Chapter VI: Part 6

“Do I look like a brook-sweeper?” answered Coquerico. “Help yourself; I’m off to Madrid to see the king.” And on he went, hippety-hop, hippety-hop.

A little farther on Coquerico saw the wind lying breathless on the ground. “Dear friend, help me,” it cried; “here on earth we should help one another. If you will fan me a little with your wing I shall have strength to rise to my place among the clouds, where I am needed for the next whirlwind.”

“Do I look like a wind-bellows,” answered Coquerico; “help yourself. I am off to Madrid to see the king.” And on he went, hippety-hop, hippety-hop.

A little farther on he came to a newly mown field, where the farmers had piled up the weeds to burn them. As he stopped his hippety-hop to search among a smoking heap for a kernel of corn, he saw a little flame, barely flickering, it was so nearly out.

“My dear friend,” cried the flame, faintly, “will you bring me a few dry straws to rekindle me that I may burn brightly?”

“Do I look like a servant?” cried Coquerico, haughtily; “I’ll teach you to call out to a fowl that has business with the king.” And he leaped on the heap of dried weeds and trampled it down till it smothered the flame! Then he flapped his one wing and crowed three times, “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” as if he had done something to be proud of.

And so strutting and crowing, though he had to go hippety-hop, he arrived at Madrid and the king’s palace. Grand and beautiful as it was, he did not stop to look at it, but made for the hen yard, stopping every second step to crow, “Cock-a-doodle,” to tell the king and all the world he was coming.

In the hen yard there was of course no king, but a boy with a paper cap on his head and sleeves tucked up and a great sharp knife in his hand. “A scullion, I suppose,” said Coquerico to himself, “but he will not stop me; I have business with the king.”

“Well, you’re an odd one,” cried the boy, coming over to look at the new-comer. “Cook wants a rare bird for the king’s dinner, you’re just in time.” And he seized Coquerico and carried him into the kitchen.

Here the cook popped him into a pot of water and left him, and with the boy went out of the kitchen to attend to something else.

The water began to get warm and then hot. “Oh, Madame Water,” cried Coquerico, becoming all at once as meek as a dove, “good and gentle water, best and purest in the world, do not scald me, I beg of you.”

“Did you show any pity, selfish wretch?” answered the Water, boiling with indignation. Coquerico leaped out of the pot, knocking off the cover, only to land on the fire.

“Oh, Fire, Fire, do not burn me,” he cried, dancing around on his back; “oh, beautiful and brilliant flame, brother of the sun, and cousin of the shining diamond, do not roast me.”

“Did you have any pity, you selfish wretch?” cried the Fire, blazing so fiercely with anger that the chick in frightful pain leaped out of a window near by.

But as he landed on the flagging the Wind caught him and whirled him up. “Oh, Wind,” shrieked Coquerico, faintly, “oh, kindly Wind, oh, cooling breeze, you make me so dizzy my head reels. Pray let me down that I may rest.”

“Let you rest,” roared the Wind, “wait and I’ll teach you, you selfish wretch.”

And with one blast it sent him up so high that as he fell down he stuck on a steeple.

There, if you look, you may see him to this very day, forced at last to help others in this world, a weathervane.

—SPANISH FOLK TALE

THE SCARECROW

Once upon a time there was an old black crow, as old as the hills. And once there was a scarecrow, brand new to his business. The scarecrow was made of a corn stalk wearing the farmer’s cast-off hat and coat.

The very first day he took up his post in the cornfield, the old black crow, flying over, laughed at his disguise.

“Caw, caw, caw,” she cried,
“I know you, poor old stalk,
Bloodless is your body,
You neither run nor walk.”

The scarecrow kept his temper and said nothing, and this looks as if he were clever. For the old crow had to take herself off without knowing what he was thinking of.

Now the scarecrow _was_ clever. He made friends with Magic Darkness and Moving Wind. He had made up his mind to frighten thieving crows away, no matter how old and knowing they might be. And that very evening when the old black crow, as old as the hills, came flying toward the cornfield, with her five black children after her, he whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.”

And they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent his body and pushed his arms together so that he looked exactly as if he were the farmer stooping to load a gun.

When the old black crow saw this, she whispered, “Turn back, children, and don’t speak for your lives;” and although she was as old as the hills, she turned tail as fast as she could, with her five black children after her. When she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of an apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, she breathed more freely.

“Oh, my children,” she panted, “it was no cornstalk scarecrow at all; it was the farmer himself, alive and loading his gun for us.”

But when she awoke in the morning light, she felt rather puzzled. “I’ve seen a good many scarecrows in my time,” she said; “I should know a man from a shadow. I’ll go and have a look at him in broad daylight.”

So as soon as breakfast was over and the crow children had gone to school to hear how featherless children make crow’s nests with their fingers, she spread her wings for the cornfield where she had seen the brand new scarecrow. There he stood as plain a humbug as ever deceived the eyes of a blind crow.

“I’m not old enough to be blind yet,” she said; “you’re a dried-up cornstalk if ever there was one. You’ll not frighten me this evening and send me and my children scurrying home.” And she sang mockingly,

“Caw, caw, caw,
I know you, poor old stalk,
Bloodless is your body,
You neither run nor walk.”

But the clever scarecrow kept his temper and answered never a word. So again the old crow had to take herself off no wiser about his thoughts.

Well, toward evening along came flying again the old black crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. And again the scarecrow whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.” And they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent his body and pushed his arms together, then straightened him suddenly, like this, halfway, and held his arms out in front, one hand beyond the other, so, as if he were searching for the trigger of a gun.

When the old crow saw him she cried, “Turn back, children, at once,” turning herself so suddenly that she bumped into the beak of the first little crow behind her. It was not until she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of the apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, and had rested a minute, that she breathed freely.

“Oh, my children,” she said, “without doubt it was no scarecrow; it was the farmer, alive, and placing his finger on the trigger of his gun to shoot us.”

But again when she awoke in the morning light she felt puzzled. “It’s very strange,” she said. “I’ve seen a good many scarecrows in my time. I should know a man from a shadow. I’ll have another look at him in the broad daylight.”

So, as soon as breakfast was over and the crow children had gone to school to hear how featherless grown-ups get crow’s feet on their faces, she spread her wings for the cornfield. There stood the scarecrow as plain a humbug as ever deceived the eyes of a blind crow.

“Well,” she said, “unless blindness is catching and the bats gave it to me, you’re a dried-up corn stalk if ever there was one. If an old crow that was living before you were even thought of knows anything, you’ll not frighten me this evening!” And she sang mockingly,

“Caw, caw, caw,
I know you, poor old stalk,
Bloodless is your body,
You neither run nor walk.”

But the clever scarecrow kept his temper, and answered never a word. So again the old crow had to take herself off no wiser about his thoughts.

Well, all good things go in threes, as every child who knows more than a crow can tell you. So the third evening along came flying the old black crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. And the third time he whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.” And the third time they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent him sharply down, lifted him halfway with his arms held out, one hand beyond the other, like this; then suddenly straightened him up with arms pointing up at the crows.

“Don’t shoot, dear farmer,” shrieked the old crow. She hadn’t time to turn tail. “My children and I will let your corn alone until you have harvested it.”

Immediately Moving Wind dropped the scarecrow’s armless sleeves and brought his hat back to its position on the top of the stalk. And away flew the old crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. When she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of the apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, and she had rested two minutes, she said, “My children, keep away from that field until I tell you the corn has been gathered in.”

When the corn was harvested, the old black crow and her five black children went gleaning to pick up the kernels that had dropped, and fat eating they had. And the scarecrow let them enjoy their meal in peace; his duty was done.

—ANGELA M. KEYES

OEYVIND AND MARIT

There was once a boy named Oeyvind who lived in a hut at the foot of a steep rocky hill. On the roof of the hut walked a little goat. It was Oeyvind’s own. Oeyvind kept it there so that it should not go astray, and he carried up leaves and grass to it.

But one fine day the goat leaped down, and away it went up the hill until it came where it never had been before. When Oeyvind ran out of the hut after dinner, he missed his little goat and at once thought of the fox. He looked all about, calling, “Killy-killy-killy-goat!”

“Bay-ay-ay,” said the goat, from the top of the hill, as it cocked its head on one side and looked down. And at the side of the goat kneeled a little girl.

“Is it yours, this goat?” she asked.

Oeyvind stared at her, with eyes and mouth wide open, and asked, “Who are you?”

“I am Marit, mother’s little one, father’s fiddle, grandfather’s elf, four years old in the autumn, two days after the frost nights.”

“Are you, though?” he said, as soon as he could get his breath.

“Is it yours, this goat?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I should like it. You will not give it to me?”

“No, that I won’t.”

Marit lay down, kicking her legs and looking up at him, and then she said, “Not if I give you a butter cake for him?”

Oeyvind had eaten butter cake only once in his life, when his grandfather came to visit; anything like it he had never eaten before nor since. “Let me see the butter cake first,” said he.

It didn’t take Marit long to pull out a large cake. “Here it is,” she said, and threw it down to him.

“Ow, it went to pieces,” said the boy. He gathered up every crumb, and he couldn’t help tasting a very small one. That was so good he had to eat another. Before he knew it he had eaten up the whole cake.

“Now the goat is mine,” said the girl, and she laughed and clapped her hands. The boy stopped with the last bit in his mouth.

“Wait a little while?” he begged, for he loved his little goat.

The small girl got up quickly. “No, the goat is mine,” she said, and she threw her arms around its neck. She loosened one of her garters and fastened it round the goat’s neck and began pulling the goat after her. The goat would not follow: it stretched its neck down to see Oeyvind. “Bay-ay-ay,” it said. But the girl took hold of its fleece with one hand and pulled the string with the other, and said, sweetly, “Come, little goat, you shall go into my room and eat out of my apron.” And then she sang,

“Come, boy’s goat,
Come, mother’s calf,
Come, mewing cat
In snow-white shoes;
Come, yellow ducks,
Come out of your hiding-place;
Come little chickens,
Who can hardly go;
Come, my doves
With soft feathers;
See, the grass is wet,
But the sun does you good:
And early, early, is it in summer,
But call for the autumn, and it will come.”

And away she went with the goat, calling on all living things she loved to follow her.

The boy stood still as a stone. He had taken care of the goat since the winter before, and he had never thought he would lose it. But now it was gone in a moment and he would never see it again. He lay down and wept.

His mother came along and saw him crying. “What are you crying about?” she asked.

“Oh, the goat, the goat!”

“Yes, where is the goat?” asked the mother, looking up at the roof.

“It will never come back,” said the boy.

“Why, how could that happen!”

He could not tell her at once.

“Has the fox taken it?”

“No, oh, no.”

“Are your wits gone,” said his mother; “what has become of the goat?”

“Oh-h-h—I sold it for—for—a cake!”

As soon as he had said it he knew what it was to sell the goat for a cake.

“What can the little goat think of you, to sell him for a cake?” said his mother.

The boy was so sorry that he said to himself he would never again do anything wrong. He would never cut the thread on the spinning-wheel, he would never let the goats out of the fold, he would never go down to the sea alone. He fell asleep where he lay, and he dreamed that the little goat had gone to heaven and that he sat alone on the roof and could not go to it.

Suddenly there came something wet close up to his ear. He started up. “Bay-ay-ay!” it said. It was the little goat come back.

“What, have you come back?” he cried. He jumped up, took it by the forelegs, and danced with it as if it were a brother. He tickled it and pulled its beard, and set off with it to the hut to tell his mother the good news.

Just then he heard someone behind him; it was the little girl.

“Oh, so it was you brought it back?” said he.

“Grandfather would not let me keep it,” said she; “he is waiting near for me.”

A sharp voice called out, “Now!” It was her grandfather’s, and she remembered what she was to do. She put one of her muddy hands into Oeyvind’s and said, “I beg your pardon for taking the little goat.” Then she could keep in no longer; she threw her arms around the goat’s neck and wept aloud.

“You may have the goat,” said Oeyvind.

“Make haste,” cried grandfather. So Marit had to go, and Oeyvind had his little goat again.

—BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON

BLUNDER

Blunder was going to the Wishing-Gate, to wish for a pair of Shetland Ponies, and a little coach, like Tom Thumb’s. And of course you may have your wish, if you once get there. But the thing is, to find it; for it is not, as you imagine, a great gate, with a tall marble pillar on each side, and a sign over the top, like this, WISHING-GATE,—but just an old stile, made of three sticks. Put up two fingers, cross them on the top with another finger, and you have it exactly,—the way it looks, I mean,—a worm-eaten stile, in a meadow; and as there are plenty of old stiles in meadows, how are you to know which is the one?

Blunder’s fairy godmother knew, but then she could not tell him, for that was not according to fairy rules and regulations. She could only direct him to follow the road, and ask the way of the first owl he met; and over and over she charged him, for Blunder was a very careless little boy, and seldom found anything, “Be sure you don’t miss him,—be sure you don’t pass him by.” And so far Blunder had come on very well, for the road was straight; but at the turn it forked. Should he go through the wood or turn to the right? There was an owl nodding in a tall oak-tree, the first owl Blunder had seen; but he was a little afraid to wake him up, for Blunder’s fairy godmother had told him that this was a great philosopher, who sat up all night to study the habits of frogs and mice, and knew everything but what went on in the daylight, under his nose; and he could think of nothing better to say to this great philosopher than, “Good Mr. Owl, will you please show me the way to the Wishing-Gate?”

“Eh! what’s that?” cried the owl, starting out of his nap. “Have you brought me a frog?”

“No,” said Blunder, “I did not know that you would like one. Can you tell me the way to Wishing-Gate?”

“Wishing-Gate! Wishing-Gate!” hooted the owl, very angry. “Winks and naps! how dare you disturb me for such a thing as that? Do you take me for a mile-stone? Follow your nose, sir, follow your nose!”—and, ruffling up his feathers, the owl was asleep again in a moment.

But how could Blunder follow his nose? His nose would turn to the right, or take him through the woods, whichever way his legs went, and “what was the use of asking the owl,” thought Blunder, “if this was all?” While he hesitated, a chipmunk came scurrying down the path, and, seeing Blunder, stopped short with a little squeak.

“Good Mrs. Chipmunk,” said Blunder, “can you tell me the way to the Wishing-Gate?”

“I can’t, indeed,” answered the chipmunk, politely. “What with getting in nuts, and the care of a young family, I have so little time to visit anything! But if you will follow the brook, you will find an old water-sprite under a slanting stone, over which the water pours all day with a noise like wabble! wabble! who, I have no doubt, can tell you all about it.”

So Blunder went on up the brook, and, seeing nothing of the water-sprite, or the slanting-stone, was just saying to himself, “I am sure I don’t know where he is,—I can’t find it,” when he spied a frog sitting on a wet stone.

“Mr. Frog,” asked Blunder, “can you tell me the way to the Wishing-Gate?”

“I cannot,” said the frog. “I am very sorry, but the fact is, I am an artist. Young as I am, my voice is already remarked at our concerts, and I devote myself so entirely to my profession of music that I have no time for general information. But in a pine-tree beyond, you will find an old crow, who, I am quite sure, can show you the way, as he is a traveler, and a bird of an inquiring turn of mind.”

“I don’t know where the pine is,—I am sure I can never find him,” answered Blunder, discontentedly; but still he went on up the brook, till, hot and tired, and out of patience at seeing neither crow nor pine, he sat down under a great tree to rest. There he heard tiny voices squabbling. And looking about him, Blunder spied a bee, quarreling with a morning-glory elf, who was shutting up the morning-glory in his face.

“Elf, do you know which is the way to the Wishing-Gate?” asked Blunder.

“No,” said the elf, “I don’t know anything about geography. I was always too delicate to study. But if you will keep on in this path, you will find a Dream-man, coming down from fairyland, with his bags of dreams on his shoulder; and if anybody can tell you about the Wishing-Gate, he can.”

“But how can I find him?” asked Blunder, more and more impatient.

“I don’t know, I am sure,” answered the elf, “unless you look for him.”

So there was no help for it but to go on; and presently Blunder passed the Dream-man, asleep under a witch-hazel, with his bags of good and bad dreams laid over him to keep him from fluttering away. But Blunder had a habit of not using his eyes, for at home, when told to find anything, he always said, “I don’t know where it is,” or, “I can’t find it,” and then his mother or sister went straight and found it for him. So he passed the Dream-man without seeing him, and went on till he stumbled on Jack-o’-Lantern.

“Can you show me the way to the Wishing-Gate?” said Blunder.

“Certainly, with pleasure,” answered Jack, and, catching up his lantern, set out at once.

Blunder followed close, but, in watching the lantern, he forgot to look to his feet, and fell into a hole filled with black mud.

“I say! the Wishing-Gate is not down there,” called out Jack, whisking off among the tree-tops.

“But I can’t come up there,” whimpered Blunder.

“That is not my fault, then,” answered Jack, merrily, dancing out of sight.

Oh, a very angry little boy was Blunder, when he clambered out of the hole. “I don’t know where it is,” he said, crying; “I can’t find it, and I’ll go straight home.”

Just then he stepped on an old, moss-grown, rotten stump; and it happening, unluckily, that this rotten stump was a wood-goblin’s chimney, Blunder fell through, headlong, in among the pots and pans in which the goblin’s cook was cooking the goblin’s supper. The old goblin, who was asleep upstairs, started up in a fright at the tremendous clash and clatter, and, finding that his house was tumbling about his ears, as he thought at first, stumped down to the kitchen to see what was the matter. The cook heard him coming, and looked about her in a fright to hide Blunder.

“Quick!” cried she. “If my master catches you, he will have you in a pie. In the next room stands a pair of shoes. Jump into them, and they will take you up the chimney.”

Off flew Blunder, burst open the door, and tore frantically about the room, in one corner of which stood the shoes; but of course he could not see them, because he was not in the habit of using his eyes. “I can’t find them! Oh, I can’t find them!” sobbed poor little Blunder, running back to the cook.

“Run into the closet,” said the cook.

Blunder made a dash at the window, but—“I don’t know where it is,” he called out.

Clump! clump! That was the goblin, halfway down the stairs.

“Mercy me!” exclaimed cook. “He is coming. The boy will be eaten in spite of me. Jump into the meal-chest.”

“I don’t see it,” squeaked Blunder, rushing towards the fireplace. “Where is it?”

Clump! clump! That was the goblin at the foot of the stairs, and coming towards the kitchen door.

“There is an invisible cloak hanging on that peg. Get into that,” cried cook, quite beside herself.

But Blunder could no more see the cloak than he could see the shoes, the closet, and the meal-chest; and no doubt the goblin, whose hand was on the latch, would have found him prancing around the kitchen, and crying out, “I can’t find it,” but, fortunately for himself, Blunder caught his foot in the invisible cloak, and tumbled down, pulling the cloak over him. There he lay, hardly daring to breathe.

“What was all that noise about?” asked the goblin gruffly, coming into the kitchen.

But as he could see nothing amiss, he went grumbling upstairs again, while the shoes took Blunder up chimney, and landed him in a meadow, safe enough, but so miserable! He was cross, he was disappointed, he was hungry. It was dark, he did not know the way home, and, seeing an old stile, he climbed up, and sat down on the top of it, for he was too tired to stir. Just then came along the South Wind, with his pockets crammed full of showers, and, as he happened to be going Blunder’s way, he took Blunder home. The boy was glad enough of this, only he would have liked it better if the Wind had not laughed all the way. For what would you think, if you were walking along a road with a fat old gentleman, who went chuckling to himself, and slapping his knees, and poking himself, till he was purple in the face, when he would burst out in a great windy roar of laughter every other minute?

“What are you laughing at?” asked Blunder, at last.

“At two things that I saw in my travels,” answered the Wind; “a hen, that died of starvation, sitting on an empty peck-measure in front of a bushel of grain; and a little boy who sat on the top of the Wishing-Gate, and came home because he could not find it.”

“What? what’s that?” cried Blunder; but just then he found himself at home. There sat his godmother by the fire, her mouse-skin cloak hung up on a peg, and toeing off a spider’s silk stocking an eighth of an inch long; and though everybody cried, “What luck?” and, “Where is the Wishing-Gate?” she sat mum.

“I don’t know where it is,” answered Blunder. “I couldn’t find it;” and thereon told the story of his troubles.

“Poor boy!” said his mother, kissing him, while his sister ran to bring him some bread and milk.

“Yes, that is all very fine,” cried his godmother, pulling out her needles, and rolling up her ball of silk; “but now hear my story. There was once a little boy who must needs go to the Wishing-Gate, and his godmother showed him the road as far as the turn, and told him to ask the first owl he met what to do then; but this little boy seldom used his eyes, so he passed the first owl, and waked up the wrong owl; so he passed the water-sprite, and found only a frog; so he sat down under the pine-tree, and never saw the crow; so he passed the Dream-man, and ran after Jack-o’-Lantern; so he tumbled into the goblin’s chimney, and couldn’t find the shoes and the closet and the chest and the cloak; and so he sat on the top of the Wishing-Gate till the South Wind brought him home, and never knew it. Ugh! Bah!” And away went the fairy godmother up the chimney in such deep disgust that she did not even stop for her mouse-skin cloak.

—LOUISE E. CHOLLET

THE GOLDEN PEARS

There was once a poor peasant of Bürs who had nothing in the world but three sons, and a pear-tree that grew in front of his cottage. But the pears were very fine, and the Kaiser was fond of the fruit, so he said to his sons, one day, that he would send the Kaiser a basket as a present. “Perhaps,” said he, “if the fruit please him he may help me and mine.”

He plaited a krattle, or basket, and lined it with fresh leaves. Then he gathered the finest pears from the tree, large ones as yellow as gold, and laid them on the green leaves.

“Take these to the Kaiser,” said he to his eldest son, “and see that thou dost not let anyone rob thee of them by the way.”

“Leave that to me, father,” said the boy, “I know how to take care of my own. It isn’t much anyone will get out of me by asking. I’ll have my answer, I can tell you.” So he closed up the mouth of the basket with fresh leaves and set out to take the pears to the Kaiser.

It was autumn and the sun struck hot all through the midday hours; so when the boy came at last to a wayside fountain he stopped to drink and to rest in its coolness. A little doubled-up old woman was washing some rags at the fountain and singing a ditty all out of tune. “A witch, I’ll be bound,” said the boy to himself, “she’ll be trying to get my pears, by hook or by crook, but I’ll be up to her.”

“A fair day, my lad,” said the little old wife; “that’s a weighty burden you have to carry. What may it be with which you are so heavily laden?”

“A load of sweepings from the road, to see whether I may turn a penny by it,” answered the boy, shortly, to stop any further questioning.

“Road-sweepings,” repeated the hag, as if she did not believe it. “Belike you don’t mean that?”

“But I _do_ mean it,” retorted the boy.

“Oh, very well. You will find out when you get to your journey’s end.” And she went on washing and singing her ditty that was all out of tune.

“She means something,” said the boy to himself, “that’s clear. But at all events my basket is safe. I haven’t even let her look at the fruit with her evil eye, so there’s no harm done.” But he felt uneasy, and as he could not rest, he got up and went on his way.

Soon he reached the palace, and on telling his errand was admitted.

“You have brought me some pears, have you, my boy?” said the Kaiser, well pleased; and his mouth began to water for the luscious fruit.

“Yes, your Majesty, some of the finest golden pears in your Majesty’s whole empire,” said the boy.

The Kaiser was delighted to hear this and he himself removed the covering of leaves. But what was his anger to find under it nothing but ill-smelling sweepings from the road! The attendants, who stood by, were equally indignant at the insult offered to the emperor, and barely waited for his order to hustle the boy off to prison.

“It is all due to that old hag by the fountain,” said he to himself; “I thought she meant mischief to me.” This was what he said the first day and the second, but the quiet and solitude of the prison led him to think more closely and to remember the answer he had made to the old wife’s question.

“I have often heard my father say,” he thought, “how strong truth makes the tongue. Alas, that I did not use it as a weapon to take care of my own.”

Meantime the father said to his two sons, “You see how well your elder brother has fared. He kept his eyes wide awake and carried the krattle of golden fruit in safety to the Kaiser, who was no doubt so well pleased with it that he has kept the boy near his person and made him a rich man.”

“I am as clever as he,” said the second brother; “give me a krattle of the pears and let me take them to the Kaiser, and become a rich man too, only I won’t keep it all for myself. I will send for you to share it with me.”

“Well said, my son,” answered the father; “I have worked hard for you all my life, and it is but meet that in my old age you should share your good fortune with me.” And as the season for pears had just come around again, he plaited another krattle and lined it with fresh green leaves and laid in it a goodly heap of the golden fruit.

The second son took the basket and went his way, even in better spirits than his elder brother, for he had the supposed success of the first to give wings to his feet. The autumn sun was as hot through the midday as it had been the year before, so that when he had traveled three days and arrived at the wayside fountain, he too stopped to drink and rest in its coolness. The doubled-up old woman was washing her rags at the fountain and singing her ditty all out of tune. She stopped her croaking as before, to ask him the same question as she had asked his brother.

“It’s pigs’ wash,” said he; “I am taking it to see whether I may turn a penny by it.”

“Pigs’ wash,” repeated she, as if she did not believe it. “Belike you don’t mean that?”

“But I do mean it,” retorted he, rudely.

And at this she made the same remark she had made his brother.

Sure enough, when the Kaiser removed the leaves, instead of golden pears there was a mess of pigs’ wash. The attendants hurried the second boy off to the cell next his brother, and pitched him in with even less ceremony.

Meantime the year was passing away and bringing no tidings to the father of the good fortune promised him by his son. “The ingratitude of children is like a sharp sting,” said he, in the bitterness of his grief and disappointment. He would often say to his third son, who was considered too stupid to be good for much, “What a pity it is that you are so dull-headed! If I only dared trust you I might send you to see what has befallen your brothers.”

The lad was used to hear himself called a good-for-nothing, so he did not think for a long time that he might even attempt the task. But as the days went by and his father’s distress grew more sore, his loving heart was moved, and one day he summoned courage to ask whether he might not try to find his brothers.

“Do you really think you can keep yourself out of harm’s way?” exclaimed the father, glad to find the boy anxious to undertake the venture.

“I will do whatever you tell me,” said the lad, eagerly.

“Well, you sha’n’t go empty-handed, at all events,” said the father. And as the pears were just ripe again he laid the choicest of the year’s stock in a krattle and sent him on his way.

The boy walked along, looking neither to right nor left, but with his heart beating, lest he should come across the “Harm” out of whose way he had promised to keep himself. All went well, however, except that the sun shone down on him fiercely, so that when he too reached the wayside fountain he was glad to stop to drink and rest in the coolness.

The old wife was washing her rags in the water, and as she patted the linen, singing a ditty all out of tune. “Here comes a third of those surly dogs, I declare,” she said to herself, as she saw him arrive with another load of the magnificent pears. “I suppose he’ll try to make game of me too as if I didn’t know the sweet smell of ripe golden pears from road-sweepings or pigs’ wash! a likely thing! But I’m ready for him.”

“Good morning, little mother!” said the boy in his direct way, doffing his cap as he had been taught, although she was old and ugly.

“He’s sweeter behaved than the other louts, for all he doesn’t look so bright-faced,” said the hag to herself; and she stopped her song out of tune to return his greeting.

“May I sit down here a bit, please, good mother?” asked the boy, for he was so simple that he thought the fountain must belong to her.

“That you may, and take a draught of the cool water, too,” she answered, wondrously softened by his civil manners.

“And what may it be with which you are so laden, my pretty boy?” she asked. “It should be a precious burden to be worth carrying so far as you appear to have come. What have you in your krattle?”

“Precious indeed they are, I believe you,” said the boy, “at least so you would think from the store my father sets by them. They are truly golden pears, and he says there are no finer grown in the whole kingdom. I am taking them to the Kaiser, who is fond of the fruit.”

“Only ripe pears and yet so heavy,” returned the old wife; “one would say it is something heavier than pears. But you’ll see when you come to your journey’s end.”

The boy assured her they were nothing but pears; and as one of his father’s commands had been not to lose time by the way, he bade the old dame a courteous farewell and continued on his way.

When the servants saw another peasant boy from Bürs come to the palace with the story that he had pears for the king, they said, “No, no! we’ve had enough of that! You may turn around and go back.” But the poor boy was so disappointed that he could not carry out his task that he sank down on the step and sobbed bitterly, and there he remained sobbing till the Kaiser came out.

The Kaiser’s little daughter was with her father. When she saw the boy sobbing, she asked what ailed him, and learned it was another boy from Bürs come to insult the Kaiser with a basket of refuse. And the servants asked her whether they should not take the boy off to prison straightway. The Kaiser left the question to his daughter.

“But I _have_ pears,” sobbed the boy; “and my father says there are no finer in the empire.”

“Yes, yes,” jeered the servants, “we know that by heart;” and they attempted to drag him away.

“But won’t you look at my pears first, fair princess? The pears that I have brought all this way for the Kaiser? My father will be so sorry.”

The princess was struck with the earnestness with which he spoke, and decided to see the basket herself. The moment she said so the boy walked straight up to her with his krattle, so strong in the truth that he felt no fear of the whole troop of lackeys.

The princess removed the leaves and—there indeed were golden pears, not merely yellow with ripeness, but really gold, each, large as it was, a shining pear of solid gold!

“These _are_ pears fit for a king,” she said, and presented them to her father. The Kaiser was greatly pleased. He ordered the gold fruit to be placed in his cabinet of treasures, and to the boy, as a reward, he promised whatever he should ask.

“All I wish is to find my two brothers, who hold some high office in your Majesty’s court,” said the boy.

“If those who came with pears before are your brothers, as I suspect, they hold office in prison,” said the Kaiser, and commanded that they be brought. As soon as the two were led in, the third ran to them and embraced them. Then the Kaiser bade each tell his story.

“Strong indeed does truth make the tongue to keep its own,” said the Kaiser, using almost the same words the boys had often heard their father speak. And they were truly sorry they had not kept his counsel.

The Kaiser sent for the father and gave him and his sons charge of the king’s gardens. The father brought with him the pear-tree that, by the power of the truth told of it, had made golden fortune for them. And he and his sons had plenty ever after and were well content.

—FOLK TALE

SOME VERY SHORT STORIES

For all little children who fain would tell
What in their tender hearts doth dwell

THE PUPPY’S BARK

Our puppy is so little that he can hardly stand up. But he wants the kitten to think him a big dog. So the other day he steadied himself on his legs and tried to give a loud bark. “Bow wow,” he said. And down he tumbled.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE WHITE KITTEN

Once when a white kitten spied the tip of her tail, she tried to catch it. Round and round she went so fast that she turned into a white ball. But, of course, the tail went as fast as she did, so she couldn’t catch up with it. Soon she grew so dizzy that she had to stop. There she was back again, a sensible white kitten.

A CONCEITED GRASSHOPPER

The other day a very young grasshopper and an old rooster were out in the field together.

“I can jump higher than anyone in this field,” cried the grasshopper. The rooster said nothing, but opened his mouth as if he meant to yawn.

“Here I go,” cried the grasshopper, and she jumped so high that she landed in the rooster’s mouth. The rooster gobbled her up.

And that was the end of her and her boasting.

THE MOUSE’S ESCAPE

A little gray mouse lived in a hole in our kitchen closet. One day she smelled some cheese. “M-m,” she said, “how delicious!” She peeped out to see whether Tom, our cat, was in the kitchen. He wasn’t. Out she stole, sniffed about, and found the cheese. Just as she began to nibble it, along came Tom. The little mouse darted back into her safe hole.

WHAT THE WHITE HEN DID FOR THE WORLD

One morning the white hen went into the barn. The rooster saw her go, but he didn’t stop her. After a few minutes out she came, clucking to the whole world, “Cut-cut-cut-cut-cadah-cut! Cut-cut-cut-cut-cadah-cut!” And the whole world as well as the rooster knew she had laid an egg.

THE GOLDEN GOOSE

Once a man owned a wonderful goose. Every morning when he said, “Lay,” it laid a golden egg. By and by the man grew so greedy that he wanted all the golden eggs at once. So he cut open the goose. There wasn’t one egg in it. And, of course, the goose couldn’t lay any more eggs now. The foolish man had killed the goose that laid the golden eggs.

—ÆSOP

THE MOON AND HER MOTHER

(_This story may be accompanied by blackboard sketches of the phases of the moon._)

One day the moon asked her mother for a cloak that would fit her well.

“How can I make a cloak that will fit you?” answered the mother. “You are always changing your size. One day you are a new moon. Another day you are a full moon. And another day you are neither.”

So the little moon has to go without a cloak.

—OLD FABLE

MOTHER CAREY’S CHICKENS

One day in winter the snowflakes came down as soft and light and white as feathers. The little children looking out at the window sang,

“Old Mother Carey’s chickens,
Old Mother Carey’s chickens;
They are up in the sky,
Ever so high;
Old Mother Carey’s chickens.”

Down fell the snowflakes, thick and fast, and more and more and more, till they made a snowstorm.

When they were all down the children brought out their sleds, and away they went coasting on Mother Carey’s chickens’ feathers.

THE STORY OF THE WEE, WEE BONE

Once a wee, wee girl came across a wee, wee dog scratching a wee, wee hole to bury a wee, wee bone. When the wee, wee dog had buried the wee, wee bone, he trotted off on his wee, wee legs. And when he had gone a wee, wee way, the wee, wee girl dug her wee, wee fingers into the wee, wee hole, and took away the wee, wee bone.

But the wee, wee dog smelled her out with his wee, wee nose and said, “Give me back my wee, wee bone; you can’t eat it and I can.” The wee, wee girl wouldn’t.

Then the wee, wee dog sat up on his wee, wee hind legs and cried a wee, wee tear. This made the wee, wee girl sorry. So she gave the wee, wee dog his wee, wee bone.

The wee, wee dog dried the wee, wee tear with his wee, wee paw, and ate up the wee, wee bone.

And that’s the end of this wee, wee story.

THE MISSING LAMB

One evening a shepherd was turning away from the fold when one of the sheep bleated mournfully.

“Is thy lamb missing, poor mother?” asked the shepherd.

Just then he heard a loud bark, and there half a field away was Carlo, his dog, guiding home a frightened lamb. The little creature had strayed away from her mother to find the very sweetest bits of sheep sorrel.

“Bow wow, master,” called Carlo, “don’t close up yet.”

“Ba-a-a, ba-a-a-a,” cried the little lamb, “dear mother, where are you?”

The mother heard her and bounded into the air with joy. “Ba-a-a, come to me, my lamb,” she called, “come to me, my lambkin, my wee lambkin, my wee wee little lamb.”

The little lamb leaped to her mother’s side and was safe in the fold.

The shepherd patted Carlo on the head and called him “Good dog” and said, “Come with me, my dog, and I’ll give thee a bone thick with meat.”

THE ANT AND THE DOVE

Once an ant went to the bank of a river to quench her thirst. As she stooped to the water she fell in and was nearly drowned. A dove perched on a tree overhanging the river saw her and quickly dropped down a leaf to her. The ant climbed up on the leaf and it floated to the bank. She went ashore, safe and sound.

Not long after this, a bird catcher stepped softly up to the tree to set a snare to catch the dove. The ant saw him and quickly stung him in the foot. The bird catcher’s cry at the pain startled the dove. Away she flew, safe and sound.

—ÆSOP

THE BOY AND THE NUTS

A boy put his hand into a jar to take some nuts. He grasped so many that there was no room for his hand to come out. In a great fright he burst into tears.

“Be satisfied with half as many,” said a man who was watching him, “and your hand will come out easily.”

The greedy boy dropped half, and at once out came his hand.

—ÆSOP

DID SHE CATCH HIM?

One day a little girl said to her wisest aunt, “I wish I could catch that sparrow.”

“The next time he comes,” said her wisest aunt, “shake some salt on his tail. But be sure not to let him see nor hear you.”

The little girl went into the house and brought out some salt. Pretty soon the sparrow alighted near her. She tiptoed up behind him with the salt ready in her hand. Nearer and nearer she stole.

Just as she stooped to shake the salt on his tail, the sparrow cocked his head at her and flew away.

THE BEARS AT PLAY

A small brown bear and a small black bear walked up to each other and rubbed noses.

“Will you play with me if I play with you?” whispered the brown one to the other. And the other whispered, “I will.”

The two trotted out to the center of the cage. The brown one turned a somersault and the black one turned a bigger somersault. After this they both turned somersaults together.

When the play was over, they rubbed noses again and each went back to his own cave in the rocks.

HOW THE GROCER PLAYED A TRICK ON KIT

Kit was the grocer’s horse. One day as the grocer came up to her she whinnied and rubbed her nose against his pocket.

“Ha, ha, ha, I’ve caught you this time; it isn’t in my pocket,” said the grocer; “here it is.” He held out to her a ripe red apple he had been hiding behind his back.

Kit didn’t wait to laugh at the joke; she ate the apple in one big bite.

THE SHORT TALE OF THE RABBITS WHO WENT OUT TO SEE THE WORLD

Two white rabbits lived in a hutch in our back yard. One sunny morning said One to the Other, “Let us go out to see the world.”

So they did. They went up the alley way to the front garden. Here the grass was growing fresh and green.

“Ah,” said the Other to One, “the world was made for us. It is nothing but a big cabbage leaf. Taste it.”

Just as they put their noses down to nibble a bit of it, a dog poked _his_ nose through the railing and said, “Bow wow.”

“Oh my, the world belongs to him,” they cried; “he may have it.”

And back they scurried to their safe hutch.

There they stayed, eating cabbage leaves and letting the world alone.

THE DISPUTE BETWEEN THE POT AND THE KETTLE

The pot said the kettle was black. And the kettle said the pot was black. And the pot said the kettle was black. And the kettle said the pot was black. And they kept it up.

In the middle of the dispute in came two servants. One seized the pot and the other seized the kettle, and they scrubbed them both within an inch of their lives. So I suppose the servants thought both were black. What do you think?

HOW THE TURTLE GOT HIS DINNER

It was the small black turtle’s dinner time. He drew in his head and watched. A bluebottle buzzed by, singing. Snap! out came the turtle’s head. The bluebottle’s song was over, the turtle was eating him for dinner.

“A bluebottle is a delicious morsel,” said the turtle aloud to anyone who might happen to be passing.

He dined that day on foolish bluebottles who didn’t know he had a head.

THE CATERPILLAR CAUGHT IN THE RAIN

The other day a caterpillar was out walking on a leaf, when it began to rain. He had no umbrella, but that did not bother him. He crawled under the leaf, and waited for the shower to be over.

When the rain-drops stopped pattering over his head, he stuck out his head to see whether the sky had cleared. It had. A beautiful rainbow was just fading out of the sky.

Up the caterpillar climbed, dry and comfortable, and went on with his walk.

THE SONG THE COCKLE-SHELL SINGS

One day Anna Lucy held a cockle-shell to her ear. She listened and then began to smile.

“Do you hear anything?” asked her little brother Frank.

“Yes,” answered Anna Lucy, “you may hear it too.” She held the shell to Frank’s ear. Frank listened, then he began to smile. “What is it?” he whispered.

“It is the song of the sea,” said Anna Lucy; “the shell sings it in her heart.”

THE WATER-SNAIL’S RIDE

A little water-snail with his house on his back floated on the top of the water. Suddenly he must have thought of something downstairs that he needed, for he drew himself into his house. Down it went to the bottom of the water. The water-snail stuck out his horns and head, and ate up a tiny bit of seaweed. So I suppose that is what he needed. In he drew himself again, and up went his house just as if it were an elevator.

“You must find that house very convenient,” said I to him. But he said nothing to me; he only floated on the top of the water.

IT TAKES TIME TO GROW

A toadstool sprang up in a night. But it fell to earth next day when the first passer-by touched it. An acorn took a hundred years to grow into an oak. But the oak is still standing, strong and tall.

THE FRIGHT THEY HAD

One day as a snail with his house on his back crawled up a vine he met a ladybug. The two stopped to chat about their children. All of a sudden a little girl, who was passing, cried out,

“Ladybug, Ladybug, fly away home,
Your house is on fire,
Your children all burned.”

Home flew Ladybug, pale with fright.