Chapter XI: Introduction (2)

Thereupon the Khoja departed on pretence of taking counsel with his donkey. But he only smoked another pipe in his garden, and then returned to the man, who was anxiously awaiting him, and whom he saluted with all possible politeness, saying--

"May it be far from you, most worthy Effendi, ever to experience such misfortune as my wise donkey foresees on this occasion!"

"What does he foresee?" inquired the borrower.

"Broken knees, sore ribs, aching bones, long marches, and short meals," said the Khoja.

Then the man looked foolish, and sneaked away without reply.

But the Khoja went back to his pipe.

_Tale_ 41.--The Khoja's Horse.

Once upon a time the Khoja was travelling in company with a caravan, when they halted for the night at a certain place, and all the horses were tied up together.

Next morning the Khoja could not for the life of him remember which was his own horse, and he was much afraid of being cheated if he confessed this to the rest.

So, as they were all coming out, he seized his bow and arrow, and aimed among the horses at random.

"Don't shoot!" cried the men; "what is the matter?"

"I am desperate," replied the Khoja; "I am determined to kill somebody's horse, so let every one look to his own."

Laughing at the Khoja's folly, each man untied his own horse as quickly as possible, and took it away.

Then the Khoja knew that the one left was his own.

He at once proceeded to mount, but putting his right foot into the stirrup, he came round with his face to the tail.

"What makes you get up backwards, Khoja?" said his friends.

"It is not I who am in the wrong," said the Khoja, "but the horse that is left-handed."

_Tale_ 42.--The Khoja on the Bey's Horse.

On a certain occasion Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen went to see the Bey, and the Bey invited him to go out hunting.

The Khoja agreed, but when they were about to start he found that he had been mounted on a horse which would not move out of a snail's pace. He said nothing, however, for it is not well to be too quick in seeing affronts.

By and by it began to rain heavily. The Bey and the rest of the party galloped off with all speed towards shelter, and the Khoja was left in the lurch.

When they were all out of sight the Khoja got down and took off all his clothes and folded them neatly together, and put them on the saddle. Then he got up again and sat on his clothes, to keep them dry.

By and by the rain ceased, and the Khoja dressed himself and went leisurely home. When he reached the Bey's palace all the guests were assembled, and presently the Bey perceived him and cried out, "Why, here is the worthy Khoja! And--how extraordinary!--his clothes are not as wet as ours."

"Why do you not praise the horse on which you mounted me?" answered the Khoja; "it carried me through the storm without a single thread of my clothes being wet."

"They must have made a mistake about the horses," thought the Bey to himself, and he invited the Khoja to go hunting on the following day.

The Khoja accepted, and when the time came he was mounted on the horse which the Bey had ridden the day before, and the Bey seated himself on that which had carried the Khoja with dry clothes through the shower.

By and by it began to rain; every one rode off as usual, and this time the Khoja among them.

The Bey, however, could not induce his horse to stir out of a foot's pace, and when he arrived at his palace he was drenched to the skin.

"Wretched man!" he cried to the Khoja, "is it not through you that I was induced to ride this useless horse?"

"Most eminent Bey," replied the Khoja, "the beast has treated you no worse than he served me. But perhaps your Eminence did not think of taking off your clothes and sitting on them?"

_Tale_ 43.--The Khoja's Donkey brays to Good Purpose.

One day the Khoja dismounted at the door of a shop, and threw his woollen pelisse on the donkey's back till he should return. He then went in to buy sweetmeats.

In a few minutes there passed a man, who snatched the woollen pelisse from the donkey's back, and went off with it. At this moment the donkey began to bray.

"O bawl away!" cried the Khoja, who had come out just in time to see his pelisse disappear; "much good that will do."

But as it happened, when the man heard the noise he was afraid of being caught, and, throwing the pelisse back on to the donkey, he ran away as hard as he could.

_Tale_ 44.--The Khoja's Left Leg.

During one very hot season there was a scarcity of water in the city.

One day, the Khoja was performing his religious ablutions: he washed himself all over with the exception of his left leg, but before that could be washed the water was all used up.

When the Khoja began to recite the customary prayers he stood on one leg like a goose.

"O Khoja Effendi!" cried the people, "why do you pray standing on your right leg?"

"I could not pray on my left leg," said the Khoja; "it has not performed the appointed ablutions."

_Tale_ 45.--"Figs Would Be More Acceptable."

Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi had some plums, of which he resolved to make a present to the Bey. He therefore took three of them, and putting them on a fine tray, he carried them into the royal presence, and duly offered them for the Bey's acceptance.

Being in a good humour, the Bey took the present in good part, and gave the Khoja several pence in return.

After some days the Khoja thought he would take something else to the Bey, and having some fine large beetroots, he set off as before.

On his way to the palace he met a man, who saluted him.

"What are you doing with all those beetroots?" said he.

"I am about to present them to the Bey," replied the Khoja.

"Figs would be more acceptable, I should think," said the man.

The Khoja pursued his journey, but as he went the man's words troubled him--"Figs would be more acceptable."

At last he perceived a fig-tree by the roadside, so, throwing away all the beetroots, he put two or three figs in their place, and having arrived at the palace, he presented them to the Bey.

But this time the Bey was not in a good humour.

"What madman is this," he cried, "who mocks me by the gift of a few worthless figs? Throw them at his head and drive him away!"

So they pelted the Khoja with his figs, and drove him out. But as he ran, instead of cursing his ill luck, the Khoja gave thanks for his good fortune.

"This is indeed madness," cried the servants of the Bey; "for what, O Khoja, do you return thanks, after this ignominious treatment?"

"O ignorant time-servers," replied the Khoja, "I have good reason to give thanks. For I was bringing beetroots to the Bey--large beetroots, and many of them--and I met a man who persuaded me, saying, "Figs would be more acceptable," so I brought figs; and you have cast them at my head. But there were few of them, and they are soft, and I am none the worse. If, however, I had not by good luck thrown away the beetroots, which are hard, my skull would certainly have been cracked."

_Tale_ 46.--Timur and the One-legged Geese.

One day the Khoja caused a goose to be cooked. He was about to present it to the King.

When it was nicely done he set off with it, but on the road he became very hungry. If the smell of it were to be trusted it was a most delicious bird! At last the Khoja could resist no longer, and he tore off a leg and ate it with much relish.

On arriving in the royal presence he placed the goose before Timur the King, who, when he had examined the Khoja's gift, was exceedingly annoyed.

"This Khoja is deriding me!" said he. And then in a voice of thunder he demanded, "_Where is the other leg?_"

"The geese of our country are one-legged," replied Nasr-ed-Deen, with much gravity. "If your Majesty does not believe me, be good enough to let your eyes be informed of the truth of what I say by looking at the geese at yonder spring."

As it happened there were a number of geese at the fountain, and they were all standing on one leg.

The King could not help laughing, but he called to his drummers and said, "March towards yonder fountain, and lay your drumsticks well about your drums."

The drummers forthwith began to drum, and they rattled away so heartily that all the geese put down their legs and ran off in alarm.

"O Khoja!" cried Timur, "how is this? All your geese have become two-legged!"

"It is the effect of your Majesty's wonderful drumsticks," replied the Khoja. "If you were to eat one of them, you yourself would undoubtedly become four-legged."

_Tale_ 47.--The Khoja Rewards the Frogs.

Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi had been riding his donkey for some miles. It was very hot, and the Khoja dismounted to ease his beast. At this moment they came within sight of a pond, and the donkey smelling the water set off towards it as hard as he could canter.

The side of the pond was very steep, and in its haste the donkey would probably have fallen in, but that the frogs set up such a terrific croaking at its approach that the beast, in alarm, turned sharply round, and was caught by its master.

The Khoja was not wanting in grateful and liberal feelings.

"Well done, my little pond-birds!" said he, throwing a handful of coins into the water. "Divide that among you to buy sweetmeats with."

_Tale_ 48.--The Khoja reproaches his Cock.

Once upon a time the Khoja was carrying his fowls in a cage to the city for sale.

As he went along he began to feel sorry for them.

"O my soul!" said he, "these poor fowls are sadly imprisoned. I will let them go a little." So he opened the cage, and the birds scrambled out. One ran one way, and another another; but the Khoja contrived to keep up with the cock, which he drove before him with his stick, the poor bird waddling hither and thither, and fluttering from side to side with distress and indecision pitiable to behold.

On seeing this the Khoja began to reproach him. "You never thought it would come to this, my fine bird, did you?" said he. "And yet what a wiseacre you are! You know when it's day better than the sun himself, and can crow loud enough for all the world to hear your wisdom."

The poor cock made no reply, but waddled on with hoarse cries and flapping wings.

"You're a poor prophet!" said the Khoja. "You know that it is morning in the middle of the night: how is it you could not foresee that you were to be driven to market? Thus--and thus!" And turning him at every corner by which he would escape, the Khoja drove the distracted cock into the city.

_Tale_ 49.--Hare-soup.

One day there came a man from the village who made the Khoja a present of a hare.

The Khoja brought him in, treating him with all honour and hospitality, and gave him some rich and excellent soup.

In a week's time the man called again; but the Khoja had forgotten him, and said, "Who are you?"

"I am the man who brought the hare," he replied. The Khoja entertained him as before, though the soup was not quite so rich.

After a few days came some men who desired to be guests to the Khoja.

"Who are you?" said he.

"We are neighbours of the man who brought the hare," said they.

This time the soup was certainly thin, but that did not hinder the arrival of some fresh guests in a very few days.

"Who are you?" said the Khoja.

"We are neighbours of the neighbours of the man who brought the hare," was the reply.

"You are welcome," said their host; and he set a bowl of clear water before them.

"What is this, O Khoja?" cried the men.

"It is soup of soup of soup of the hare-soup," answered the Khoja.

_Tale_ 50.--The Khoja out Fishing.

One day the Khoja accompanied some men who were going a-fishing, and he became much excited in watching the sport.

Suddenly, as they cast the net into the sea, the Khoja threw himself into it.

"What can you be thinking of, Effendi?" cried the fishermen.

"I forgot," said the Khoja; "I was thinking I was a fish."

_Tale_ 51.--A Desire Satisfied.

Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi had an old cow with horns so exceedingly broad that one could certainly sit between them if he had a mind to do so.

"I should very much like to try," the Khoja kept thinking; "I should exceedingly like to sit for once between those horns."

The notion haunted him, and he kept saying to himself, "I certainly should like it, just for once."

One day the cow came before the house, and after a while lay down.

"The opportunity has arrived," cried the Khoja, and running out, he seated himself between the cow's horns. "It is just as I thought," said he; but as he spoke the cow got up, and tossed the Khoja violently to the ground.

The Khoja was stunned, and when his wife hastened to the spot she found him lying senseless. After some time he opened his eyes, and perceived his wife weeping near him.

"O wife!" said the Khoja, "weep not; I am not less fortunate than other men. I have suffered for it, but I have had my desire."

_Tale_ 52.--The Khoja and the Incompetent Barber.

On one occasion the Khoja was shaved by a most incompetent barber. At every stroke the man cut his head with the razor, and kept sticking on bits of cotton to stop the bleeding.

At last the Khoja lost patience.

"That will do," said he, jumping up: "you've sown cotton on half my head, I'll keep the other half for flax;" and he ran out of the shop with his head half shaved.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: A _Khoja_ is a religious teacher, and sometimes a school-master also.]

THE SNARLING PRINCESS.

(_Freely adapted from the German._)

Ever so long ago there lived a certain king, at whose court great rejoicings were held for the birth of a child. But this joy was soon turned to sorrow, when the young queen died, and left her infant daughter motherless. As the body of the young queen lay in state, wrapped in a shroud of gold all embroidered with flowers, and with so sweet a smile upon her face that she looked like one who dreams happy dreams in sleep, the sorrowing king took the child in his arms, and kneeling by the bier vowed never to marry again, but to make his wife's only child the heir of his crown and kingdom. This promise he faithfully fulfilled, and remaining a widower, he devoted his life to the upbringing of his daughter.

It is true that the young princess had a fairy godmother--a distant cousin of the deceased queen--but the king could not endure that any one but himself should have a voice in the management of his child, and the fairy godmother, who was accustomed to the utmost deference to her opinions, very soon quitted the court in a huff, and left the king as supreme in the nursery as he was in the council-chamber.

When the precious baby was washed, this was done with no common care. The bath itself was made of gold, and the two chief physicians of the kingdom assisted the king by their counsels. When hot water of crystal clearness had been poured into the bath, the more celebrated of the two physicians dipped the tip of his little finger in, and looking inquiringly at his colleague, said "_Hum_." On which the physician of lesser degree dipped in his little finger and said "_Hem_." And after this the water always proved to be of the right temperature, and did the young princess no harm whatever. The king himself on these occasions always dropped--with much state--a few drops of exquisite scent into the bath, from a golden flask studded with diamonds. The chief lady-in-waiting brought the baby, wrapped in gorgeous robes, and put it into the bath. The court doctors laid their fingers on their noses, and looked very important, whilst the king--who was short-sighted--put on his spectacles to enjoy the sight of the little princess, who gambolled in the water like a fish. The rest of her toilette was carried out with no less formality, and as the same scrupulous care watched over every incident of her daily life, the child grew every day more healthy and beautiful.

Time passed on without lessening the king's devotion to his daughter. Her beauty was the standing theme of conversation in every corner of the palace where the king was likely to overhear it, and the courtiers rivalled each other in trying to read the wishes of the little princess in her blue eyes, and in endeavouring to forestall them.

No wonder the little lady grew up exceedingly self-willed, and with no thought of any one's pleasure but her own.

The king hired governesses, it is true, but he strictly forbade them ever to say a harsh word to his darling; and one who had so far transgressed this order as to reprove the princess for some fault, was dismissed in disgrace. Thus it came about that the child grew daily more and more wilful and capricious. Do what every one would, it was impossible to please her, and as she was allowed to fly into a rage about the most trifling matters, and as she sulked and scolded, and growled and grumbled for the smallest annoyances, her voice gradually acquired a peculiar snarling tone, which was as painful to listen to as it was unbecoming in a young and pretty princess.

The whole court suffered from the depressing effects of the young lady's ill-temper. Behind the king's back, the courtiers complained pretty freely, but before his face no one dared show his annoyance, and two old court ladies, whose nerves were not so strong as they had been, and who feared to betray themselves, were obliged to employ a celebrated professor of cosmetics to paint smiles on their faces that could not be disturbed by the snarling and grumbling of the princess; but the Lord Chamberlain concealed his feelings by a free use of his gold snuff-box, and snuffed away his annoyance pretty successfully.

As his daughter grew up, the king was not without his share of suffering from her ill-temper. But he bore it all very patiently,--"She will be a queen," said he to himself, "and it is fit that she should have a will of her own." The king himself was of an imperious temper, but such was his love for his only child, that he bent it completely to her caprices.

In private, the courtiers were by no means so indulgent in their views, and the future queen was known amongst them, behind her back, as the Snarling Princess.

In spite of her ill-temper and unpleasing voice, however, she was so beautiful, that--being also heir to the throne of a large kingdom--many princes sought her hand in marriage. But the Snarling Princess was resolved to reign alone, and she refused every suitor who appeared.

The princess's rooms were, of course, the most beautiful in the palace. One of these, which looked out on to the forest, was her favourite chamber, but it was also the source of her greatest vexation.

Never did she look out of the window towards the wood without snarling in her harshest tone, "Hateful! Intolerable!"

The source of her annoyance was this:

On the edge of the forest, clearly to be seen from her window, there stood a tiny cottage, in which lived an aged woman who was known amongst the poor folks of the neighbourhood as the "Three-legged Wood-wife." This was because of a wooden staff on which she leaned to eke out the failing strength of her own limbs. The wood-wife was both feared and hated by the people, amongst whom she bore the character of a very malicious witch. The king's daughter hated not only her, but her tumble-down house, and had sent again and again, with large offers of gold, to try and purchase the cottage. But the wood-wife laughed spitefully at the messengers, and only replied that the cottage suited her, and that for no money would she quit it whilst she lived.

The poor have their rights, however, as well as the rich, and even the Snarling Princess was obliged to submit to the disappointment at which she could only grumble.

At one time she resolved never to go into her favourite room again. But she could not keep her resolution. Back she went, and some irresistible power always seemed to draw her to the window to irritate herself by the sight of the wretched hovel which belonged to the Three-legged Witch.

At last, however, by constantly snarling and complaining to the king, she induced him to turn the old woman by force out of her cottage. The king, who was just and upright, did so very unwillingly, and he built her a new and much better cottage elsewhere.

The wood-wife could not resist, but she never put her foot across the threshold of the new house. Meanwhile the old hovel was swept away as fast as possible, and by the princess's wish a pretty summer-house was built on the spot where it had stood, and there she and her court ladies were wont to amuse themselves on warm summer evenings to their hearts' content.

One evening the princess strolled out by herself into the forest. She had been in several distinct rages; first with her court ladies, secondly with her dressmaker, thirdly with the sky, which, in spite of her wishes for fine weather, had become overcast with clouds.

In this ill-humour nothing in all the beautiful green forest gave her any satisfaction. She snarled at the birds because they sang so merrily. The rustling of the green fir-tops in the evening breeze annoyed her: "Why should pine-trees have needles instead of leaves?" she asked angrily; and then she grumbled because there were no roses on the juniper bushes. Still snarling, she wandered on, till she came to a spot where she stood still and silent in sheer amazement.

In an open space there was a circle of grotesque-looking stones, strangely linked together by creeping plants and ferns of curious growth. And as the Snarling Princess looked at them, it seemed to her that the stones took dwarf-like shapes, and glared about them with weird elfin faces. The princess seemed rooted to the spot. An invisible power appeared to draw her towards the group, and to attract her by a beautiful flower, whose calyx opened at her approach. Unable to resist the impulse, she stepped into the circle and plucked the flower.

No sooner had she done so than her feet took deep root in the earth, her hair stiffened into fir-needles, and her arms became branches. She was now firmly fixed in the centre of the group of stones, a slender, swaying pine-tree, which creaked and croaked, and snapped and snarled with every gust of wind, as the princess had hardly ever done in her most ill-tempered moments. And as her limbs stiffened under their magical transformation, the hideous figure of the wood-wife might have been seen hovering round the charmed circle, her arms half changed into bird's wings, and her hands into claws. And as the king's daughter fairly turned into a pine-tree, the wood-wife took the form of an owl, and for a moment rested triumphantly on her branches. Then with a shrill "Tu-whit! tu-whoo!" it vanished into the forest.

When the princess did not return to the palace, and all search after her proved utterly vain, the poor old king fell into a state of the deepest melancholy, and spent most of his time in the summer-house, bewailing the mysterious loss of his only child.

One day, many months afterwards, he wandered into the forest. A storm was raging, of which he took no heed. But suddenly he stopped beneath a pine-tree, and looked up--"How like my poor dear daughter's voice!" said he; "especially when she was the least bit in the world--" He did not like to finish the sentence, but sat down under the tree and wept bitterly. And for every tear he shed, the pine-tree dropped a shower of needles. For the Snarling Princess recognized her father, and heartily lamented the pain he suffered now, and had so often suffered before on her account.

"Tu-whit! tu-whoo!" said a voice, from a hole beneath the pine-tree.

"Who speaks?" said the king.

"It is I, cousin," said the owl, hopping into the daylight, and gradually assuming the form and features of the fairy godmother. "You did not know me as the Three-legged Wood-wife, whom you so unjustly sacrificed to your daughter's caprices. But I have had a hand in her education after all! For twelve months has she croaked and creaked, snapped and snarled, beneath the summer heat, the winter snow, and the storms of spring and autumn. Her punishment--and yours--is over."

As the fairy godmother spoke, the pine-tree became a princess once more, and fell into her father's arms.

But the wood-wife took again the shape of an owl, and the enchanted stones became bats, and they all disappeared into the shadows of the forest.

And as the princess shortly afterwards married a very charming prince, she no doubt changed her name.

Certainly she was never more known as the Snarling Princess.

THE LITTLE PARSNIP-MAN.

(_Freely adapted from the German._)

WHAT PETER FOUND IN THE PAN--AN UGLY SMILE--THE WIDOW'S RECKONINGS--REST BY RUSHLIGHT.

On a cold winter's evening it is very cosy to sit by a warm hearth, where the fire crackles pleasantly, and the old saucepan, which Mother has set on the fire, sings monotonously to itself between-whiles.

On such a night the wind howled in the street without, beat upon the window-panes, and rustled through the trees, which stood, tall and leafless, in the big garden over the way.

Little Peter did not trouble his head on the subject. He sat indoors on a little footstool, near the fire, and close also to his mother, who was busy cutting up parsnips for next day's dinner.

Peter paid great attention as his mother took a well-boiled parsnip out of the saucepan, scraped it, cut it, and laid the pieces on a clean white dish.

His mother's thoughts were elsewhere. She looked sad and pensive. Only from time to time she nodded across the dish towards her little Peter, and when he got up and came and laid his head in her lap, she gently smoothed his fair hair from his brow, and then she smiled too.

Peter had no idea that his mother was sad. He had got another parsnip out of the pan, and wanted to scrape it all by himself; but he was not very skilful, and he worked so slowly that in the end his mother had to finish it for him.

The next thing he did was to upset the saucepan; the parsnips fell out, and Peter began to count them.

All at once he gave a cry that made his mother jump. He had found a parsnip-root that looked exactly like a little man. It had a regular head of its own, with a long nose, its body was short, and it had two shrivelled stringy little legs; arms it had none.

"That's a little Parsnip-man," said his mother, when Peter showed it to her.

"A Parsnip-man?" muttered Peter below his breath, and he gazed doubtfully at the odd-looking root in his hand.

It seemed to him that the little man was smiling at him; but with a very ugly kind of smile.

Suddenly the stove gave such a loud crack, that Peter let the parsnip fall out of his hands with a start.

"What's the matter?" asked his mother, as Peter buried his face in her arms; for he began to feel frightened.

"The little Parsnip-man grinned so nastily at me, and such a loud noise came out of the stove--and I let him fall!" His mother laughed at him.

"You've been dreaming," said she. "The little man could not smile if he tried. The Parsnip-mannikins are only roots in the day-time, you know. It is at midnight, when you have long, long been asleep, and the church clock strikes twelve, that they come to life. Then away they all go to the great cave where the queen dwells in state, and here they hold high festival. There they dance, sing, play, and eat out of golden dishes. But as soon as the clock strikes one, all is over, and the Parsnip-men are only roots once more.

"But you've fallen asleep," she added. "Come, my child, and I'll put you to bed. You are tired, are you not?"

"Yes, I'll go to bed," said little Peter, rubbing his drowsy eyes. So his mother took him into the bedroom and lighted the rushlight. Then she undressed him and put him to bed. And Peter had hardly touched the pillow before he was fast asleep.

But the mother went back to the kitchen-table, and seated herself once more by the light of the dimly-burning lamp. The parsnips were all cut up long ago. She put the dish aside and began to sew. Now and then she paused in her work to lean back in her chair, and tears welled up in her eyes. Perhaps she remembered that the rent was due, or she may have been reflecting that Peter's jacket was past further patching. In either case she began to count over in her mind a certain small stock of savings which she had laid by in a money-box, and to puzzle her poor head what she should turn her hand to next to earn the wherewithal to buy the boy some decent clothes. Nothing likely suggested itself, however, and with a heavy sigh she bent once more over her work and stitched away faster than ever. For the work she was doing had to be taken home next morning; and there was a great deal yet to do if she hoped to get it finished in time, and to pay her rent with the price of it.

After sitting like this for a while, she got up. Her eyes ached, and it was getting late. The big kitchen clock was on the stroke of twelve. She put her sewing away in her work-basket, and carried the saucepan and the dish of parsnips into the scullery. Then she swept up the spare roots into a corner of the hearth, and put the little stool tidily away under the table.

But she could not see anything of the parsnip which Peter had let fall. Possibly it had rolled behind the stove.

"I shall be sure to find it in the morning, when I light the fire," she thought.

She put out the lamp, and stepped softly into the chamber where the rushlight burned dimly. Then with one passing glance at the sleeping boy, she undressed herself and prepared for bed.

In a few moments more all her cares and troubles had vanished in slumber.

THE LITTLE MAN IN THE YELLOW COAT--A MOUSE-RIDE AT MIDNIGHT--THE HOLE IN THE WALL--AMONG THE PARSNIP-MEN--QUEEN MARY--THE BLUE DRESS--A CAKE-FEAST--ONE!

Little Peter had been asleep for a long time, when all at once he found himself suddenly twitched by the arm. He rolled over, rubbed his eyes, and then, to his amazement, saw the little Parsnip-man sitting by him on the quilt.

He did not look a bit like a parsnip now. He had on a long yellow coat, and a little green hat on his head; and he nodded in quite a friendly way to Peter.

"Come along! Be quick!" he said. "We must be off. But wrap up well, for it's cold outside."

"Where are we going to?" asked little Peter. "Into the cave? And is Mamma going too?"

"No," said the little man. "She's stopping at home. But do be quick, for the feast has begun."

And with that he gave such a jump on to the floor that the boards fairly creaked again, and little Peter, slipped out of bed after him. The little Parsnip-man helped him on with his shoes and stockings, and Peter put on the rest of his clothes himself.

Then the Mannikin pulled out a little whistle and blew on it. Immediately there was a rustling under the bed, and then two mice peeped out.

In a moment the Parsnip-man caught one, and vaulted on to its back.

"You get on the other," he said to Peter.

"But it isn't big enough to carry me," said Peter doubtfully.

"Get up, I tell you!" said the little man, laughing.

Peter did as he was told. Doubtless he had been growing smaller, for when he was fairly astride he sat the mouse as if it had been made for him. As to the mouse, it kept perfectly still for Peter to mount.

"Now, sit fast!" cried the Mannikin; and Peter had hardly seized the ears of the mouse (for want of reins), when his new steed ran away with him under the bed.

Then all of a sudden it became quite dark.

"Where are we?" cried Peter, for the mouse galloped on, and Peter was getting frightened.

"We are in the cellar," the voice of the Parsnip-man replied at his side. "Don't be frightened; it will be light again in a minute or two."

Accordingly, in a few moments, Peter could see all around him. They had emerged from the cellar, and were now in the street. The wind had fallen, and there was a dead calm. The street-lamps were burning with a somewhat dim light, however.

Peter could now plainly see the form of the little Parsnip-man riding beside him. The mice scampered on and on.

A watchman was standing in the doorway of a house. His halberd reposed against the wall beside him. Probably the watchman himself was reposing, for he never moved when the mice and their riders went by. They rode to the end of the street, and there, before an old deserted house which Peter had often shuddered to look at in the daytime, the mice stopped.

"Here we are!" said the Parsnip-man, jumping down from his mouse.

Peter dismounted more leisurely, and the two mice ran off.

It was almost pitch dark by the old house. Only one distant lamp gave a feeble glimmer. The Parsnip-man whistled as before. By and by Peter heard a sound like "Bst! bst!"

He looked all round, but could see nothing. At this moment the Mannikin caught him by the arm and pointed upwards to a hole in the wall of the old house. Peter then perceived that something was moving higher up, and very shortly he heard a rustling noise as if a ladder of ropes were being let down from above.

"Come quickly!" said a shrill, slender voice. "The chimes have sounded once since the hour. The Queen is waiting."

"Climb on to my shoulders, Peter," said the Parsnip-man, stooping as he spoke. Peter did so, and held fast by the little man's neck, who climbed nimbly up the rope-ladder to the opening in the wall above; and there Peter got down.

Here there stood another Parsnip-man with a little lantern in his hand, which he turned on Peter's face, and then nodded to him in a friendly way. After which he unhooked the rope-ladder and drew it up.

The two Parsnip-men now took Peter between them, each holding a hand. They went through long dark passages, and then they began to go down-stairs. Peter counted a hundred steps, but still they went down, down, and he could count no more.

All at once he heard music, which sounded as if it came from a distance. They were now at the bottom of the steps, and walking on level ground. The further they went the louder grew the music, and at last the Parsnip-men came to a standstill.

The one who held the lantern threw its light upon the wall till it disclosed a knob, on which he pressed. Then he put out his lantern, and all was dark. But the music sounded louder than before.

Suddenly the wall parted and moved aside, and Peter could hardly restrain his cries of astonishment, for what he now saw was like nothing he had ever seen before. He was looking into a great big hall. It was as light as day. Dazzling lustres of crystal, with thousands and thousands of wax tapers, whose flames were reflected from the mirrors suspended round the room, hung from the roof. Strange music shook the walls, and to the time of this music hundreds and hundreds of little Parsnip-men twirled and danced. All of them were dressed in yellow coats and green hats, and many of them wore long white beards. And oh, how they chirped and smirked, and laughed and jumped about, as if they were mad!

For a long time Peter stood bewildered. At last the little Parsnip-men who had brought him so far led him right into the room, and the wall closed behind them.

"Now for the Queen!" whispered one of them. "Come along."

They went down the side of the room, against the wall of which were ranged chairs with grand purple coverings and gilded arms. Once or twice Peter nearly slipped, so polished was the floor. From time to time some little Parsnip-man in the company nodded to him; otherwise no one paid much attention to him.

In this way they reached the farther end of the hall, where there was a throne, raised on a dais and covered by a canopy hung with purple. It was something like the throne Peter once saw when his aunt took him with her to the palace. A few steps led up to the throne, with a wonderfully elaborate balustrade made of gold.

The little mannikins seized his hands and led him up the steps between them. Then they drew back the purple curtains, and displayed a grand throne on which was seated a little girl in a snow-white dress. On her head she wore a little gold crown, from which hung a long transparent veil. She was resting her head on her hand, and did not look up till Peter and the Parsnip-men were quite close to her. Then she gave a cry of joy.

"So you've come at last, Peter!" she cried, her eyes brightening with delight; and as she took his hand, he saw that she was no other than his favourite playfellow and neighbour, little Mary.

There was a second seat beside her, and to this she drew Peter. Then she beckoned to the Parsnip-men, and said, "You have got everything ready, have you not?" The Parsnip-men bowed low, and hurried away.

In a minute or two they returned, followed by about thirty mannikins like themselves, who bore a magnificent dress which they deposited before Peter. There was a coat of blue silk, turned up with fur, and trimmed with precious stones. Besides this there were knee-breeches of the same material, slashed with white and fringed with gold, white silk stockings, and smart shoes with gold buckles. To complete the whole, there lay on the top a cap, with a heron's plume fastened by an aigrette of gold.

But Peter's attention all this time had been fixed upon Mary. He fancied she looked bigger than usual and unfamiliar in some way.

"Take the clothes into that room," said she to the little men; "and you, Peter," she added, "go with them and dress. Then we will go to supper."

"But--er--does your mamma know you're here?" asked Peter. He could not get over his amazement at the style and tone in which little Mary issued her orders in this strange place.

"I should think not!" laughed the little girl. "But never mind, Peter: we shall soon be at home again. What you've got to do just now is to put on your things."

As if in a dream, Peter went into the room into which the clothes had been taken, and where the little men helped him to take off his things and dress himself in his new-finery. Some of them then brought a long mirror, in which Peter could see himself from head to foot, and he fairly laughed with delight at his fine appearance in his new clothes.

Then the little men led him back to the Queen, who looked him well over, and she also smiled complacently.

"Did you bring your doll, Mary?" said Peter presently.

"That's not very likely," replied she. "It would not do for a queen to play at dolls."

"Have you been a queen very long?" Peter inquired.

"For several years," said Mary.

"But you and I were playing together only yesterday," said poor Peter, in puzzled tones.

But Mary had turned her back to him, and was pulling a bell at the back of her throne.

Although the music was still going on, the clear tone of the bell which the Queen had rung was heard above every other sound.

The music and the dancing stopped at once.

"Come, Peter, give me your arm," said Mary. "We're going into the supper-room."

They stepped down into the hall, where all the Parsnip-men had now ranged themselves in two long rows, down the centre of which the Queen and her companion now passed, and then the Parsnip-men closed in and formed a long procession behind them.

In this way they came to the other end of the hall. The large folding-doors swung open, and Peter fancied he was looking into a large garden. But it was only another hall in which tall foreign-looking trees were planted, whilst many-tinted flowers of gorgeous colours and strange shapes hung from the walls, and hither and thither among them flitted curious birds of many hues. As in the first hall, crystal lustres with wax tapers descended from the roof, and in the middle of the room, to which they now advanced, was a long table covered with a white table-cloth, and laid out with gold and silver plate of all sorts. There were golden vases with handles, golden tankards, golden dessert-dishes filled with splendid fruits; silver plates and goblets and drinking-cups, and beside them stood crystal flasks. Hundreds of chairs were placed round the table, and in every place was a little silver knife and a plate.

Peter could not gaze long enough. He wanted to stop every moment, but Mary only laughed, and dragged him on.

About the middle of the long table there was a dais raised above the level on which the other chairs and table stood. It was covered by a canopy of yellow silk, and under this was a table more richly laid out than the big one, and two seats of pure gold. To this Mary led Peter, and then said emphatically--"These are _our_ seats."

Up they climbed, and then Mary dropped Peter's arm and sat down on one of the seats, and he seated himself beside her on the other.

From his present elevation Peter was well able to observe the Parsnip-men as they passed by in procession, and took their places on the chairs.

When all were seated the music recommenced. Then out of a side door came about fifty mannikins carrying large cakes on silver dishes, which they set down on the long table, and having cut them up handed them round to the guests. Others poured red or golden wine from the vases into the goblets. Everybody ate and drank, and chatted and laughed between-whiles.

Among the golden dishes on the golden table where Peter and Mary sat, was one which held a cake which had a particularly inviting smell. Mary cut a piece off and put it on to Peter's golden plate. Then, from a beautiful golden goblet, she poured ruby-coloured wine into their crystal glasses.

Peter ate and drank with great relish, and soon disposed of the cake and wine.

"I should like to have some of that beautiful fruit, too, if I may," said he. And as he spoke Mary filled his plate with grapes, apples, and pears.

"Eat away, Peter!" said she, laughing till her white teeth shone through her lips. "Don't be afraid of emptying the dish. There is plenty more fruit if we want it."

"I should like to take some home to Mamma," said Peter, biting into an apple. "May I, Mary?"

Mary nodded kindly, and handed him a golden dish full of sweetmeats, saying, "Put as many of these into your pocket as you like." And he filled his pockets accordingly.

Peter felt as happy as a king. His head was quite turned. He shouted aloud for joy, and swung his legs backwards and forwards as he sat on his golden chair.

"But I say, Mary," said he, laughing, "we shall go on playing together the same as ever, sha'n't we? I shall bring my leaden soldiers, and you'll bring your dolls again, won't you?"

But at this moment Mary seized his arm, and whispered in a frightened voice--"Hush, Peter, hush! Don't you hear?"

The music had suddenly ceased, and with it all the talking and laughing at the long table, and in the silence the sound of the church clock could be distinctly heard. _It struck one._

At one stroke--the lights went out, a blast of wind blew through the banqueting-room, and then all was as still as death.

* * * * *

LEFT ALONE IN THE DARK--MOTHER--THE PARSNIP-MAN BY DAYLIGHT--THREE POUNDS.

Peter sat in his chair, as if petrified with terror, Mary still holding fast by his arm.

"Quick, quick!" she cried, breathlessly. "We must get away from here." Then she let his arm go, and hurried away from him.

"Wait, wait!" he cried, anxiously; "I don't know where I am. Take me with you, Mary! I can't see my way. Mary! Mary! Mary!"

Nobody replied.

Peter slid down from his chair and groped his way forward till he knocked against the corner of the table. Terror fairly overcame him, and he cried--"Mother! Mother! Mother!"

"What's the matter, dear?" said his mother's gentle voice.

"I am here, Mother," cried Peter; "but I am so frightened! Mary has run away and left me all alone in the dark hall."

"Come, Peter, come; collect yourself," said his mother, who was standing by the bed where poor Peter was sitting straight up with an anxious face, down which big tears were running.

"You're here, Peter, you know; in your own little bed," said his mother, putting her arms round him.

Peter began to take heart a little, and looked round him with big wide-open eyes.

"But how did I get here?" he asked, still stupefied with sleep.

"You've never been anywhere else, you know," said his mother.

"But I know the Parsnip-man took me away, and I rode on the mouse, too," said little Peter.

"Nonsense, nonsense; you're still dreaming. There, get up and put on your clothes."

"But I want the other clothes, the beautiful blue dress. These things are so dreadfully patched and darned," said Peter, in a lamentable tone. "And I have brought something nice for you too, Mother dear. It's in the pockets of the blue coat."

"You haven't got a blue coat, child," said his mother. "Come, come. Put on your clothes and come into the warm kitchen." And she carried Peter out into the arm-chair by the breakfast-table, and began to pour out some coffee for him. And she put the Parsnip-man (who had been lying all night behind the stove) into his hand. "See," she continued, "here's your Parsnip-man, about whom you have been dreaming all this fine nonsense."

Peter examined it with eager eyes. It looked exactly the same as it had done the night before.

"But Mary was there too," he said, still doubtfully. "She is the Queen of the Parsnip-men, you know. And she gave me cake and wine and fruit."

"Well, we'll ask her about it next time she comes," said his mother, laughing.

Just then there was a knock at the door. The mother hastened to open it, and found a messenger waiting with a letter in his hand which had several seals on it. It was addressed to herself, and beside the address was written, "_Three pounds enclosed._" Having given a small sum to the messenger for his trouble, the widow broke the seals of the letter with trembling fingers. The three pounds were duly enclosed, but no letter accompanied the welcome money.

Overcome with joy, the widow seized Peter, who had crept curiously to her side, in her arms and exclaimed with delight, "Ah! you shall have a nice blue dress, after all, my child."

But when the boy asked, "Who has sent us all this money, Mother?" all she could say was, "I wish I knew, my dear. But you see there is no letter with it."

Then Peter smiled expressively, but said nothing, for he thought--"Mother won't believe me, I know. But who can the money have come from, except from the little Parsnip-man?"

A CHILD'S WISHES.

(_From the German of R. Reinick._)

A certain old knight had a little daughter called Gertrude; and when his brother died, leaving an only son, he took the boy into his castle, and treated him as his own son. The boy's name was Walter. The two children lived together like brother and sister; they only played where they could play together, and were of one heart and of one soul. But one day, when Gertrude had gone out alone to pick flowers beyond the castle gate, some gipsies came along the high-road, who stole the child and took her away. No one knew what had become of her; the poor old father died of grief, and Walter wept long days and nights for his Gertrude.

At last there came a warm spring day, when the trees began to bud, and Walter went out into the wood. There, in a beautiful green spot, a brook bubbled under the trees, where he had often sat with Gertrude, floating little boats of nutshells on the stream. He sat down there now, cut himself a hazel stick for a hobby-horse, and as he did so he said to himself--

"Ah! if I were but a grown-up knight, as tall and stately as those who used to come to my uncle's castle, I would ride out into the wide world and look for Gertrude!"

Meanwhile, he heard something screaming near him, and when he looked up he saw a raven, which was stuck so fast between two branches of a tree that it could not move, whilst a snake was gliding towards it to devour it. Walter hastily seized his stick, beat the snake to death, and set the raven free.

"A thousand thanks, my dear child!" said the raven, who had flown up into a tree, from which he spoke--"a thousand thanks! And now, since you have saved my life, wish for whatever you like, and it shall be granted immediately. A year hence we will speak of this again."

When Walter heard this, he saw at once that the raven was an enchanted bird, and exclaimed with joy--

"I should like to be a noble knight with a helmet and a shield, a charger and a sword!"

All happened just as he wished. In an instant he was a tall, stately knight; his shield stood near him, and his hobby-horse became a proud charger, which, to show that it was no ghost, but a real horse of flesh and blood, began then and there to drink out of the stream.

At first, Walter could not think what had happened to him, but stood as if he were in a dream. Soon, however, a new life seemed to wake within him; he swung himself on to his horse with all the energy of youth, and rode far out into the land to look for little Gertrude.

Like other knights, he met with many adventures on his way. There was always something to contend with, either wild beasts or else knights, who, like himself, roved about the country delighting to find any one with whom they could do battle. On every occasion, however, Walter came off conqueror, for he was far more valiant than any of his opponents.