Chapter III (2)

On the opposite shore of the lake stood a castle. Its bright lights beckoned to the twelve little boats that rowed toward it. Drums beat, and trumpets sounded a welcome. Very merrily did the sisters reach the little pier. They sprang from the boats, and ran up the castle steps and into the gay ballroom. And there they danced and danced, but never saw or guessed that the soldier with the invisible cloak danced among them. When a princess lifted a wine-cup to her lips and found it empty, she felt frightened, but she little thought that the unseen soldier had drained it. On and on they danced, until three o'clock, but then the sisters had to stop, for all their little slippers were riddled with holes. And in the early gray morning the princes rowed them back across the lake, while the soldier seated himself this time beside the eldest princess.

When they reached the bank, the sisters wandered up the sloping shore, while the princes called after them, "Good-by, fair daughters of the King, to-night once more shall we await you here."

And all the princesses turned, and, waving their white hands, cried sleepily, "Farewell, farewell."

Little did the sisters dream as they loitered homeward, that the soldier ran past them, reached the castle, and climbed the staircase that led to his little bedroom. When, slowly and wearily, they reached the door of the hall where they slept, they heard loud snores coming from his room. "Ah, safe once more!" they exclaimed, and they undid their silk gowns, and their ribbons and jewels, and kicked off their little worn-out shoes. Then each went to her white bed, and in less than a minute was sound asleep.

The next morning the soldier told nothing of his wonderful adventure, for he thought he would like again to follow the princesses in their wanderings. And this he did a second and a third time, and each night the twelve sisters danced until their slippers were riddled with holes. The third night the soldier carried off a goblet, as a sign that he had visited the castle across the lake.

When next day he was brought before the King, to tell where the twelve dancing princesses held their night-frolic, the soldier took with him the twig with its silver leaves, the twig with its leaves of gold, and the twig whose leaves were of diamonds. He took, too, the goblet.

"If you would live, young man," said the King, "answer me this: How comes it that my daughters' slippers, morning after morning are danced into holes? Tell me, where have the princesses spent the three last nights?"

"With twelve princes in an underground castle," was the unexpected reply.

And when the soldier told his story, and held up the three twigs and the goblet to prove the truth of what he said, the King sent for his daughters.

In the twelve sisters tripped, with no pity in their hearts for "the old snorer," as they called the soldier; but when their eyes fell upon the twigs and the goblet they all turned white as lilies, for they knew that their secret night-frolics were now at an end for ever.

"Tell your tale," said the King to the soldier. But before he could speak, the princesses wrung their hands, crying, "Alack! alack!" and their father knew that at last he had discovered their secret.

Then turning to the soldier, the King said: "You have indeed won your prize. Which of my daughters do you choose as your wife?"

"I am no longer young," replied the soldier. "Let me marry the eldest princess."

So that very day the wedding bells pealed loud and far, and a few years later the old soldier and his bride were proclaimed King and Queen.

EDWY AND THE ECHO

It was in the time of good Queen Anne, when none of the trees in the great forest of Norwood, near London, had begun to be cut down, that a very rich gentleman and lady lived in that neighborhood. Their name was Lawley, and they had a fine old house and large garden with a wall all round it. The woods were so close to this garden that some of the high trees spread their branches over the top of the wall.

Now this lady and gentleman were very proud and very grand. They despised all people poorer than themselves, and there were none whom they despised more than the gypsies, who lived in the forest round about them.

There was no place in all England then so full of gypsies as the forest of Norwood.

Mr. and Mrs. Lawley had been married many years without having children. At length they had a son, whom they called Edwy. They could not make enough of their only child or dress him too finely.

When he was just old enough to run about without help, he used to wear his trousers inlaid with the finest lace, with golden studs and laced robings. He had a plume of feathers in his cap, which was of velvet, with a button of gold to fasten it up in front under the feathers. He looked so fine that whoever saw him with the servants who attended him used to say, "Whose child is that?"

He was a pretty boy, too, and when his first sorrow came he was still too young to have learned any proud ways.

No one is so rich as to be above the reach of trouble, and when at last it came to Mr. and Mrs. Lawley it was all the more terrible.

One day the proud parents had been away some hours visiting a friend a few miles distant. On their return Edwy was nowhere to be found. His waiting-maid was gone, and had taken away his finest clothes. At least, these also were missing.

The poor father and mother were almost beside themselves with grief. All the gentlemen and magistrates round about helped in the search and tried to discover who had stolen him. But it was all in vain. Of course the gypsies were suspected and well examined, but nothing could be made of it.

Nor was it ever found out how the child had been carried off. But carried off he had been by the gypsies, and taken away to a country among hills between Worcester and Hereford.

In that country was a valley with a river running deep at the bottom. There were many trees and bushes, rocks and caves and holes there. Indeed, it was the best possible place for the haunt of wild people.

To this place the gypsies carried the little boy, and there they kept him all the following winter, warm in a hut with some of their own children.

They stripped him of his velvet and feathers and lace and golden clasps and studs, and clothed him in rags and daubed his fair skin with mud. But they fed him well, and after a little while he was quite happy and contented.

Perhaps the cunning gypsies hoped that during the long months of winter the child would quite forget the few words he had learned to speak distinctly in his father's house. They thought he would forget to call himself Edwy, or to cry, "Oh, mamma, mamma, papa, papa! come to little Edwy!" as he so often did. They taught him that his name was not Edwy, but Jack, or Tom, or some such name. And they made him say "mam" and "dad" and call himself the gypsy boy, born in a barn.

But after he had learned all these words, whenever anything hurt or frightened him, he would cry again, "Mamma, papa, come to Edwy!"

The gypsies could not take him out with them while there was a danger of his crying like that. So he never went with them on their rounds of begging and buying rags and telling fortunes. Instead, he was left in the hut, in the valley, with some big girl or old woman to look after him.

It happened one day, in the month of May, that Edwy was left as usual in the hut. He had been up before sunrise to breakfast with those who were going out for their day's begging and stealing. After they had left, he had fallen asleep on a bed of dry leaves. Only one old woman, who was too lame to tramp, was left with him.

He slept long, and when he awoke he sat up on his bed of leaves and looked about him to see who was with him. He saw no one within the hut, and no one at the doorway.

Little children do not like to be quite alone. Edwy listened to hear if there were any voices outside, but he heard nothing but the rush of a waterfall close by, and the distant cry of sheep and lambs. The next thing the little one did was to get up and go out at the door of the hut.

The hut was built of rude rafters in the front of a cave or hole in the rock. It was low down in the glen, at the edge of the brook, a little below the waterfall. When the child came out he looked anxiously for somebody, and was more and more frightened when he could find no one at all.

The old woman must have been close at hand although out of sight, but she was deaf, and did not hear the noise made by the child when he came out of the hut.

Edwy did not remember how long he stood by the brook, but this is certain, that the longer he felt himself to be alone the more frightened he became. Then he began to fancy terrible things. At the top of the rock from which the waters fell there was a huge old yew-tree, or rather bush, which hung forward over the fall. It looked very black in comparison with the tender green of the other trees, and the white, glittering spray of the water.

Edwy looked at it and fancied that it moved. His eye was deceived by the dancing motion of the water. While he looked and looked, some great black bird came out from the midst of it, uttering a harsh, croaking sound.

The little boy could bear no more. He turned away from the terrible bush and the terrible bird, and ran down the valley, leaving hut and all behind. And, as he ran, he cried, as he always did when hurt or frightened, "Papa, mamma! oh, come! oh, come to Edwy!"

He ran and ran while his little bare feet were bruised with pebbles, and his legs torn with briers. Very soon he came to where the valley became narrower and the rocks and banks higher on either side. The brook ran along between, and a path went in a line with the brook; but this path was only used by the gypsies and a few poor cottagers, and was but a lonely road.

As Edwy ran he still cried, "Mamma, mamma, papa, papa! oh, come! oh, come to Edwy!" And he kept up this cry from time to time, till his young voice began to be returned in a sort of hollow murmur.

When first he noticed this, he was even more frightened than before. He stood and looked round. Then he turned with his back toward the hut and ran and ran again until he got deeper in among the rocks. Then he stopped again, for the high black banks frightened him still more, and setting up his young voice he called again as he had done before.

He had scarcely finished his cry, when a voice seemed to answer him. It said, "Come, come to Edwy!" It said it once, it said it twice, it said it a third time. But it seemed each time more distant.

The child looked up and down, and all around, and in his terror he cried more loudly, "Oh, papa, mamma! come, come to poor Edwy!"

It was an echo, the echo of the rocks which repeated the words of the child. The more loudly he spoke, the more perfect was the echo. But he could only catch the last few words, and this time he only heard, "Poor, poor Edwy!"

Edwy still dimly remembered a far-away happy home, and kind parents, and now he believed that what the echo said came from them. They were calling to him, and saying, "Poor, poor Edwy!" But where could they be? Were they in the caves, or at the top of the rocks, or in the blue bright heavens?

He looked at the rocks and the sky, and down among the reeds and sedges and alders by the side of the brook, but he could find no one.

After a while he called again, and called louder still.

"Come, come," was the cry again, "Edwy is lost! lost! lost!"

Echo repeated the last words as before, "Lost! lost! lost!" and now the voice sounded from behind him, for he had moved round a corner of a rock.

The child heard the voice behind, and turned and ran that way. Then he stopped and heard it again in the opposite direction. Next he shrieked from fear, and echo returned the shriek, finishing up with broken sounds which to Edwy's ears seemed as if some one a long way off was mocking him. His terror was now at its highest, and he did not know what to do, or where to go. Turning round, he began once more to run down the valley, and every step took him nearer the mouth of the glen and the entrance to the great highroad.

And who had been driving along that road, in a fine carriage with four horses, but Edwy's own papa and mamma!

Mr. and Mrs. Lawley had given up all hopes of finding their little boy near Norwood, and they had set out in their coach to go all over the country in search of him. They had come the day before to a town near to the place where the gypsies had kept Edwy all the winter. There they had made many inquiries, and asked about the gypsies who were to be found in that country. But people were afraid of the gypsies, and did not like to say anything which might bring trouble upon themselves.

The poor father and mother, therefore, could get no news there, and the next morning they came across the country, and along the road into which the gypsies' valley opened.

Wherever these unhappy parents saw a wild country full of woods, they thought, if possible, more than ever of their lost child, and Mrs. Lawley would begin to weep. Indeed, she had done little else since she lost her boy.

The travelers first caught sight of the gypsies' valley as the coach arrived at the top of a high hill. The descent on the other side was so steep that it was thought right to put a drag on the wheels.

Mr. Lawley suggested that they should get out and walk down the hill, so the coach stopped and every one got down from it. Mr. Lawley walked first, followed closely by his servant William, and Mrs. Lawley came after, leaning on the arm of her favorite little maid Barbara.

"Oh, Barbara!" said Mrs. Lawley, when the others were gone forward, "when I remember all the pretty ways of my boy, and think of his lovely face and gentle temper, and of the way in which I lost him, my heart is ready to break."

"Oh, dear mistress," answered the little maid, "who knows but that our grief may soon be at an end and we may find him yet and all will be well."

Mr. Lawley walked on before with the servant. He too was thinking of his boy as he looked up the wild lonely valley. He saw a raven rise from the wood and heard its croaking noise--it was perhaps the same black bird that had frightened Edwy.

William remarked to his master that there was a sound of falling water and that there must be brooks running into the valley. Mr. Lawley, however, was too sad to talk to his servant. He could only say, "I don't doubt it," and then they both walked on in silence.

They came to the bottom of the valley even before the carriage got there. They found that the brook crossed the road in that place, and that the road was carried over it by a little stone bridge.

Mr. Lawley stopped upon the bridge. He leaned on the low wall, and looked upon the dark mouth of the glen, William stood a little behind him.

William was young, and his sense of hearing was very quick. As he stood there he thought he heard a voice, but the rattling of the coach-wheels over the stony road prevented his hearing it distinctly. He heard the cry again, but the coach was coming nearer, and made it still more difficult for him to catch the sound.

His master was surprised the next moment to see him jump over the low parapet of the bridge and run up the narrow path which led to the glen.

It was the voice of Edwy and the answering echo which William had heard. He had got just far enough away from the sound of the coach-wheels at the moment when the echo returned poor little Edwy's wildest shriek.

The sound was fearful and unnatural, but William was not easily put out. He looked back to his master, and his look made Mr. Lawley at once leave the bridge and follow him, though hardly knowing why.

They both went up the glen, the man being some way in front of his master. Another cry and another answering echo again reached the ear of William. The young man once more looked round at his master and ran on. The last cry had been heard by Mr. Lawley, who followed as quickly as he could. But, as the valley turned and turned among the rocks, he soon lost sight of his servant.

Very soon Mr. Lawley came to the very place where the echo had most astonished Edwy, because the sound had seemed to come from opposite sides. Here he heard the cry again, and heard it distinctly. It was the voice of a child crying, "No! no! no! papa! mamma! Oh, come! oh, come!" and then a fearful shriek or laugh of some wild woman's voice.

Mr. Lawley rushed on, winding in and out between the rocks. Different voices, all repeated in strange confusion by the echoes, rang in his ears. But amid all these sounds he thought only of that one sad cry, "Papa! mamma! Oh, come! oh, come!"

Suddenly he came out to where he saw his servant again, and with him an old woman who looked like a witch. She held the hand of a little ragged child very firmly, though the baby struggled hard to get free, crying, "Papa! mamma! Oh, come! oh, come!"

William was talking earnestly to the woman, and had got hold of the other hand of the child.

Mr. Lawley rushed on, trembling with hope and fear. Could this boy be his Edwy? William had entered his service since he had lost his child and could not therefore know the boy. He himself could not be sure--so strange, so altered did the baby look.

But Edwy knew his own papa in a moment. He could not run to meet him, for he was tightly held by the gypsy, but he cried, "Oh, papa! papa is come to Edwy!"

The old woman knew Mr. Lawley, and saw that the child knew him. She had been trying to persuade William that the boy was her grandchild. But it was no use now. She let the child's hand go, and, while he was flying to his father's arms, she disappeared into some well-known hole or hollow in the neighboring rocks.

Who can describe the feelings of the father when he felt the arms of his long-lost boy clinging round his neck, and the little heart beating against his own? Or who could say what the mother felt when she saw her husband come out from the mouth of the valley, bearing in his arms the little ragged child? Could this be her own baby, her Edwy? She could hardly be sure of her happiness till the boy held out his arms to her and cried, "Mamma! mamma!"

Before they got into the coach the happy parents knelt down upon the grass to thank God for his goodness. There was no pride now in their hearts and they never forgot the lesson they had learned.

In their beautiful home at Norwood they were soon as much loved and respected as they had been feared and disliked. Even the gypsies in time became their faithful friends, and Edwy was as safe in the forest as in his own garden at home.

THE LITTLE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A VINEGAR-BOTTLE

There was once upon a time a little old woman who lived in a vinegar-bottle. One day, as she was sweeping out her house, she found a silver coin, and she thought she should like to buy a fish.

So off she went to the place where the fishermen were casting their nets. When she got there the nets had just been drawn up, and there was only one little fish in them. So the fishermen let her have that for her silver piece.

But, as she was carrying it home, the little fish opened its mouth and said: "Pray, good woman, throw me into the water again. I am but a very little fish, and I shall make you a very poor supper. Pray, good woman, throw me into the water again!"

So the little old woman had pity on the little fish, and threw it into the water.

But hardly had she done so before the water began to bubble and a little fairy stood beside her. "My good woman," she said, "I am the little fish you threw into the water, and, as you were so kind to me when I was in trouble, I promise to give you anything that you wish for."

Then the little old woman thanked the fairy very much, but said she did not want for anything. She lived in a nice little vinegar-bottle with a ladder to go up and down, and had all she wished for.

"Well," said the fairy, "if at any time you want anything, you have only to come to the waterside and call 'Fairy, fairy,' and I shall appear, to answer you."

So the little old woman went home, and she lay awake all night trying to think of something she wanted. And the next morning she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You were so kind, ma'am, as to promise that you would give me anything I wished for, because I threw you into the water when you were but a little fish. Now, if you please, ma'am, I should like a little cottage. For you must know I live in a vinegar-bottle, and I find it very tiresome to have to go up and down a ladder every time I go in and out of my house."

"Go home and you shall have one," said the fairy.

So the little old woman went home, and there she found a nice whitewashed cottage, with roses climbing round the windows.

She was very happy, and thought she would never want anything more; but after a while she grew discontented again.

So back she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house, and now, if you please, ma'am, I would like some new furniture. For the furniture I had in the vinegar-bottle looks very shabby now that it is in the pretty little cottage."

"Go home and you shall have some," said the fairy.

So the little old woman went home, and there she found her cottage filled with nice new furniture, a stool and table, a neat little four-post bed with blue-and-white checked curtains, and an armchair covered with flowered chintz.

She was very happy, and thought she would never want anything more; but after a while she grew discontented again.

So back she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house and furniture, and now, if you please, ma'am, I would like some new clothes. For I find that the clothes I wore in the vinegar-bottle are not nearly good enough for the mistress of such a pretty little cottage."

Then the fairy said, "Go home and you shall have some."

So the little old woman went home, and there she found all her old clothes changed to new ones. There was a silk dress and a flowered apron, and a grand lace cap and high-heeled shoes.

Well, she was very happy, and she thought she should never want anything more; but after a while she grew discontented again.

So back she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house and furniture and clothes; and now, if you please, I should like a maid. For I find when I have to do the work of the house that my new clothes get very dirty."

Then the fairy said, "Go home and you shall have one."

So the little old woman went home, and there she found at the door a neat little maid with a broom in her hand, all ready to sweep the floor.

This made her very happy, and she thought she would never want anything more; but after a while she grew discontented again.

So back she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house and furniture, and clothes, and a maid; and now, if you please, I should like a pony. For when I go out walking my new clothes get very much splashed with the mud."

Then the fairy said, "Go home and you shall have one."

So the little old woman went home, and there she saw at the door a little pony all ready bridled and saddled for her to ride.

She was very happy, and thought she would never want anything more; but after a while she grew discontented again.

So back she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, my good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house and furniture, and clothes, and a maid, and a pony; and now, if you please, ma'am, I should like a covered cart. For I find that my new clothes get quite as muddy riding as walking."

Then the fairy said, "Go home and you will find one."

So the little old woman went home, and there she found her pony harnessed into a nice little covered cart.

She had hardly seen the cart, when back she ran to the waterside, calling "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What _do_ you want, good woman?" said she.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house and furniture, and clothes, and a maid, and a pony and a cart; but now, if you please, ma'am, I should like a coach and six. For it is like all the farmers' wives to ride about in a cart."

Then the fairy said: "Oh, you discontented little old woman! The more I give you, the more you want. Go back to your vinegar-bottle."

So the little old woman went home, and she found everything gone--her cart, and her pony, and her maid, and her clothes, and her furniture, and her house. Nothing remained but the little old vinegar-bottle, with the ladder to get up the side.

THE SNOW QUEEN

Once upon a time there was a little boy called Kay. And there was a little girl. Her name was Gerda.

They were not brother and sister, this little boy and girl, but they lived in tiny attics next door to one another.

When they were not playing together, Gerda spent her time peeping at Kay, through one of the little panes in her window. And Kay peeped back at Gerda.

Outside each attic was a tiny balcony, just big enough to hold two little stools and a window-box. Often Gerda would step out of her attic window into the balcony, carrying with her a three-legged wooden stool. Then she would climb over the low wall that separated her from Kay.

And there in Kay's balcony the two children would sit and play together, or tell fairy tales, or tend the flowers that bloomed so gaily in the window-box.

At other times it was Kay who would bound over the low wall into Gerda's balcony, and there, too, the little boy and girl were as happy as though they had been in Fairyland.

In each little window-box grew a rose-bush, and the bloom and the scent of the red roses they bore gave Kay and Gerda more delight than you can imagine; and all her life long a red rose remained little Gerda's favorite flower.

But it was not always summer-time, and when cold, frosty winter came, and the Snow Queen sailed down on the large white snowflakes from a gray sky, then no flowers bloomed in the window-boxes. And the balcony was so slippery that the children dared not venture to step out of their attic windows, but had to run down one long flight of stairs and up another to be able to play together.

Sometimes, though, Kay stayed in his own little room and Gerda stayed in hers, gazing and gazing at the lovely pictures of castles, and mountains, and sea, and flowers that the Snow Queen had drawn on the window-panes as she passed.

But now that the little panes of glass were covered with pictures, how could Kay and Gerda peep at each other from the attic windows?

Ah, they had a plan, and a very good plan, too. Kay would heat a penny on the stove, and then press it against the window-pane, and so make little round peep-holes. Then he would put his eye to one of these little rounds and--what did he see? A bright black eye peeping from Gerda's attic, for she, too, had heated a penny and made peep-holes in her window.

It was in winter, too, when the children could not play together on the balcony, that Gerda's grandmother told them stories of the Snow Queen.

One night, as Kay was undressing to go to bed, he climbed on a chair and peeped out of one of his little round holes, and there, on the edge of the window-box, were a few big snowflakes. And as the little boy watched them, the biggest grew bigger and bigger, until it grew into a white lady of glittering, dazzling ice. Her eyes shone like two bright stars.

"It must be the Snow Queen," thought Kay, and at that moment the white lady nodded to him, and waved her hand, and as he jumped from his chair, he fancied she flew past the window. "It must be the Snow Queen." Would he ever see her again?

At last the white winter melted away and green spring burst upon the earth. Then once more summer--warm, bright, beautiful summer.

It was at five o'clock, one sunny afternoon, that Kay and Gerda sat together on their little stools in the balcony, looking at a picture-book.

"Oh!" cried Kay suddenly, "oh, there is something sharp in my eye, and I have such a pain in my heart!"

Gerda put her arms round Kay's neck and looked into his eye.

"I can see nothing, Kay dear."

"Oh! it is gone now," said the boy, and they turned again to the picture-book.

But something had flown into Kay's eye, and it was not gone; a little bit had reached his heart, and it was still there. Listen, and I will tell you what had happened.

There was about this time a most marvelous mirror in the world. It belonged to the worst hobgoblin that ever lived, and had been made by his wicked little demons.

Those who looked into this mirror saw reflected there all the mean and ugly people and things in the world, and not one beautiful sight could they see. And the thoughts of those who looked into this mirror became as mean and ugly as the people and things they saw.

This delighted the hobgoblin, who ordered his little demons to carry the mirror all over the world and to do as much mischief with it as they could.

But one day, when they had traveled far, the mirror slipped from the hands of the little imps, and fell to earth, shivered into hundreds of thousands of millions of bits. Then it did more harm than ever, for the tiny pieces, some no bigger than a grain of sand, were blown all over the world, and often flew in people's eyes, and sometimes even found their way into their hearts.

And when a big person or a child had a little bit of this magic mirror in his eye, he saw only what was mean and ugly; and if the tiniest grain of the glass reached his heart, alas! alas! it froze all the kindness and gentleness and love that was there, and the heart became like a lump of ice.

This is what had happened to poor little Kay. One tiny bit of the magic mirror had flown into his eye; another had entered his heart.

"How horrid you look, Gerda. Why are you crying? And oh, see the worm in that rose. Roses are ugly, and so are window-boxes." And Kay kicked the window-box, and knocked two roses from the rose-bush.

"Kay dear, what is the matter?" asked Gerda.

The little boy did not answer, but broke off another rose, and then, without saying good-by, stepped in at his own window, leaving Gerda alone.

The next time the little girl brought out the picture-book, Kay tore the leaves, and when the grandmother told them a story, he interrupted her and made ugly faces. And he would tread on Gerda's toes and pull her hair, and make faces at her, too.

"How cruel little Kay grows," said his friends; for he mocked the old people and ill-treated those who were weak. And all through the blue summer and the yellow autumn Kay teased little Gerda, or left her that he might play with the bigger children in the town.

But it was when winter came, and the big white snowflakes once more fell from a gray sky, that Gerda felt loneliest, for Kay now drew on his thick gloves, slung his little sledge across his back, and marched off alone. "I am going to ride in the square," he shouted in her ear as he passed. But Gerda could not answer; she could only think of the winters that had gone, when she and Kay always sat side by side in that same little sledge. How happy they had been! Oh, why, why had he not taken her with him?

Kay walked briskly to the square, and there he watched the bolder of the boys tie their sledges to the farmers' carts. With what glee they felt themselves being drawn over the snow-covered ground! When they reached the town gates they would jump out, unfasten their sledges, and return to the square to begin the fun all over again.

Kay was thinking how much he would like to tie his little sledge behind a cart, when a big sledge, painted white, drove by. In it sat some one muffled in a white fur coat and cap. Twice the sledge drove round the square.

As it passed Kay the second time, he quickly fastened on his little sledge behind, and in a moment found himself flying through the streets. What fun! On and on through snowdrifts, bounding over ditches, rushing down hills, faster and faster they flew.

Little Kay grew frightened. Twice he tried to unfasten the string that tied his sledge to the other, but both times the white driver turned round and nodded to him to sit still. At last they had driven through the town gates. The snow fell so heavily that it blinded him. Now he could not see where they were going, and Kay grew more frightened still. He tried to say his prayers, but could only remember the multiplication table. Bigger and bigger grew the snowflakes, till they seemed like large white birds. Then, suddenly, the sledge stopped. The driver stood up. She was a tall lady, dazzlingly white. Her eyes shone like two stars. She was the Snow Queen.

"It is cold," said the white lady; "come into my sledge. Now, creep inside my furs."

Kay did as he was told, but he felt as if he had fallen into a snowdrift.

"You are still cold," said the Snow Queen, and she kissed his forehead. Her lips were like ice, and Kay shivered and felt the old pain at his heart. But only for a minute, for the Snow Queen kissed him again, and then he forgot the pain, and he forgot Gerda, and he forgot his grandmother and his old home, and had not a thought for anything or any one but the Snow Queen.

He had no fear of her now, no, not although they flew up and up on a dark cloud, away over woods and lakes, over rivers, islands, and seas. No, he was not afraid, although the cold wind whistled around them, and beneath the wild wolves howled. Kay did not care.

Above them the moon shone bright and clear. All night long the boy would gaze at it and the twinkling stars, but by day he slept at the feet of the Snow Queen.

* * *

But what of little Gerda?

Poor child, she watched and she waited and she wondered, but Kay did not come, and nobody could tell her where he was. The boys had seen him drive out of the town gates behind a big sledge painted white. But no one had heard of him since.

Little Gerda cried bitterly. Perhaps Kay was drowned in the river. Oh, what a long, cold winter that was! But spring came at last, bright spring with its golden sunshine and its singing birds.

"Kay is dead," said Gerda.

"Kay dead? It is not true," said the sunshine.

"Kay dead? We do not believe it," twittered the swallows.

And neither did little Gerda believe it.

"I will put on my new red shoes," said the child one morning, "and go to the river and ask it about Kay." So she put on her little red shoes, and kissed her old grandmother who was still asleep, and wandered alone, out beyond the town gates, and down to the river-bank.

"Have you taken my little playfellow?" she asked. "I will give you these if you will bring him back to me," and she flung her little shoes into the river.

They fell close to the bank and the little waves tossed them back on to the dry pebbles at her feet. "We do not want you, we will keep Kay," they seemed to say.

"Perhaps I did not throw them far enough," thought Gerda; and, stepping into a boat that lay among the rushes, she flung the red shoes with all her might into the middle of the river.

But the boat was not fastened and it glided out from among the rushes. Soon it was drifting faster and faster down the river. The little shoes floated behind.

"Perhaps I am going to little Kay," thought Gerda, as she was carried farther and farther down the river. How pretty it was! Trees waved and flowers nodded on its banks. Sheep grazed and cattle browsed, but not one soul, big or little, was to be seen.

After a long time Gerda came to a cherry-garden which stretched down to the river-bank. At the end of this garden stood a tiny cottage with a thatched roof, and with red, blue, and yellow glass windows.

On either side of the door stood a wooden soldier. Gerda thought the soldiers were alive, and shouted to them.

The wooden soldiers, of course, did not hear, but an old, old woman, who lived in the tiny house, wondered who it could be that called. She hobbled out, leaning on her hooked stick. On her head she wore a big sun-hat, and on it were painted beautiful flowers.

"You poor child," said the old, old woman, walking straight into the river, and catching hold of the boat with her hooked stick; "you poor dear!" And she pulled the boat ashore and lifted out little Gerda on to the green grass.

Gerda was delighted to be on dry land again, but she was a little bit afraid of the old, old woman, who now asked her who she was and where she came from.

"I am looking for Kay, little Kay. Have you seen him?" began Gerda, and she went on to tell the old, old woman the whole story of her playmate and his strange disappearance. When she had finished, she asked again, "Have you seen him?"

"No," said the old, old woman, "but I expect him. Come in," and she took little Gerda by the hand. "Come to my house and taste my cherries." And when they had gone into the cottage, the old, old woman locked the door. Then she gave Gerda a plate of the most delicious cherries, and while the little girl ate them, the old, old woman combed her hair with a golden comb.

Now this old, old woman was a witch, and the comb was a magic comb, for as soon as it touched her hair, Gerda forgot all about Kay. And this was just what the witch wished, for she was a lonely old woman, and would have liked Gerda to become her own little girl and stay with her always.

Gerda did enjoy the red cherries, and, while she was still eating them, the old, old woman stole out to the garden and waved her hooked stick over the rose-bushes and they quickly sank beneath the brown earth. For Gerda had told her how fond Kay had once been of their little rose-bushes in the balcony, and the witch was afraid the sight of roses would remind the little girl of her lost playmate. But now that the roses had vanished, Gerda might come into the garden.

How the child danced for joy past the lilies and bluebells, how she suddenly fell on her knees to smell the pinks and mignonette, and then danced off again, in and out among the sunflowers and hollyhocks!

Gerda was perfectly happy now, and played among the flowers until the sun sank behind the cherry-trees. Then the old, old woman again took her by the hand, and led her to the little house. And she undressed her and put her into a little bed of white violets, and there the little girl dreamed sweet dreams.

The next day and the next again and for many more Gerda played among the flowers in the garden.

One morning, as the old woman sat near, Gerda looked at her hat with the wonderful painted flowers. Prettiest of all was a rose.

"A rose! Why, surely I have seen none in the garden," thought Gerda, and she danced off in search.

But she could find none, and in her disappointment hot tears fell. And they fell on the very spot where the roses had grown, and as soon as the warm drops moistened the earth, the rose-bushes sprang up.

"You are beautiful, beautiful," she said; but in a moment the tears fell again, for she thought of the rose-bushes in the balcony, and she remembered Kay.

"Oh Kay, dear, dear Kay, is he dead?" she asked the roses.

"No, he is not dead," they answered, "for we have been beneath the brown earth, and he is not there."

"Then where, oh, where is he?" and she went from flower to flower whispering, "Have you seen little Kay?"

But the flowers stood in the sunshine, dreaming their own dreams, and these they told the little maiden gladly, but of Kay they could not tell her, for they knew nothing.

Then the little girl ran down the garden path until she came to the garden gate. She pressed the rusty latch. The gate flew open, and Gerda ran out on her little bare feet into the green fields. And she ran, and she ran, until she could run no longer. Then she sat down on a big stone to rest.

"Why, it must be autumn," she said sorrowfully, as she looked around. And little Gerda felt sorry that she had stayed so long in the magic garden, where it was always summer.

"Why have I not been seeking little Kay?" she asked herself, and she jumped up and trudged along, on and on, out into the great wide world.

* * *

At last the cold white winter came again, and still little Gerda was wandering alone through the wide world, for she had not found little Kay.

"Caw, caw," said a big raven that hopped on the stone in front of her. "Caw, caw."

"Have you seen little Kay?" asked Gerda, and she told the bird her sad story.

"It may have been Kay," said the raven, "I cannot tell. But if it was, he will have forgotten you now that he lives with the princess."

"Does he live with a princess?" asked Gerda.

"Yes, he does. If you care to listen, I will tell you how it came about. In this kingdom lives a princess so clever that she has read all the newspapers in the world, and forgotten them again. Last winter she made up her mind to marry. Her husband, she said, must speak well. He must know the proper thing to say, and say it prettily. Otherwise she would not marry. I assure you what I say is perfectly true, for I have a tame sweetheart who lives at court, and she told me the whole story.

"One day it was published in the newspapers that any handsome young man might go to the palace to speak to the princess. The one who spoke most prettily and answered most wisely should be chosen as her husband. What a stir there was! Young men flocked to the palace in crowds, chattering as they came. But when they saw the great staircase, and the soldiers in their silver uniform, and the grand ladies in velvet and lace, they could only talk in whispers. And when they were led before the beautiful princess, who was seated on a pearl as big as a spinning-wheel, they were silent. She spoke to them, but they could think of nothing to say, so they repeated her last words over and over again. The princess did not like that, and she----"

"But Kay, little Kay, did he come?" interrupted Gerda.

"You are in too great a hurry," said the raven; "I am just coming to that. On the third day came a boy with sparkling eyes and golden hair, but his clothes were shabby. He----"

"Oh, that would be Kay. Dear, dear Kay, I have found him at last."

"He had a knapsack on his back, and----"

"No, it must have been a sledge," again interrupted Gerda.

"I said he had a knapsack on his back, and he wore boots that creaked, but----"

"Oh, then it must be Kay, for he had new boots. I heard them creak through our attic wall when----"

"Little girl, do not interrupt, but listen to me. He wore boots that creaked, but even that did not frighten him. He creaked up the great staircase, he passed the soldiers in silver uniform, he bowed to the ladies in velvet and lace, and still he was quite at his ease. And when he was led before the beautiful princess who was seated on a pearl as big as a spinning-wheel, he answered so prettily and spoke so wisely that she chose him as her husband."

"Indeed, indeed it was Kay," said little Gerda. "He was so clever. He could do arithmetic up to long division. Oh, take me to him."

"I will see what can be done," said the raven. "I will talk about it to my tame sweetheart. She will certainly be able to advise us. Wait here by the stile," and the raven wagged his head and flew off.

It was growing dark before he returned. "Here is a roll my tame sweetheart sent you. 'The little maiden must be hungry,' she said. As for your going to the palace with those bare feet--the thing is impossible. The soldiers in silver uniform would not let you go up the great stair. But do not cry. My sweetheart knows a little back staircase. She will take you to the prince and princess. Follow me."

On tiptoe little Gerda followed the raven, as he hopped across the snow-covered field and up the long avenue that led to the palace garden. And in the garden they waited silently until the last light had gone out. Then they turned along the bare walk that led to the back door. It stood wide open.

Oh, how little Gerda's heart beat, as on the tips of her little bare toes she followed the raven up the dimly lighted back staircase!

On the landing at the top burned a small lamp. Beside it stood the tame sweetheart.

Gerda curtsied as her grandmother had taught her.

"He," said the tame sweetheart, nodding to the raven of the field, "he has told me your story. It has made me sad. But if you carry the lamp, I will lead the way, and then we shall see----"

"We shall see little Kay," murmured Gerda.

"Hush! we shall see what we shall see," said the tame sweetheart.

Through room after room Gerda followed her strange guide, her heart thumping and thumping so loudly that she was afraid some one in the palace would hear it and wake.

At last they came to a room in which stood two little beds, one white and one red. The tame sweetheart nodded to the little girl.

Poor Gerda! she was trembling all over, as she peeped at the little head that rested on the pillow of the white bed.

Oh! that was the princess.

Gerda turned to the little red bed. The prince was lying on his face, but the hair, surely it was Kay's hair. She drew down the little red coverlet until she saw a brown neck. Yes! it was Kay's neck, she felt sure.

"Kay, Kay, it is I, little Gerda, wake, wake."

And the prince awoke. He turned his head. He opened his eyes--and--alas! alas! it was not little Kay.

Then Gerda cried and cried as if her heart would break. She cried until she awoke the princess, who started up bewildered.

"Who are you, little girl, and where do you come from, and what do you want?"

"Oh, I want Kay, little Kay, do you know where he is?" And Gerda told the princess all her story, and of what the ravens had done to help her.

"Poor little child," said the princess, "how sad you must feel!"

"And how tired," said the prince, and he jumped out of his little red bed, and made Gerda lie down.

The little girl was grateful indeed. She folded her hands and was soon fast asleep.

And Gerda dreamed of Kay. She saw him sitting in his little sledge, and it was dragged by angels. But it was only a dream, and, when she awoke, her little playmate was as far away as ever.

The ravens were now very happy, for the princess said that, although they must never again lead any one to the palace by the back staircase, this time they should be rewarded. They should for the rest of their lives live together in the palace garden, and be known as the court ravens, and be fed from the royal kitchen.

When little Gerda awoke from her dreams, she saw the sunbeams stealing across her bed. It was time to get up.