let them\ngo with the princess: who knows but our sorrow may be lessened?'\n\n\"After some persuasion the king consented, though all his councillors\nadvised the contrary. So the two silent maids, the discreet chamberlain,\nand her fawn, which would not stay behind, were sent with Princess\nMaybloom, and they all set out after dinner. Fairyfoot had hard work\nguiding them along the track of the ground-ivy. The maids and the\nchamberlain did not like the brambles and rough roots of the\nforest--they thought it hard to eat berries and sleep in hollow trees;\nbut the princess went on with good courage, and at last they reached the\ngrove of rose-trees, and the spring bordered with lilies.\n\n\"The chamberlain washed--and though his hair had been grey, and his face\nwrinkled, the young courtiers envied his beauty for years after. The\nmaids washed--and from that day they were esteemed the fairest in all\nthe palace. Lastly, the princess washed also--it could make her no\nfairer, but the moment her feet touched the water they grew less, and\nwhen she had washed and dried them three times, they were as small and\nfinely-shaped as Fairyfoot's own. There was great joy among them, but\nthe boy said sorrowfully--\n\n\"'Oh! if there had been a well in the world to make my feet large, my\nfather and mother would not have cast me off, nor sent me to live among\nthe shepherds.'\n\n\"'Cheer up your heart,' said the Princess Maybloom; 'if you want large\nfeet, there is a well in this forest that will do it. Last summer time,\nI came with my father and his foresters to see a great cedar cut down,\nof which he meant to make a money chest. While they were busy with the\ncedar, I saw a bramble branch covered with berries. Some were ripe and\nsome were green, but it was the longest bramble that ever grew; for the\nsake of the berries, I went on and on to its root, which grew hard by a\nmuddy-looking well, with banks of dark green moss, in the deepest part\nof the forest. The day was warm and dry, and my feet were sore with the\nrough ground, so I took off my scarlet shoes, and washed my feet in the\nwell; but as I washed they grew larger every minute, and nothing could\never make them less again. I have seen the bramble this day; it is not\nfar off, and as you have shown me the Fair Fountain, I will show you the\nGrowing Well.'\n\n\"Up rose Fairyfoot and Princess Maybloom, and went together till they\nfound the bramble, and came to where its root grew, hard by the\nmuddy-looking well, with banks of dark green moss in the deepest dell of\nthe forest. Fairyfoot sat down to wash, but at that minute he heard a\nsound of music, and knew it was the fairies going to their dancing\nground.\n\n\"'If my feet grow large,' said the boy to himself, 'how shall I dance\nwith them?' So, rising quickly, he took the Princess Maybloom by the\nhand. The fawn followed them; the maids and the chamberlain followed it,\nand all followed the music through the forest. At last they came to the\nflowery green. Robin Goodfellow welcomed the company for Fairyfoot's\nsake, and gave every one a drink of the fairies' wine. So they danced\nthere from sunset till the grey morning, and nobody was tired; but\nbefore the lark sang, Robin Goodfellow took them all safe home, as he\nused to take Fairyfoot.\n\n\"There was great joy that day in the palace because Princess Maybloom's\nfeet were made small again. The king gave Fairyfoot all manner of fine\nclothes and rich jewels; and when they heard his wonderful story, he and\nthe queen asked him to live with them and be their son. In process of\ntime Fairyfoot and Princess Maybloom were married, and still live\nhappily. When they go to visit at Stumpinghame, they always wash their\nfeet in the Growing Well, lest the royal family might think them a\ndisgrace, but when they come back, they make haste to the Fair Fountain;\nand the fairies and the nightingales are great friends to them, as well\nas the maids and the chamberlain, because they have told nobody about\nit, and there is peace and quiet yet in the grove of rose-trees.\"\n\n\nHere the voice out of the cushion ceased, and two that wore crowns of\ngold, and were clothed in cloth of silver, rose up, and said--\n\n\"That's our story.\"\n\n\"Mamma,\" said Princess Greedalind, \"if we could find out that Fair\nFountain, and keep it all to ourselves!\"\n\n\"Yes, my daughter, and the Growing Well to wash our money in,\" replied\nQueen Wantall: but King Winwealth said--\n\n\"Excepting yesterday's tale, and the two that went before it, I have not\nheard such a story since my brother Wisewit went from me, and was lost\nin the forest. Silverspurs, the fourth of my pages, go and bring this\nmaiden a pearl necklace.\"\n\nSnowflower received the necklace accordingly, gave her thanks, made her\ncourtesy, and went down on her grandmother's chair to the servants'\nhall. That night they gave her a down pillow, and next day she dined on\na roast chicken. The feasting within and the clamour without went on as\nthe days before: King Winwealth fell into his accustomed low spirits\nafter supper, and sent down a message for Snowflower, which was told her\nby the master-cook. So the little girl went up in her grandmother's\nchair, with red shoes, the clocked hose, the white satin gown, and the\npearl necklace on. All the company welcomed her with joyful looks, and\nno sooner had she made her courtesy, and laid down her head,\nsaying--\"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story,\" than the clear voice\nfrom under the cushion said--\n\n\"Listen to the story of Childe Charity.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nTHE STORY OF CHILDE CHARITY\n\n\n\"Once 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. All their neighbours, being poor,\nlooked up to the family--insomuch that they imagined themselves great\npeople. The father and mother were as proud as peacocks; the daughters\nthought themselves the greatest beauties in the world, and not one of\nthe family would speak civilly to anybody they thought low.\n\n\"Now 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 disposition. It was said that the\nmore needy and despised any creature was, the more ready was she to\nbefriend it: on which account the people of the west country called her\nChilde Charity, and if she had any other name, I never heard it. Childe\nCharity was thought very mean in that proud house. Her uncle would not\nown her for his niece; her cousins would not keep her company; and her\naunt 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. All\nthe servants learned the same tune, and Childe Charity had more work\nthan rest among them. All the day she scoured pails, scrubbed dishes,\nand washed crockeryware; but every night she slept in the back garret as\nsound as a princess could in her palace chamber.\n\n\"Her 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, there were two parlours for\nthe rich, and two kitchens for the poor, which the neighbours thought\nwonderfully grand; and one day in the harvest season, when this rich\nfarmer's corn had been all cut down and housed, he condescended so far\nas to invite them to a harvest supper. The west country people came in\ntheir holiday clothes and best behaviour. Such heaps of cakes and\ncheese, such baskets of apples and barrels of ale, had never been at\nfeast before; and they were making merry in kitchen and parlour, when a\npoor old woman came to the backdoor, begging for broken victuals and a\nnight's lodging. Her clothes were coarse and ragged; her hair was scanty\nand grey; her back was bent; her teeth were gone. She had a squinting\neye, a clubbed foot, and crooked fingers. In short, she was the poorest\nand ugliest old woman that ever came begging. The first who saw her was\nthe kitchen-maid, and she ordered her to be gone for an ugly witch. The\nnext was the herd-boy, and he threw her a bone over his shoulder; but\nChilde Charity, hearing the noise, came out from her seat at the foot\nof the lowest table, and asked the old woman to take her share of the\nsupper, and sleep that night in her bed in the back garret. The old\nwoman sat down without a word of thanks. All the company laughed at\nChilde Charity for giving her bed and her supper to a beggar. Her proud\ncousins said it was just like her mean spirit, but Childe Charity did\nnot mind them. She scraped the pots for her supper that night and slept\non a sack among the lumber, while the old woman rested in her warm bed;\nand next morning, before the little girl awoke, she was up and gone,\nwithout so much as saying thank you, or good morning.\n\n[Illustration: The old woman begs at the door.]\n\n\"That 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 backdoor but the old woman, again asking for broken\nvictuals and a night's lodging. No one would listen to her or give her a\nmorsel, till Childe Charity rose from her seat at the foot of the lowest\ntable, and kindly asked her to take her supper, and sleep in her bed in\nthe back garret. Again the old woman sat down without a word. Childe\nCharity scraped the pots for her supper, and slept on the sack. In the\nmorning the old woman was gone; but for six nights after, as sure as\nthe supper was spread, there was she at the backdoor, and the little\ngirl regularly asked her in.\n\n\"Childe Charity's aunt said she would let her get enough of beggars. Her\ncousins made continual game of what they called her genteel visitor.\nSometimes the old woman said, 'Child, why don't you make this bed\nsofter? and why are your blankets so thin?' but she never gave her a\nword of thanks nor a civil good morning. At last, on the ninth night\nfrom her first coming, when Childe Charity was getting used to scrape\nthe pots and sleep on the sack, her accustomed knock came to the door,\nand there she stood with an ugly ashy-coloured dog, so stupid-looking\nand 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\n\"When 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 proud cousins wanted him drowned, and\nit was with great trouble that Childe Charity got leave to keep him in\nan old ruined cow-house. Ugly and cross as the dog was, he fawned on\nher, and the old woman had left him to her care. So the little girl gave\nhim part of all her meals, and when the hard frost came, took him\nprivately to her own back garret, because the cow-house was damp and\ncold in the long nights. The dog lay quietly on some straw in a corner.\nChilde Charity slept soundly, but every morning the servants would say\nto 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; but night after night, when any of them\nawoke in the dark and silent hour that comes before the morning, they\nsaw a light brighter and clearer than the Christmas fire, and heard\nvoices like those of lords and ladies in the back garret.\n\n\"Partly 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\ncrevice of the door. She saw the dog lying quietly in the corner, Childe\nCharity sleeping soundly in her bed, and the moon shining through the\nshutterless window; but an hour before daybreak there came a glare of\nlights, and a sound of far-off bugles. The window opened, and in marched\na troop of little men clothed in crimson and gold, and bearing every man\na torch, till the room looked bright as day. They marched up with great\nreverence to the dog, where he lay on the straw, and the most richly\nclothed among them said--\n\n\"'Royal prince, we have prepared the banquet hall. What will your\nhighness please that we do next?'\n\n\"'Ye have done well,' said the dog. 'Now prepare the feast, and see that\nall things be in our first fashion: for the princess and I mean to bring\na stranger who never feasted in our halls before.'\n\n\"'Your highness's commands shall be obeyed,' said the little man,\nmaking another reverence; and he and his company passed out of the\nwindow. By and by there was another glare of lights, and a sound like\nfar-off flutes. The window opened, and there came in a company of little\nladies clad in rose-coloured velvet, and carrying each a crystal lamp.\nThey also walked with great reverence up to the dog, and the gayest\namong them said--\n\n\"'Royal prince, we have prepared the tapestry. What will your highness\nplease that we do next?'\n\n\"'Ye have done well,' said the dog. 'Now prepare the robes, and let all\nthings be in our first fashion: for the princess and I will bring with\nus a stranger who never feasted in our halls before.'\n\n\"'Your highness's commands shall be obeyed,' said the little lady,\nmaking a low courtesy; and she and her company passed out through the\nwindow, which closed quietly behind them. The dog stretched himself out\nupon the straw, the little girl turned in her sleep, and the moon shone\nin on the back garret. The parlour-maid was so much amazed, and so\neager to tell this great story to her mistress, that she could not\nclose her eyes that night, and was up before cock-crow; but when she\ntold it, her mistress called her a silly wench to have such foolish\ndreams, and scolded her so that the parlour-maid durst not mention what\nshe had seen to the servants. Nevertheless Childe Charity's aunt thought\nthere might be something in it worth knowing; so next night, when all\nthe house were asleep, she crept out of bed, and set herself to watch at\nthe back garret door. There she saw exactly what the maid told her--the\nlittle men with the torches, and the little ladies with the crystal\nlamps, come in making great reverence to the dog, and the same words\npass, only he said to the one, 'Now prepare the presents,' and to the\nother, 'Prepare the jewels;' and when they were gone the dog stretched\nhimself on the straw, Childe Charity turned in her sleep, and the moon\nshone in on the back garret.\n\n\"The mistress could not close her eyes any more than the maid from\neagerness 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 the neighbours,\nlest they should think she had lost her senses. The mistress could say\nno more, and the day passed; but that night the master thought he would\nlike to see what went on in the back garret: so when all the house were\nasleep he slipped out of bed, and set himself to watch at the crevice in\nthe door. The same thing happened again that the maid and the mistress\nsaw: the little men in crimson with their torches, and the little ladies\nin rose-coloured velvet with their lamps, came in at the window, and\nmade an humble reverence to the ugly dog, the one saying, 'Royal prince,\nwe have prepared the presents,' and the other, 'Royal prince, we have\nprepared the jewels;' and the dog said to them all, 'Ye have done well.\nTo-morrow come and meet me and the princess with horses and chariots,\nand let all things be in our first fashion: for we will bring a stranger\nfrom this house who has never travelled with us, nor feasted in our\nhalls before.'\n\n\"The little men and the little ladies said, 'Your highness's commands\nshall be obeyed.' When they had gone out through the window, the ugly\ndog stretched himself out on the straw, Childe Charity turned in her\nsleep, and the moon shone in on the back garret.\n\n\"The master could not close his eyes any more than the maid or the\nmistress, for thinking of this strange sight. He remembered to have\nheard his grandfather say, that somewhere near his meadows there lay a\npath leading to the fairies' country, and the haymakers used to see it\nshining through the grey summer morning as the fairy bands went home.\nNobody had heard or seen the like for many years; but the master\nconcluded that the doings in his back garret must be a fairy business,\nand the ugly dog a person of great account. His chief wonder was,\nhowever, what visitor the fairies intended to take from his house; and\nafter thinking the matter over he was sure it must be one of his\ndaughters--they were so handsome, and had such fine clothes.\n\n\"Accordingly, Childe Charity's rich uncle made it his first business\nthat morning to get ready a breakfast of roast mutton for the ugly dog,\nand carry it to him in the old cow-house; but not a morsel would the dog\ntaste. On the contrary, he snarled at the master, and would have bitten\nhim if he had not run away with his mutton.\n\n\"'The fairies have strange ways,' said the master to himself; but he\ncalled his daughters privately, bidding them dress themselves in their\nbest, for he could not say which of them might be called into great\ncompany before nightfall. Childe Charity's proud cousins, hearing this,\nput on the richest of their silks and laces, and strutted like peacocks\nfrom kitchen to parlour all day, waiting for the call their father spoke\nof, while the little girl scoured and scrubbed in the dairy. They were\nin very bad humour when night fell, and nobody had come; but just as the\nfamily were sitting down to supper the ugly dog began to bark, and the\nold woman's knock was heard at the backdoor. Childe Charity opened it,\nand was going to offer her bed and supper as usual, when the old woman\nsaid--\n\n\"'This is the shortest day in all the year, and I am going home to hold\na feast after my travels. I see you have taken good care of my dog, and\nnow if you will come with me to my house, he and I will do our best to\nentertain you. Here is our company.'\n\n\"As 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. The proud cousins, in all their finery, had by\nthis time come to the door, but nobody wanted them; and no sooner was\nthe old woman and her dog within the chariot than a marvellous change\npassed over them, for the ugly old woman turned at once to a beautiful\nyoung princess, with long yellow curls and a robe of green and gold,\nwhile the ugly dog at her side started up a fair young prince, with\nnut-brown hair and a robe of purple and silver.\n\n\"'We are,' said they, as the chariots drove on, and the little girl sat\nastonished, 'a prince and princess of Fairyland, and there was a wager\nbetween us whether or not there were good people still to be found in\nthese false and greedy times. One said Yes, and the other said No; and I\nhave lost,' said the prince, 'and must pay the feast and presents.'\n\n\"Childe Charity never heard any more of that story. Some of the farmer's\nhousehold, who were looking after them through the moonlight night, said\nthe chariots had gone one way across the meadows, some said they had\ngone another, and till this day they cannot agree upon the direction.\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 velvet to wear, and slept in a chamber\ninlaid with ivory. When the feast was done, the prince and princess gave\nher such heaps of gold and jewels that she could not carry them, but\nthey gave her a chariot to go home in, drawn by six white horses; and on\nthe seventh night, which happened to be Christmas time, when the\nfarmer's family had settled in their own minds that she would never come\nback, and were sitting down to supper, they heard the sound of her\ncoachman's bugle, and saw her alight with all the jewels and gold at the\nvery backdoor where she had brought in the ugly old woman. The fairy\nchariot drove away, and never came back to that farmhouse after. But\nChilde Charity scrubbed and scoured no more, for she grew a great lady,\neven in the eyes of her proud cousins.\"\n\n\nHere the voice out of the cushion ceased, and one, with a fair face and\na robe of pale green velvet, rose from among the company, and said--\n\n\"That's my story.\"\n\n\"Mamma,\" said Princess Greedalind, \"if we had some of those fine\nchariots!\"\n\n\"Yes, my daughter,\" answered Queen Wantall, \"and the gold and jewels\ntoo!\" But King Winwealth said--\n\n\"Excepting yesterday's story, and the three that went before it, I have\nnot heard such a tale since my brother Wisewit went from me, and was\nlost in the forest. Highjinks, the third of my pages, go and bring this\nmaiden a crimson velvet hat.\"\n\nSnowflower took the hat and thanked the king, made her courtesy, and\nwent down on her grandmother's chair to the housekeeper's parlour. Her\nblanket was covered with a patchwork quilt that night; next day she had\nroast turkey and meat for dinner. But the feast went on in the palace\nhall with the usual spites and envies; the clamour and complaints at the\ngate were still heard above all the music; and King Winwealth fell into\nhis wonted low spirits as soon as the supper was over. As usual, a\nmessage came down from the banquet hall, and the chief-butler told\nSnowflower that she and her chair were wanted to tell King Winwealth a\nstory. So she went up with all the presents on, even to the crimson hat,\nmade her courtesy to the good company, and had scarcely said, \"Chair of\nmy grandmother, tell me a story,\" when the voice from under the cushion\nsaid--\n\n\"Listen to the story of Sour and Civil.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nSOUR AND CIVIL\n\n\n\"Once upon a time there stood upon the sea-coast of the west country a\ncertain hamlet 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 cormorants, and long tangled seaweeds cast up by the\ntide that came and went night and day, summer and winter. There was no\nharbour nor port on all that shore. Ships passed by at a distance, with\ntheir white sails set, and on the land-side there lay wide grassy downs,\nwhere peasants lived and shepherds fed their flocks. The fishermen\nthought themselves as well off as any people in that country. Their\nfamilies never wanted for plenty of herrings and mackerel; and what they\nhad to spare the landsmen bought from them at certain village markets on\nthe downs, giving them in exchange butter, cheese, and corn.\n\n\"The 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. There was no relationship between them that ever I heard of; but\nthey had only one boat, and always fished together, though their names\nexpressed the difference of their humours--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\n\"Nevertheless they agreed wonderfully, 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 fashion--for\nthe saying held good, 'Like mother, like son.' Dame Civil thought the\nwhole world didn't hold a better than her son; and her boy was the only\ncreature at whom Dame Sour didn't scold and frown. The hamlet was\ndivided in opinion concerning the young fishermen. Some thought Civil\nthe best; some said, without Sour he would catch nothing. So things went\non, till one day about the fall of winter, when mists were gathering\ndarkly on sea and sky, and the air was chill and frosty, all the boatmen\nof the hamlet went out to fish, and so did Sour and Civil.\n\n\"That day they had not their usual luck. Cast their net where they\nwould, not a single fish came in. Their neighbours caught boatsful, 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 damage the\nhigh repute they had gained in the village. Besides, the sea was calm\nand the evening fair, and, as a last attempt, they steered still further\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. Nobody believed that rumour now, but the villagers did\nnot like to fish there. The water was said to be deep beyond measure,\nand sudden squalls were apt to trouble it; but Sour and Civil were right\nglad to see by the moving of their lines that there was something in\ntheir net, and gladder still when they found it so heavy that all their\nstrength was required to draw it up. Scarcely had they landed it on the\nMerman's Seat, when their joy was changed to disappointment, for besides\na few starved mackerel, the net contained nothing but a monstrous ugly\nfish as long as Civil (who was taller than Sour), with a huge snout, a\nlong beard, and a skin covered with prickles.\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\n\"Sour and Civil were terribly astonished to hear the fish speak. The\nfirst could not think of a cross word to say, but Civil made answer in\nhis accustomed manner.\n\n\"'Indeed, my lord, we beg your pardon, but our boat is too light to\ncarry such 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 my quality in this dress.\nHowever, help me off the rock, for I must go home; and for your civility\nI will give you my daughter in marriage, if you will come and see me\nthis day twelvemonth.'\n\n\"Civil helped the great fish off the rock as respectfully as his fear\nwould allow him. Sour was so terrified at the whole transaction, 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\n\"Old 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 good\njoke; and Civil and his mother were never known to be angry but on that\noccasion. Dame Civil advised her son never to fish with Sour again; and\nas the boat happened to be his, Civil got an old skiff which one of the\nfishermen was going to break up for firewood, and cobbled it up for\nhimself.\n\n\"In that skiff he went to sea alone all the winter, and all the summer;\nbut though Civil was brave and skilful, he could catch little, because\nhis boat 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\n\"Poor Civil's heart was getting low as the summer wore away. The fish\nhad grown scarce on that coast, and the fishermen had to steer further\nout to sea. One evening when he had toiled all day and caught nothing,\nCivil thought he would go further too, and try his fortune beside the\nMerman's rock. The sea was calm, and the evening fair; Civil did not\nremember that it was the very day on which his troubles began by the\ngreat fish talking to him twelve months before. As he neared the rock\nthe sun was setting, and much astonished was the fisherman to see upon\nit three fair ladies, with sea-green gowns and strings of great pearls\nwound round their long fair hair; two of them were waving their hands to\nhim. They were the tallest and stateliest ladies he had ever seen; but\nCivil could perceive as he came nearer that there was no colour in their\ncheeks, that their hair had a strange bluish shade, like that of deep\nsea-water, and there was a fiery light in their eyes that frightened\nhim. The third, who was less of stature, did not notice him at all, but\nkept her eyes fixed on the setting sun. Though her look was mournful,\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[Illustration: Civil and the three sea maidens.]\n\n\"'Welcome! welcome! noble fisherman!' cried the two ladies. 'Our father\nhas sent us for you to visit him,' and with one bound they leaped into\nhis boat, bringing with them the smaller lady, who said--\n\n\"'Oh! bright sun and brave sky that I see so seldom!' But Civil heard no\nmore, for his boat went down miles deep in the sea, and he thought\nhimself drowning; but one lady had caught him by the right arm, and the\nother by the left, and pulled him into the mouth of a rocky cave, where\nthere was no water. On they went, still down and down, as if on a steep\nhill-side. The cave was very long, but it grew wider as they came to the\nbottom. Then Civil saw a faint light, and walked out with his fair\ncompany into the country of the sea-people. In that land there grew\nneither grass nor flowers, bushes nor trees, but the ground was covered\nwith bright-coloured shells and pebbles. There were hills of marble, and\nrocks of spar; and over all 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 grottoes in the sparry rocks, and\nhalls in the marble hills, where lived the sea-people--with whom, as old\nstories say, fishermen and mariners used to meet on lonely capes and\nheadlands in the simple times of the world.\n\n\"Forth they came in all directions to see the stranger. Mermen with long\nwhite beards, and mermaids such as walk with the fishermen, all clad in\nsea-green, and decorated with strings of pearls; but every one with the\nsame colourless face, and the same wild light in their eyes. The\nmermaids led Civil up one of the marble hills to a great cavern with\nhalls and chambers like a palace. Their floors were of alabaster, their\nwalls of porphyry, and their ceilings 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 quantity 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. Before him the mermaids brought Civil, saying--\n\n\"'Father, here is our guest.'\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\n\"Civil had never felt himself so thoroughly frightened in all his life.\nHow was he to get home to his mother? and what would the old dame think\nwhen the 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 his invitation, took\nthe seat assigned him on his right hand. Civil was hungry with the long\nday at sea, but there was no want of fare on that table: meats and\nwines, such as he had never tasted, were set before him in the richest\nof golden dishes: but, hungry as he was, the fisherman perceived that\neverything there had the taste and smell of the sea.\n\n\"If 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 stealthy, warning way when nobody perceived her. Civil soon\nfinished his share of the feast, and then the merman showed him all the\nsplendours of his cavern. The halls were full of company, some feasting,\nsome dancing, and some playing all manner of games, and in every hall\nwas the same abundance of gold and silver vessels; but Civil was most\nastonished when the merman brought him to a marble chamber full of heaps\nof precious stones. There were diamonds there whose value the fisherman\nknew not--pearls larger than ever a diver had gathered--emeralds,\nsapphires, and rubies, that would have made the jewellers of the world\nwonder; the merman then said--\n\n\"'This is my eldest daughter's dowry.'\n\n\"'Good luck attend her!' said Civil. 'It is the dowry of a queen.' But\nthe merman led him on to another chamber: it was filled with heaps of\ngold coin, which seemed gathered from all times and nations. The images\nand inscriptions of all the kings that ever reigned were there; and the\nmerman said:\n\n\"'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\nyour daughters are too rich and far too noble for me; therefore I\nchoose the third. Her poverty will best become my estate of a poor\nfisherman.'\n\n\"'If you choose her,' said the merman, 'you must wait long for a\nwedding. I cannot allow an inferior girl 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\n\"There was no more attention for the fisherman, but everybody watched\nhim well. 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 splendours. One thing, however, was strange--there was no end to\nthe fun and the feasting; nobody seemed tired, and nobody thought of\nsleep. When Civil's very eyes closed with weariness, and he slept on one\nof the marble 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\n\"Civil 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 fashion,' said Civil; 'but all folks have their way.\nFair lady, as you and I are to be good friends, tell me, whence come all\nthe wines and meats, and gold and silver vessels, seeing there are\nneither cornfields nor flocks here, workmen nor artificers?'\n\n\"'The sea-people are heirs of the sea,' replied the maiden; 'to them\ncome all the stores and riches that are lost in it. I know not the ways\nby which 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.\nGood fisherman, if by chance you gain his favour, and ever open that\ngate, let me bear you company; for I was born where the sun shines and\nthe grass grows, though my country and my parents are unknown to me. All\nI remember is sailing in a great ship, when a storm arose, and it was\nwrecked, and not one soul escaped drowning but me. I was then a little\nchild, and a brave sailor had bound me to a floating plank before he was\nwashed away. Here the sea-people came round me like great fishes, and I\nwent down with them to this rich and weary country. Sometimes, as a\ngreat favour, they take me up with them to see the sun; but that is\nseldom, for they never like to part with one who has seen their country;\nand, fisherman, if you ever leave them, remember to take nothing with\nyou that belongs to them, for if it were but a shell or a pebble, that\nwill 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 accept\nyour friendship; but my fear is that we shall never see the sunshine\nagain.'\n\n\"'Fair speeches brought me here,' said Civil, 'and fair speeches may\nhelp me back; but be sure I will not go without you.'\"\n\n\"This 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 unfinished feast was\nspread in every hall; the tables were covered with most costly vessels;\nand heaps of jewels lay on the floors of unlocked chambers. But for the\nlady's warning, Civil would fain have put away some of them for his\nmother.\n\n\"The 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 down\nto the sea and watched till morning. Then the fishermen steered out\nagain, and Sour having found his skiff floating about, brought it home,\nsaying, the foolish young man was doubtless lost; but what better could\nbe expected when he had no discreet person to take care of him?\n\n\"This grieved 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 accustomed herself to go down at sunset and\nsit beside the sea. That winter happened to be mild on the coast of the\nwest country, and one evening when the Christmas time was near, and the\nrest of the village preparing to make merry, Dame Civil sat, as usual,\non the sands. The tide was ebbing and the sun going down, when from the\neastward came a lady clad in black, mounted on a black palfrey, and\nfollowed by a squire in the same sad clothing; as the lady came near,\nshe said--\n\n\"'Woe is me for my daughter, and for all that have lost by the sea!'\n\n\"'You say well, noble lady,' said Dame Civil. 'Woe is me also for my\nson, for I have none beside him.'\n\n\"When the lady heard that, she alighted from her palfrey, and sat down\nby the fisherman's mother, saying--\n\n\"'Listen to my story. I was the widow of a great lord in the heart of\nthe east country. He left me a fair castle, and an only daughter, who\nwas the joy of my heart. Her name was Faith Feignless; but, while she\nwas yet a child, a great fortune-teller told me that my daughter would\nmarry a fisherman. I thought this would be a great disgrace to my noble\nfamily, and, therefore, sent my daughter with her nurse in a good ship,\nbound for a certain city where my relations live, intending to follow\nmyself as soon as I could get my lands and castles sold. But the ship\nwas wrecked, and my daughter drowned; and I have wandered over the world\nwith my good Squire Trusty, mourning on every shore with those who have\nlost friends by the sea. Some with whom I have mourned grew to forget\ntheir sorrow, and would lament with me no more; others being sour and\nselfish, mocked me, saying, my grief was nothing to them: but you have\ngood manners, and I will remain with you, however humble be your\ndwelling. My squire carries gold enough to pay all our charges.' So the\nmourning lady and her good Squire Trusty went home with Dame Civil, and\nshe was no longer lonely in her sorrow, for when the dame said--\n\n\"'Oh! if my son were alive, I should never let him go to sea in a\ncobbled skiff!' 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\n\"The 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 continual feasts and dances. Like one that\nhad forgotten all that was past, the merman again showed Civil the\nchamber of gold and the chamber 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. Yet as he looked at the\nglittering heap, Civil could not help recollecting the poverty of the\nwest country, and the thought slipped out--\n\n\"'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\n\"The merman was greatly delighted with these speeches--he thought there\nwas a probability of getting many land-people down, and by and by said\nto Civil--\n\n\"'Suppose you took up a few jewels, and went up to tell your poor\nneighbours how welcome we might make them?'\n\n\"The prospect of getting back to his country rejoiced Civil's heart, but\nhe had promised not to go without the lady, and therefore, answered\nprudently what was indeed true--\n\n\"'Many thanks, my lord, for choosing such a humble man as I am to bear\nyour message; but the people of the west country never believe anything\nwithout two witnesses at the least; yet if the poor maid whom I have\nchosen could be permitted to accompany me, I think they would believe us\nboth.'\n\n\"The 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 petitioned their lord to send up Civil and the poor maid by way of\nletting them know.\n\n\"As it seemed for the public good, the great merman consented; but,\nbeing determined to have them back, he gathered out of his treasure\nchamber some of the largest pearls and diamonds that lay convenient, and\nsaid--\n\n\"'Take these as a present from me, to let the west country people see\nwhat I can do for my visitors.'\n\n\"Civil and the lady took the presents, saying--\n\n\"'Oh, my lord, you are too generous. We want nothing but the pleasure of\ntelling of your marvellous riches 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\n\"Civil and the lady followed the mermaid through a winding gallery,\nwhich led from the chief banquet hall far into the marble hill. All was\ndark, and they had neither lamp nor torch, but at the end of the\ngallery they came to a great stone gate, which creaked like thunder on\nits hinges. Beyond that there was a narrow cave, sloping up and up like\na steep hill-side. Civil and the lady thought they would never reach the\ntop; but at last they saw a gleam of daylight, then a strip of blue sky,\nand the mermaid bade them stoop and creep through what seemed a crevice\nin the ground, and both stood up on the broad sea-beach as the day was\nbreaking and the 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 water-mark, when the tide\nis going out at morning or evening. Call thrice on the sea-people, and\nwe will show them the way.'\n\n\"Before 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 sea-shells.\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;' and taking the bag of pearls and diamonds, she flung it as far\nas she could into the sea.\n\n\"Civil never was so unwilling to part with anything as that bag, but he\nthought it better to follow a good example, and tossed his into the sea\nalso. They thought they heard a long moan come up from the waters; but\nCivil 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\n\"The whole village were woke up 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 assembled to hear their story. When\nit was told, everybody praised Civil for the prudence he had shown in\nhis difficulties, except Sour and his mother: they did nothing but rail\nupon him for losing such great chances of making himself and the whole\ncountry rich. At last, when they heard over and over again of the\nmerman's treasures, neither mother nor son would consent to stay any\nlonger in the west country, and as nobody persuaded them, and they would\nnot take Civil's direction, Sour got out his boat and steered away with\nhis mother toward the Merman's Rock. From that voyage they never came\nback to the hamlet. Some say they went down and lived among the\nsea-people; others say--I know not how they learned it--that Sour and\nhis mother grumbled and growled so much that even the sea-people grew\nweary of them, and turned them and their boat out on the open sea. What\npart of the world they chose to land on nobody is certain: by all\naccounts they have been seen everywhere, and I should not be surprised\nif they were in this good company. As for Civil, he married Faith\nFeignless, and became a great lord.\"\n\n\nHere the voice ceased, and two that were clad in sea-green silk, with\ncoronets of pearls, rose up, and said--\n\n\"That's our story.\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma, if we could get down to that country!\" said Princess\nGreedalind.\n\n\"And bring all the treasures back with us!\" answered Queen Wantall.\n\n\"Except the tale of yesterday, and the four that went before it, I have\nnot heard such a story since my brother Wisewit went from me, and was\nlost in the forest,\" said King Winwealth. \"Readyrein, the second of my\npages, rise, and bring this maiden a purple velvet mantle.\"\n\nThe mantle was brought, and Snowflower having thanked the king, went\ndown upon her grandmother's chair; but that night the little girl went\nno further than the lowest banquet hall, where she was bidden to stay\nand share the feast, and sleep hard by in a wainscot chamber. That she\nwas well entertained there is no doubt, for King Winwealth had been\nheard to say that it was not clear to him how he could have got through\nthe seven days' feast without her grandmother's chair and its stories;\nbut next day being the last of the seven, things were gayer than ever in\nthe palace. The music had never been so merry, the dishes so rich, or\nthe wines so rare; neither had the clamours at the gate ever been so\nloud, nor the disputes and envies so many in the halls.\n\nPerhaps it was these doings that brought the low spirits earlier than\nusual on King Winwealth, for after dinner his majesty fell into them so\ndeeply that a message came down from the highest banquet hall, and the\ncupbearer told Snowflower to go up with her chair, for King Winwealth\nwished to hear another story.\n\nNow the little girl put on all her finery, from the pink shoes to the\npurple mantle, and went up with her chair, looking so like a princess\nthat the whole company rose to welcome her. But having made her\ncourtesy, and laid down her head, saying, \"Chair of my grandmother, tell\nme a story,\" the clear voice from under the cushion answered--\n\n\"Listen to the Story of Merrymind.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nTHE STORY OF MERRYMIND\n\n\"Once upon a time there lived in the north country a certain poor man\nand his wife, who had two corn-fields, three cows, five sheep, and\nthirteen children. Twelve of these children were called by names common\nin the north country--Hardhead, Stiffneck, Tightfingers, and the like;\nbut when the thirteenth came to be named, either the poor man and his\nwife could remember no other name, or something in the child's look made\nthem think it proper, for they called him Merrymind, which the\nneighbours thought a strange name, and very much above their station:\nhowever, as they showed no other signs of pride, the neighbours let that\npass. Their thirteen children grew taller and stronger every year, and\nthey had hard work to keep them in bread; but when the youngest was old\nenough to look after his father's sheep, there happened the great fair,\nto which everybody in the north country went, because it came only once\nin seven years, and was held on midsummer-day,--not in any town or\nvillage, but on a green plain, lying between a broad river and a high\nhill, where it was said the fairies used to dance in old and merry\ntimes.\n\n\"Merchants and dealers of all sorts crowded to that fair from far and\nnear. There was nothing known in the north country that could not be\nbought or sold in it, and neither old nor young were willing to go home\nwithout a fairing. The poor man who owned this large family could afford\nthem little to spend in such ways; but as the fair happened only once\nin seven years, he would not show a poor spirit. Therefore, calling them\nabout him, he opened the leathern bag in which his savings were stored,\nand gave every one of the thirteen a silver penny.\n\n\"The boys and girls had never before owned so much pocket-money; and,\nwondering what they should buy, they dressed themselves in their holiday\nclothes, and set out with their father and mother to the fair. When they\ncame near the ground that midsummer morning, the stalls, heaped up with\nall manner of merchandise, from gingerbread upwards, the tents for fun\nand feasting, the puppet-shows, the rope-dancers, and the crowd of\nneighbours and strangers, all in their best attire, made those simple\npeople think their north country fair the finest sight in the world. The\nday wore away in seeing wonders, and in chatting with old friends. It\nwas surprising how far silver pennies went in those days; but before\nevening twelve of the thirteen had got fairly rid of their money. One\nbought a pair of brass buckles, another a crimson riband, a third green\ngarters; the father bought a tobacco-pipe, the mother a horn\nsnuffbox--in short, all had provided themselves with fairings except\nMerrymind.\n\n\"The cause of the silver penny remaining in his pocket was that he had\nset his heart upon a fiddle; and fiddles enough there were in the\nfair--small and large, plain and painted: he looked at and priced the\nmost of them, but there was not one that came within the compass of a\nsilver penny. His father and mother warned him to make haste with his\npurchase, for they must all go home at sunset, because the way was long.\n\n[Illustration: Merrymind at the fair.]\n\n\"The sun was getting low and red upon the hill; the fair was growing\nthin, for many dealers had packed up their stalls and departed; but\nthere was a mossy hollow in the great hill-side, to which the outskirts\nof the fair had reached, and Merrymind thought he would see what might\nbe there. The first thing was a stall of fiddles, kept by a young\nmerchant from a far country, who had many customers, his goods being\nfine and new; but hard by sat a little grey-haired man, at whom\neverybody had laughed that day, because he had nothing on his stall but\none old dingy fiddle, and all its strings were broken. Nevertheless, the\nlittle man sat as stately, and cried, 'Fiddles to sell!' as if he had\nthe best stall in the fair.\n\n\"'Buy a fiddle, my young master?' he said, as Merrymind came forward.\n'You shall have it cheap: I ask but a silver penny for it; and if the\nstrings were mended, its like would not be in the north country.'\n\n\"Merrymind thought this a great bargain. He was a handy boy, and could\nmend the strings while watching his father's sheep. So down went the\nsilver penny on the little man's stall, and up went the fiddle under\nMerrymind's arm.\n\n\"'Now, my young master,' said the little man, 'you see that we merchants\nhave a deal to look after, and if you help me to bundle up my stall, I\nwill tell you a wonderful piece of news about that fiddle.'\n\n\"Merrymind was good-natured and fond of news, so he helped him to tie up\nthe loose boards and sticks that composed his stall with an old rope,\nand when they were hoisted on his back like a fagot, the little man\nsaid--\n\n\"'About that fiddle, my young master: it is certain the strings can\nnever be mended, nor made new, except by threads from the\nnight-spinners, which, if you get, it will be a good pennyworth;' and up\nthe hill he ran like a greyhound.\n\n\"Merrymind thought that was queer news, but being given to hope the\nbest, he believed the little man was only jesting, and made haste to\njoin the rest of the family, who were soon on their way home. When they\ngot there every one showed his bargain, and Merrymind showed his fiddle;\nbut his brothers and sisters laughed at him for buying such a thing when\nhe had never learned to play. His sisters asked him what music he could\nbring out of broken strings; and his father said--\n\n\"'Thou hast shown little prudence in laying out thy first penny, from\nwhich token I fear thou wilt never have many to lay out.'\n\n\"In short, everybody threw scorn on Merrymind's bargain except his\nmother. She, good woman, said if he laid out one penny ill, he might lay\nout the next better; and who knew but his fiddle would be of use some\nday? To make her words good, Merrymind fell to repairing the strings--he\nspent all his time, both night and day, upon them; but, true to the\nlittle man's parting words, no mending would stand, and no string would\nhold on that fiddle. Merrymind tried everything, and wearied himself to\nno purpose. At last he thought of inquiring after people who spun at\nnight; and this seemed such a good joke to the north country people,\nthat they wanted no other till the next fair.\n\n\"In the meantime Merrymind lost credit at home and abroad. Everybody\nbelieved in his father's prophecy; his brothers and sisters valued him\nno more than a herd-boy; the neighbours thought he must turn out a\nscapegrace. Still the boy would not part with his fiddle. It was his\nsilver pennyworth, and he had a strong hope of mending the strings for\nall that had come and gone; but since nobody at home cared for him\nexcept his mother, and as she had twelve other children, he resolved to\nleave the scorn behind him, and go to seek his fortune.\n\n\"The family were not very sorry to hear of that intention, being in a\nmanner ashamed of him; besides, they could spare one out of thirteen.\nHis father gave him a barley cake, and his mother her blessing. All his\nbrothers and sisters wished him well. Most of the neighbours hoped that\nno harm would happen to him; and Merrymind set out one summer morning\nwith the broken-stringed fiddle under his arm.\n\n\"There were no highways then in the north country--people took whatever\npath pleased them best; so Merrymind went over the fair ground and up\nthe hill, hoping to meet the little man, and learn something of the\nnight-spinners. The hill was covered with heather to the top, and he\nwent up without meeting any one. On the other side it was steep and\nrocky, and after a hard scramble down, he came to a narrow glen all\novergrown with wild furze and brambles. Merrymind had never met with\nbriars so sharp, but he was not the boy to turn back readily, and\npressed on in spite of torn clothes and scratched hands, till he came to\nthe end of the glen, where two paths met: one of them wound through a\npine-wood, he knew not how far, but it seemed green and pleasant. The\nother was a rough, stony way leading to a wide valley surrounded by high\nhills, and overhung by a dull, thick mist, though it was yet early in\nthe summer evening.\n\n\"Merrymind was weary with his long journey, and stood thinking of what\npath to choose, when, by the way of the valley, there came an old man as\ntall and large as any three men of the north country. His white hair and\nbeard hung like tangled flax about him; his clothes were made of\nsackcloth; and on his back he carried a heavy burden of dust heaped high\nin a great pannier.\n\n\"'Listen to me, you lazy vagabond!' he said, coming near to Merrymind:\n'if you take the way through the wood I know not what will happen to\nyou; but if you choose this path you must help me with my pannier, and I\ncan tell you it's no trifle.'\n\n\"'Well, father,' said Merrymind, 'you seem tired, and I am younger than\nyou, though not quite so tall; so, if you please, I will choose this\nway, and help you along with the pannier.'\n\n\"Scarce had he spoken when the huge man caught hold of him, firmly bound\none side of the pannier to his shoulders with the same strong rope that\nfastened it on his own back, and never ceased scolding and calling him\nnames as they marched over the stony ground together. It was a rough way\nand a heavy burden, and Merrymind wished himself a thousand times out of\nthe old man's company, but there was no getting off; and at length, in\nhopes of beguiling the way, and putting him in better humour, he began\nto sing an old rhyme which his mother had taught him. By this time they\nhad entered the valley, and the night had fallen very dark and cold. The\nold man ceased scolding, and by a feeble glimmer of the moonlight, which\nnow began to shine, Merrymind saw that they were close by a deserted\ncottage, for its door stood open to the night winds. Here the old man\npaused, and loosed the rope from his own and Merrymind's shoulders.\n\n\"'For seven times seven years,' he said, 'have I carried this pannier,\nand no one ever sang while helping me before. Night releases all men, so\nI release you. Where will you sleep--by my kitchen fire, or in that cold\ncottage?'\n\n\"Merrymind thought he had got quite enough of the old man's society,\nand therefore answered--\n\n\"'The cottage, good father, if you please.'\n\n\"'A sound sleep to you, then!' said the old man, and he went off with\nhis pannier.\n\n\"Merrymind stepped into the deserted cottage. The moon was shining\nthrough door and window, for the mist was gone, and the night looked\nclear as day; but in all the valley he could hear no sound, nor was\nthere any trace of inhabitants in the cottage. The hearth looked as if\nthere had not been a fire there for years. A single article of furniture\nwas not to be seen; but Merrymind was sore weary, and, laying himself\ndown in a corner, with his fiddle close by, he fell fast asleep.\n\n\"The floor was hard, and his clothes were thin, but all through his\nsleep there came a sweet sound of singing voices and spinning-wheels,\nand Merrymind thought he must have been dreaming when he opened his eyes\nnext morning on the bare and solitary house. The beautiful night was\ngone, and the heavy mist had come back. There was no blue sky, no bright\nsun to be seen. The light was cold and grey, like that of mid-winter;\nbut Merrymind ate the half of his barley cake, drank from a stream hard\nby, and went out to see the valley.\n\n\"It was full of inhabitants, and they were all busy in houses, in\nfields, in mills, and in forges. The men hammered and delved; the women\nscrubbed and scoured; the very children were hard at work: but Merrymind\ncould hear neither talk nor laughter among them. Every face looked\ncareworn and cheerless, and every word was something about work or gain.\n\n\"Merrymind thought this unreasonable, for everybody there appeared rich.\nThe women scrubbed in silk, the men delved in scarlet. Crimson curtains,\nmarble floors, and shelves of silver tankards were to be seen in every\nhouse; but their owners took neither ease nor pleasure in them, and\nevery one laboured as it were for life.\n\n\"The birds of that valley did not sing--they were too busy pecking and\nbuilding. The cats did not lie by the fire--they were all on the watch\nfor mice. The dogs went out after hares on their own account. The cattle\nand sheep grazed as if they were never to get another mouthful; and the\nherdsmen were all splitting wood or making baskets.\n\n\"In the midst of the valley there stood a stately castle, but instead of\npark and gardens, brew-houses and washing-greens lay round it. The gates\nstood open, and Merrymind ventured in. The courtyard was full of\ncoopers. They were churning in the banquet hall. They were making cheese\non the dais, and spinning and weaving in all its principal chambers. In\nthe highest tower of that busy castle, at a window from which she could\nsee the whole valley, there sat a noble lady. Her dress was rich, but of\na dingy drab colour. Her hair was iron-grey; her look was sour and\ngloomy. Round her sat twelve maidens of the same aspect, spinning on\nancient distaffs, and the lady spun as hard as they, but all the yarn\nthey made was jet black.\n\n\"No one in or out of the castle would reply to Merrymind's salutations,\nnor answer him any questions. The rich men pulled out their purses,\nsaying, 'Come and work for wages!' The poor men said, 'We have no time\nto talk!' A cripple by the wayside wouldn't answer him, he was so busy\nbegging; and a child by a cottage-door said it must go to work. All day\nMerrymind wandered about With his broken-stringed fiddle, and all day he\nsaw the great old man marching round and round the valley with his heavy\nburden of dust.\n\n\"'It is the dreariest valley that ever I beheld!' he said to himself.\n'And no place to mend my fiddle in; but one would not like to go away\nwithout knowing what has come over the people, or if they have always\nworked so hard and heavily.'\n\n\"By this time the night again came on: he knew it by the clearing mist\nand the rising moon. The people began to hurry home in all directions.\nSilence came over house and field; and near the deserted cottage\nMerrymind met the old man.\n\n\"'Good father,' he said, 'I pray you tell me what sport or pastime have\nthe people of this valley?'\n\n\"'Sport and pastime!' cried the old man, in great wrath. 'Where did you\nhear of the like? We work by day and sleep by night. There is no sport\nin Dame Dreary's land!' and, with a hearty scolding for his idleness and\nlevity, he left Merrymind to sleep once more in the cottage.\n\n\"That night the boy did not sleep so sound: though too drowsy to open\nhis eyes, he was sure there had been singing and spinning near him all\nnight; and, resolving to find out what this meant before he left the\nvalley, Merrymind ate the other half of his barley cake, drank again\nfrom the stream, and went out to see the country.\n\n\"The same heavy mist shut out sun and sky; the same hard work went\nforward wherever he turned his eyes; and the great old man with the\ndust-pannier strode on his accustomed round. Merrymind could find no one\nto answer a single question; rich and poor wanted him to work still more\nearnestly than the day before; and fearing that some of them might press\nhim into service, he wandered away to the furthest end of the valley.\n\n\"There, there was no work, for the land lay bare and lonely, and was\nbounded by grey crags, as high and steep as any castle-wall. There was\nno passage or outlet, but through a great iron gate secured with a heavy\npadlock: close by it stood a white tent, and in the door a tall soldier,\nwith one arm, stood smoking a long pipe. He was the first idle man\nMerrymind had seen in the valley, and his face looked to him like that\nof a friend; so coming up with his best bow, the boy said--\n\n\"'Honourable master soldier, please to tell me what country is this, and\nwhy do the people work so hard?'\n\n\"'Are you a stranger in this place, that you ask such questions?'\nanswered the soldier.\n\n\"'Yes,' said Merrymind; 'I came but the evening before yesterday.'\n\n\"'Then I am sorry for you, for here you must remain. My orders are to\nlet everybody in and nobody out; and the giant with the dust-pannier\nguards the other entrance night and day,' said the soldier.\n\n\"'That is bad news,' said Merrymind; 'but since I am here, please to\ntell me why were such laws made, and what is the story of this valley?'\n\n\"'Hold my pipe, and I will tell you,' said the soldier, 'for nobody else\nwill take the time. This valley belongs to the lady of yonder castle,\nwhom, for seven times seven years, men have called Dame Dreary. She had\nanother name in her youth--they called her Lady Littlecare; and then the\nvalley was the fairest spot in all the north country. The sun shone\nbrightest there; the summers lingered longest. Fairies danced on the\nhill-tops; singing-birds sat on all the trees. Strongarm, the last of\nthe giants, kept the pine-forest, and hewed yule logs out of it, when he\nwas not sleeping in the sun. Two fair maidens, clothed in white, with\nsilver wheels on their shoulders, came by night, and spun golden\nthreads by the hearth of every cottage. The people wore homespun, and\ndrank out of horn; but they had merry times. There were May-games,\nharvest-homes and Christmas cheer among them. Shepherds piped on the\nhill-sides, reapers sang in the fields, and laughter came with the red\nfirelight out of every house in the evening. All that was changed,\nnobody knows how, for the old folks who remembered it are dead. Some say\nit was because of a magic ring which fell from the lady's finger; some\nbecause of a spring in the castle-court which went dry. However it was,\nthe lady turned Dame Dreary. Hard work and hard times overspread the\nvalley. The mist came down; the fairies departed; the giant Strongarm\ngrew old, and took up a burden of dust; and the night-spinners were seen\nno more in any man's dwelling. They say it will be so till Dame Dreary\nlays down her distaff, and dances; but all the fiddlers of the north\ncountry have tried their merriest tunes to no purpose. The king is a\nwise prince and a great warrior. He has filled two treasure-houses, and\nconquered all his enemies; but he cannot change the order of Dame\nDreary's land. I cannot tell you what great rewards he offered to any\nwho could do it; but when no good came of his offers, the king feared\nthat similar fashions might spread among his people, and therefore made\na law that whomsoever entered should not leave it. His majesty took me\ncaptive in war, and placed me here to keep the gate, and save his\nsubjects trouble. If I had not brought my pipe with me, I should have\nbeen working as hard as any of them by this time, with my one arm. Young\nmaster, if you take my advice you will learn to smoke.'\n\n\"'If my fiddle were mended it would be better,' said Merrymind; and he\nsat talking with the soldier till the mist began to clear and the moon\nto rise, and then went home to sleep in the deserted cottage.\n\n\"It was late when he came near it, and the moonlight night looked lovely\nbeside the misty day. Merrymind thought it was a good time for trying to\nget out of the valley. There was no foot abroad, and no appearance of\nthe giant; but as Merrymind drew near to where the two paths met, there\nwas he fast asleep beside a fire of pinecones, with his pannier at his\nhead, and a heap of stones close by him. 'Is that your kitchen-fire?'\nthought the boy to himself, and he tried to steal past; but Strongarm\nstarted up, and pursued him with stones, and calling him bad names, half\nway back to the cottage.\n\n\"Merrymind was glad to run the whole way for fear of him. The door was\nstill open, and the moon was shining in; but by the fireless hearth\nthere sat two fair maidens, all in white, spinning on silver wheels, and\nsinging together a blithe and pleasant tune like the larks on\nMay-morning. Merrymind could have listened all night, but suddenly he\nbethought him that these must be the night-spinners, whose threads would\nmend his fiddle; so, stepping with reverence and good courage, he said--\n\n\"'Honourable ladies, I pray you give a poor boy a thread to mend his\nfiddle-strings.'\n\n\"'For seven times seven years,' said the fair maidens, 'have we spun by\nnight in this deserted cottage, and no mortal has seen or spoken to us.\nGo and gather sticks through all the valley to make a fire for us on\nthis cold hearth, and each of us will give you a thread for your pains.'\n\n\"Merrymind took his broken fiddle with him, and went through all the\nvalley gathering sticks by the moonlight; but so careful were the people\nof Dame Dreary's land, that scarce a stick could be found, and the moon\nwas gone, and the misty day had come before he was able to come back\nwith a small fagot. The cottage-door was still open; the fair maidens\nand their silver wheels were gone; but on the floor where they sat lay\ntwo long threads of gold.\n\n\"Merrymind first heaped up his fagot on the hearth, to be ready against\ntheir coming at night, and next took up the golden threads to mend his\nfiddle. Then he learned the truth of the little man's saying at the\nfair, for no sooner were the strings fastened with those golden threads\nthan they became firm. The old dingy fiddle too began to shine and\nglisten, and at length it was golden also. This sight made Merrymind so\njoyful, that, unlearned as he was in music, the boy tried to play.\nScarce had his bow touched the strings when they began to play of\nthemselves the same blithe and pleasant tune which the night-spinners\nsang together.\n\n\"'Some of the workers will stop for the sake of this tune,' said\nMerrymind, and he went out along the valley with his fiddle. The music\nfilled the air; the busy people heard it; and never was such a day seen\nin Dame Dreary's land. The men paused in their delving; the women\nstopped their scrubbing; the little children dropped their work; and\nevery one stood still in their places while Merrymind and his fiddle\npassed on. When he came to the castle, the coopers cast down their tools\nin the court; the churning and cheesemaking ceased in the banquet hall;\nthe looms and spinning-wheels stopped in the principal chambers; and\nDame Dreary's distaff stood still in her hand.\n\n\"Merrymind played through the halls and up the tower-stairs. As he came\nnear, the dame cast down her distaff, and danced with all her might. All\nher maidens did the like; and as they danced she grew young again--the\nsourness passed from her looks, and the greyness from her hair. They\nbrought her the dress of white and cherry-colour she used to wear in her\nyouth, and she was no longer Dame Dreary, but the Lady Littlecare, with\ngolden hair, and laughing eyes, and cheeks like summer roses.\n\n[Illustration: Dame Dreary dances and grows strong.]\n\n\"Then a sound of merrymaking came up from the whole valley. The heavy\nmist rolled away over the hills; the sun shone out; the blue sky was\nseen; a clear spring gushed up in the castle-court; a white falcon came\nfrom the east with a golden ring, and put it on the lady's finger. After\nthat Strongarm broke the rope, tossed the pannier of dust from his\nshoulder, and lay down to sleep in the sun. That night the fairies\ndanced on the hill-tops; and the night-spinners, with their silver\nwheels, were seen by every hearth, and no more in the deserted cottage.\nEverybody praised Merrymind and his fiddle; and when news of his\nwonderful playing came to the king's ears, he commanded the iron gate\nto be taken away; he made the captive soldier a free man; and promoted\nMerrymind to be his first fiddler, which under that wise monarch was the\nhighest post in his kingdom.\n\n\"As soon as Merrymind's family and neighbours heard of the high\npreferment his fiddle had gained for him, they thought music must be a\ngood thing, and man, woman, and child took to fiddling. It is said that\nnone of them ever learned to play a single tune except Merrymind's\nmother, on whom her son bestowed great presents.\"\n\n\nHere the voice ceased, and one clothed in green and russet-coloured\nvelvet rose up with a golden fiddle in his hand, and said--\n\n\"That's my story.\"\n\n\"Excepting yesterday's tale, and the five that went before it,\" said\nKing Winwealth, \"I have not heard such a story as that since my brother\nWisewit went from me, and was lost in the forest. Fairfortune, the first\nof my pages, go and bring this maiden a golden girdle. And since her\ngrandmother's chair can tell such stories, she shall go no more into\nlow company, but feast with us in our chief banquet hall, and sleep in\none of the best chambers of the palace!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nPRINCE WISEWIT'S RETURN\n\n\nSnowflower was delighted at the promise of feasting with those noble\nlords and ladies, whose wonderful stories she had heard from the chair.\nHer courtesy was twice as low as usual, and she thanked King Winwealth\nfrom the bottom of her heart. All the company were glad to make room for\nher, and when her golden girdle was put on, little Snowflower looked as\nfine as the best of 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 directly 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 to cry in a corner; while Princess\nGreedalind, putting on what she thought a very grand air, laid down her\nhead on the cushion, saying--\n\n\"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story.\"\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 the courtiers 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 astonishment\nof everybody, a bird, whose snow-white feathers were tipped with purple,\ndarted out and flew away through an open window.\n\n[Illustration: Prince Wisewit, disguised as a bird, escapes out of the\nwindow.]\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. To make the place look smart at the feast time these pits had\nbeen covered over with loose boughs and turf. All the rest of the\ncompany remembered this but Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind. They\nwere nearest to the bird, and poor Snowflower, by running hard, came\nclose behind them, but Fairfortune, the king's first page, drew her back\nby the purple mantle, when, coming to the covered pit, boughs 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\nthe common where they 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 courtiers 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 the lord high chamberlain and\nher own pages came out with ropes and lanthorns to search for Queen\nWantall and Princess Greedalind, they found them safe and well at the\nbottom of the pit, having fallen on a heap of loose sand. The pit was of\ngreat depth, but some daylight shone down, and whatever were the yellow\ngrains they saw glittering among the sand, the queen and the princess\nbelieved 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. King\nWinwealth 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\nthe princess. The two pages, Screw and Hardhands, went down to help\nthem, in hopes of halving the profits, and there they stayed, digging\nfor gold. Some of the courtiers said they would find it; others believed\nthey never could; and the gold was not found when this story was\nwritten.\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 seven 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\nrestored to their rightful owners. Everybody got what they most wanted.\nThere were no more clamours without, nor discontents within the palace;\nand on the seventh day of the feast who should arrive but Dame\nFrostyface, in her grey hood and mantle.\n\nSnowflower was right glad to see her grandmother--so were the king and\nprince, for they had known the Dame in her youth. They kept the feast\nfor seven 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. From that day\nforward she wore white velvet and satin; she had seven pages, and lived\nin the grandest part of the palace. Dame Frostyface, too, was made a\ngreat lady. They put a new velvet cushion on her chair, and she sat in a\ngown of grey cloth, edged with gold, spinning on an ivory wheel in a\nfine painted parlour. Prince Wisewit built a great summer-house covered\nwith vines and roses, on the spot where her old cottage stood. He also\nmade a highway through the forest, that all good people might come and\ngo there at their leisure; and the cunning fairy Fortunetta, finding\nthat her reign was over in those parts, set off on a journey round the\nworld, and did not return in the time of this story. Good boys and\ngirls, who may chance to read it, that time is long ago. Great wars,\nwork, and learning, have passed over the world since then, and altered\nall its fashions. Kings make no seven-day feasts for all comers now.\nQueens and princesses, however greedy, do not mine for gold. Chairs\ntell no tales. Wells work no wonders; and there are no such doings on\nhills and forests, for the fairies dance no more. Some say it was the\nhum of schools--some think it was the din of factories that frightened\nthem; but nobody has been known to have seen them for many a year,\nexcept, it is said, one Hans Christian Andersen, in Denmark, whose tales\nof the fairies are so good that they must have been heard from\nthemselves.\n\nIt is certain that no living man knows the subsequent history of King\nWinwealth's country, nor what became of all the notable characters who\nlived and visited at his palace. Yet there are people who believe that\nthe monarch still falls asleep on his throne, and into low spirits after\nsupper; that Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind have found the gold,\nand begun to buy; that Dame Frostyface yet spins--they cannot tell\nwhere; that Snowflower may still be seen at the new year's time in her\ndress of white velvet, looking out for the early spring; that Prince\nWisewit has somehow fallen under a stronger spell and a thicker cushion,\nthat he still tells stories to Snowflower and her friends, and when both\ncushion and spell are broken by another stroke of Sturdy's\nhatchet--which they expect will happen some time--the prince will make\nall things right again, and bring back the fairy times to the world.\n\n\n\n\n                               THE END\n\n\n\n         _Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay._","title":"Granny's wonderful chair & its tales of fairy times","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":38273}