Chapter IV: Part 4

One morning the lesson was in full course. Mother and children had chased a mouse, but it had darted past fat Purr and slipped under a book shelf before the clumsy fellow could stop it. For this awkwardness his mother cuffed his ears several times, and his sisters Miese and Lise laughed at him for being such a blockhead. After some time a mouse, the same one or another, put its sharp nose out from under a book shelf, and looked around it. The mother and teacher instantly saw it with her keen eyes, and motioned to her children to keep quiet. As everything remained still, the mouse, from imprudence or bravado, came out entirely. Like a flash of lightning the old cat was between the mouse and the book shelf, cutting off its retreat. A wild running and leaping began. The mouse, which could do nothing else, ran up the books, the kittens followed, and so eagerly that they upset a pile of books which had been carelessly arranged. It fell to the floor with a great clatter, and behind it appeared a mouse’s nest, where ten half-grown mice were tumbling over one another, vainly trying to escape by flight. The mother stunned them by swift blows with her paws, and gave them, struggling, to her kittens, that they might play with them before killing them with teeth and claws. Hearing the squeaking of the little mice in their pain and terror, their mother came out from the rows of books still standing on the shelves. She could only scream with fright, but could not help her little ones. Yet, when she was obliged to watch the massacre, the horrible spectacle was more than she could bear. Rushing as if crazed to the nearest little mouse, which Purr was cuffing right and left with his clumsy paws, she ran straight into the old cat’s claws. There was a joyful mew, a blow of the paw, and the mouse mother lay dead beside her ten dead children.

The cat put them all in a row, called the librarian, to show him her prey, and then dismissed her children to take a long nap.

The kittens did not follow their mother’s example. Instead of going to rest, they gathered in a corner of the library, where Miese began: “Those poor mice! They are really very pretty little creatures!”

“Nonsense!” growled Purr. “How can people think mice pretty!”

“You are a cannibal!” hissed Miese, angrily. “Didn’t you feel sorry for the mother who came so bravely to help her little ones?”

Purr was silent in confusion, and Murr muttered: “That’s true. The mother was a little heroine. I’m sorry for her.”

“I must say,” remarked Hinz, “that I am not at all proud of what we have done. It’s really a cowardly thing for us, who are so big and strong and active, besides being so terribly armed with teeth and claws, to attack the weak, defenceless creatures.”

“We ought to be ashamed of ourselves,” said Lise.

“We all saw it,” said Miese. “The spectacle will haunt me a long time. There before us was the peaceful nest. The ten brothers and sisters were lying comfortably together enjoying their young lives. Their mother’s love watched over them. Suddenly destruction came. We killed and slaughtered. Now the mother and children are gone; the nest is torn to pieces. Why do we commit such cruelties? By what right? For what purpose?”

“Bravo! You speak from the soul!” cried the vivacious Hinz. He admired his sister very much. She was the brightest, most eloquent, and best educated of them all. She had not been born and brought up in a library for nothing; she did not boast in vain of an endless line of learned ancestors. She stood high above the ordinary roof and cellar cats, and promised to be an ornament to the cat family.

“I could cry when I think of those little mice,” said Lise.

“I won’t do it again,” Hinz declared resolutely.

“But if mother orders us,” objected Purr.

“We are no longer children,” replied Miese, vehemently; “we ought to and must act according to our own views. We will tell mother so frankly.”

In fact, when the old cat called her children in the afternoon to take their lesson, Miese stood boldly before her and said, “Mother, we have determined not to catch any more mice.”

The cat could hardly believe her ears. Putting them back angrily, she answered: “You have determined? Why, that sounds very fine! True, it is more comfortable to be lazy. Now begin, or you’ll have your ears cuffed.”

Miese did not allow herself to be frightened. “It isn’t for the sake of laziness. Only we will not again commit the crime of murdering an innocent family of little mice.”

“Mur-der-ing!” repeated the old cat, fairly stammering in her amazement. “Have you gone crazy?”

“I think I have never been more sensible than I am now,” said Miese, quietly but firmly. “We have agreed to keep peace with the mice in the future. Their lives and property shall be sacred to us.”

The cat could not yet understand. “Are you my children or changelings? No true cat ever talked so before. We are here to catch mice, and that you will do too, or I’ll punish you.”

“I deny that we are here for that,” replied Miese, boldly. “We are here to love one another. The mice, too, are our brothers, like everything that lives and enjoys life.”

“What! The mice must be my brothers? Stop all this.” The cat was not patient. She made a spring at Miese, to punish her, but the kitten escaped the threatening paw, ran into the corner, and cried defiantly: “Long live justice! Long live brotherhood!”

The mother tried persuasion and entreaties. “Children, this foolish jest has lasted long enough. Let us lose no more time. To work. I will train you to be capable cats. You must become good mousers, like your mother and all your ancestors back to time immemorial.”

“What do we care what our ancestors have done!” replied Miese, obstinately. “We will break with the humdrum old ways. We are progressive cats.”

The brothers purred approvingly.

The old cat cast furious glances at them. “Progressive cats! The word seems to please you, simpletons. No doubt you think yourselves far more clever than your narrow-minded old mother. Have you asked yourselves how you are to live, if you don’t catch mice?”

“We don’t eat the mice,” retorted Hinz, pertly.

“No, because we have other food. But why are we fed? Because we catch mice. If we no longer caught mice, people would no longer feed us, or even let us stay in our library. Then we should see how we could manage.”

“There is food for everybody in the wide world,” said Lise.

“That’s enough!” screamed the cat, furiously. “Begin—or woe be unto you!”

The five kittens did not stir. Their mother sprang upon them, but they all ran through the open door, and kept on till the old cat stopped chasing them.

They rested in a meadow near a farm-house.

“We will begin a new life, a more beautiful, more just, and better one,” said Miese, when she had recovered her breath a little.

“Very well,” said Purr; “but meanwhile I am hungry, and would like to have my supper.”

“You never think of anything but eating,” replied Lise, reproachfully.

Murr came to his brother’s support. “I will gladly live for fraternity and justice. I will gladly be a progressive cat; but the stomach wants its rights, too.”

“You are right,” said Miese. “Only have a little patience. You’ll see that your virtue will not fail to have its reward. I have confidence in our good cause. Follow me.”

She had seen a barn in the meadow, and quickly led her brothers and sisters to it. They entered without any trouble through an open window. Inside was a perfect mountain of wheat, over which countless mice were swarming. At the sudden entrance of the five cats, they scattered, squeaking with fright, and vanished under, behind, and within the mountain of wheat, in mouse holes, and between the beams of the roof.

Purr looked after them with sparkling eyes, Murr made a movement to follow, but Hinz stopped him with a sharp “Mew.” Miese climbed slowly up the wheat mountain, and when she had reached the top, solemnly began: “Honored mice! Dear fellow-creatures! You have fled from us. We can understand this, after the experiences you have had with our race. But we come without any hostile designs upon you. We are no mouse hunters. We are progressive cats. We lament all the evil which our relatives have done you, and would like to atone for their wickedness during thousands of years. Dear mice, let us be brothers. We offer you the paw of friendship. Clasp it. Join hands. A bond of love shall unite us in the future, and we will work together until there is light in the world, till the innocent blood no longer flows, till cats and mice beautify each other’s short lives according to their powers.”

During Miese’s speech many mice had put their sharp noses out of their hiding places and listened with increasing astonishment. When she had finished, all was still for a time. At last an old mouse spoke. “I have lived a long while and had many experiences,” she said; “but I have never heard such words from the mouth of a cat. If we could only believe you.”

“Your distrust is unfair,” replied Miese. “Why should we pretend to feelings we do not possess?”

“Why?” answered the old mouse. “To lull us into security, so that you can eat us comfortably when we are so stupid as to obey your call.”

“Dear brothers,” said Miese, “you are doing us grave injustice. Our hearts are full of love for you, and we only wish there might be an opportunity to show it in other ways than by mere words.” There was so much warmth in her voice, that it made an impression upon the mouse.

“Do you speak in the name of the whole cat people?” asked the old mouse.

“For the present we can speak only in our own name,” replied Miese. “There is still much prejudice among us. Our old people will not give up their wicked customs. But the young ones are with us. I am sure of that. The future will be ours. We will set an example, which all our race will soon follow enthusiastically. Come, brothers, come, dear mice! Let us embrace one another. Let us celebrate the festival of peace and fraternity.”

The mice began to whisper and mutter. Some wanted to accept Miese’s invitation, others hesitated. Suddenly a young mouse squeaked: “I’ll risk it! Fraternity is so grand a thought that I will gladly stake my life to learn whether the progressive cat means honestly.” And, in spite of the anxious squeaking of the timid ones, it came boldly out of its hole. Miese went very gently up, that she might not startle it by hasty movements, stroked its back with a velvet paw, licked its nose with her rough tongue, and said, “Come to my heart, brother, this is the happiest day of my life.”

The mouse was terribly frightened, but did not show it, and bravely endured the caresses of the cat, even timidly returned them. At this sight the mice burst into cheers, and a large number of them boldly approached the cats. A few minutes later old and young mice were crowding eagerly around the cats, exchanging embraces and kisses with them, racing merrily through the barn, and calling to the more timid ones, who were cautiously watching this new spectacle from their holes: “Out with you all, cowards! The cats are our best friends! You will offend them by your reserve! Long live the cats! Hurrah for fraternity!”

This went on for some time, then a young mouse began: “Dear brothers and sisters! Love for love! Faith for faith! Since the cats have seen their injustice, we will forgive them without reserve. We will bear them no grudge and, in future, we will be one heart and one soul. Let us appoint them honorary mice. Let the difference in parentage be forgotten. Let us never reproach them for their origin. We will always treat our honorary mice like brothers, and admit them to the full rights of citizenship among us.”

Purr and Murr looked at each other in bewilderment, but Miese cried enthusiastically, “We will always try to show ourselves worthy of the name of honorary mice.” An old mouse protested against undue haste, and asked that the honorary mice should have their claws gnawed off, before they were admitted to citizenship in the mouse nation; but the young mice cried down the old fogy slow coach, reproached him for his distrust, told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, the mouse nation must not be outdone in generosity by the cats, and the motion to bestow the rights of citizenship upon the cats was passed by a very large majority.

“And now,” cried several young mice, “we will celebrate this historic hour by a great festival. Come, dear honorary mice, we will share what we have fraternally with you.”

This invitation greatly pleased the cats, especially Purr, whose stomach was complaining, for it was long after his usual hour for eating. He looked eagerly around, switched his tail to and fro, and asked earnestly, “Where is there anything to nibble?”

The mice squeaked merrily, and one answered: “Don’t you see it? You certainly have plenty of everything before you.”

Purr sniffed and peered around in all directions, then he answered angrily, “I smell nothing, and I see nothing.”

“Is it possible?” replied the mouse. “You are standing in front of a whole mountain of the finest wheat; you see how our whole people are feasting, and you find nothing to satisfy your hunger?”

Purr looked provoked and began to spit. “I suppose you take me for a fool,” he growled.

Miese interposed. “Dear fellow-citizens,” she said to the mouse, “we can do nothing with your wheat. It is no food for us.”

“See the despisers of our fare!” cried a saucy mouse. “You don’t know what is good,” exclaimed another. “What would you like? Probably a young mouse?” shouted a third, snappishly. But other mice reproved them for these unfriendly speeches, and turning to the cats, said: “Forgive this rudeness, and don’t be offended by it. All sensible mice condemn them. We do not yet know your taste. What do you eat, if you cannot take wheat?”

“Could we perhaps have some beef liver?” asked Miese.

The mice looked at each other, and answered: “Beef liver? What’s that? We don’t know it.”

“Or a little milk?” said Lise.

“Mice do not drink. There is no milk here,” was the reply. “Would you perhaps like nuts? They are the most delicious food there is; we haven’t many of them, but we will give them to you gladly.”

“Nuts? No,” answered Hinz; “people play with nuts, but they don’t eat them.”

The mice smiled, and one of them said, “Perhaps, if you prefer bacon—”

“Bacon! Capital! Bring it out!” cried all five of the kittens at once, joyously holding their tails straight up in the air.

The mice eagerly collected a few scraps of bacon, on which the cats sprang with such haste that the mice were startled, and ran into their holes. In an instant it was devoured, and Purr cried, “More!”

The mice, who had looked on in horror, answered: “Is it possible! That was our whole supply for the winter. And you have eaten it at one meal!”

“Hold your tongues, you louts!” cried Murr in a rage.

Miese soothed him and, turning to the mice, said: “No offence. We are somewhat hungry after our long walk. And, to tell the truth, we are still. If you could perhaps tell us where this nice bacon is—”

For a long time there was no reply. The mice put their heads together and whispered. At last an old one said, “In the farm-house over yonder is a garret filled with flitches of bacon.”

“Quick! Let us run over there!” cried Purr.

“Gently,” replied the old mouse, “that won’t do. You can’t get in, for the door is locked. We have dug a passage into the room, but it is too narrow for you.”

“Then do us the favor to go over yourselves and bring us some bacon,” said Miese.

“We’ll take precious good care not to do that,” cried several mice at once. “There are two abominable cats in the garret, and we can only venture in when these two bloodthirsty murderers have gone out.”

The cats made wry faces when they heard their relatives spoken of in this way. A mouse noticed it, and said quickly: “You see, we are doing you the honor of considering you entirely as mice. A harsh word against cats cannot offend you, for you certainly have nothing more in common with those miserable bandits.”

“That is true,” said Miese. “But I thought that, for our sakes, you would think somewhat more kindly of the cats and admit that they are not all miserable bandits.”

“Surely you would not wish to defend the horrible cat tribe—you, whom we have just made honorary mice?” screamed several mice, excitedly.

Miese saw that the conversation threatened to take a bad turn, and remained silent. Meanwhile the mice had finished their banquet and, going back to their holes well satisfied, bade the cats good night. They were left alone in the barn and, looking at each other in perplexity, made all sorts of unpleasant reflections.

Hinz was the first to break the silence, “Well, dear honorary mouse,” he asked Miese, “how do you like our new countrymen?”

“Pretty fellows,” replied Lise in the same subdued tones; “I would like to eat them.”

Purr laughed grimly, “So would I.” And Murr added, “Miese, you are the most clever one of us all; but to-day, I’m afraid, you have done a very foolish thing.”

“Let me alone,” Miese spit angrily. “Of course, the old humdrum way is easier than the bold, progressive one. We are treading entirely new paths. We have undertaken a great educational work. So we must have patience, and bear some discomfort without grumbling. The poor mice are not lacking in good-will. If some of them still doubt the purity of our intentions, we must not wonder at it. This will soon pass away.”

“But just now my stomach is hollow,” growled Purr.

“We will learn to eat wheat,” said Miese, and resolutely taking some grains in her mouth began to chew them. But, in spite of the most desperate efforts, she could not swallow them, and secretly spit them out. Meanwhile there was no quiet in the holes of the mice. In every passage and room they put their heads together, talking in low but eager tones about the great event. Some said, “This will come to no good end,” others, “Cats will be cats, even if we appoint them honorary mice,” and others added, “Perhaps they are spies.”

A young mouse defended the new friends and said, “The leader of the progressive cats is really a noble creature,” but was interrupted by cries from all sides, “If she isn’t a swindler, if she isn’t sneaking in among us with evil designs, she is surely crazy.”

Several voices added: “Her brothers have regular murderers’ faces. They are tramps, who want us to feed them. All our bacon is gone already; if we could only get rid of them pleasantly.”

But the mice finally fell asleep; for they were tired and in a safe place. The five hungry cats on their hard beds found the night very long. All thought of their mother’s warm fur and their ample meals, and Miese asked herself if the whole mouse nation was worth so much privation and hardship.

When day dawned, the rested mice came out of their holes and began to attend to their business, without troubling themselves about the five sulky kittens. Some were peeling grains of wheat for breakfast, others were cleaning themselves, others still were playing. Lise watched the bustle awhile, then she asked impatiently: “What does this mean? Are we to have no breakfast?”

A mouse answered rudely: “I suppose we ought to feed you with pap, poor little things?” The others laughed.

“Pardon me,” said Miese, gently. “We belong to you. You cannot let us starve to death.”

“You bore us!” screamed a mouse. “If you won’t eat wheat, steal some meat from the farmer, or catch birds on the trees and roofs.”

“You are not in earnest,” replied Miese. “To kill birds would be a crime. Surely we want to have fraternity, love, and virtue reign in the world.”

All the mice laughed. “To kill mice is murder; but to catch birds is earning one’s living honestly.”

“Bravo!” shouted Hinz, in a terrible voice, sprang with a single bound upon the mouse which had made this remark, killed it with one bite, and devoured it in an instant, before Miese could prevent him. The mice scattered in terror, pursued by Purr and Murr, who each seized a victim before they could escape into their holes. Scarcely were they safe when they all began to shriek: “Traitors! Murderers! Bandits! Robbers! May you all break your necks! May you be drowned! Vagabond rabble! Pestilent pack!”

This was too much for Miese, and she dashed furiously toward the holes, but could not catch a single mouse. “Let us go,” she said, turning to her brothers and sister; “nothing sensible can be done with these uneducated creatures.”

They set out on the way to their library, and, after a long walk, reached home weary, ashamed, starved, and downcast. The old cat received them on the threshold with the exclamation: “Why, here come the runaways! Have you converted the world to your reforms already?”

“Mother, give us something to eat; we are almost starved,” said Miese, humbly. “The world is not yet ripe for our grand thoughts. And the mice, especially, are an infamous set of wretches, who must be exterminated. We will catch them again to your heart’s content.”

THE ELF CHILD

Once upon a time there was a large clearing in the midst of a thick beechwood, and in the middle of this clearing was a big, deep pond, on whose shores grew rushes, and on whose surface floated water-lilies. In this pond lived many elves, who slept all through the day on a bed of fine sand and soft plants, but in the evening came up to breathe the air of the upper world. Then they sat down on the grass in the glade, parted and braided their golden hair, wrapped themselves in rainbow-colored veils, adorned themselves with pearls and precious stones from little mother-of-pearl caskets, ate fruit and honey, drank dew and sweet flower juices, and played forfeits and blindman’s-buff. During the weeks when the nightingale sang and also at other times, when there was a full moon, they formed into a large ring and danced until the cock crowed. The gnomes, too, often came from the neighboring mountains, and if they were very well behaved, and the elves were in a good humor, they were allowed to dance and play with them until the gray dawn drove them home, too. In the meadow where the elves held their summer festivals, the grass grew more luxuriantly and more beautiful, flowers bloomed in the places where their silver-white feet had floated in dancing. The inhabitants of the wood knew that the glade was used by the elves of the pond for a playground, and timidly avoided it; for they were aware that the beautiful water women, though they did not usually trouble themselves about mortals, and did them no harm, grew very angry if they were impertinently watched, or even surprised by accident at their games.

Now it happened that there lived in the village at the edge of the wood a young fellow, who thought of nothing but mischievous tricks and practical jokes. When he was a little boy he used to let loose in the school-room and church, beetles, to whose legs he had tied bits of paper with pieces of thread. When he grew larger, he sawed the back legs of the schoolmaster’s chair three-quarters through, so that it broke down when the teacher sat in it. When he was a half-grown lad, he tied dogs and cats together by their tails, and laughed maliciously when the poor animals fought furiously with one another. Of course such a fellow always robbed birds’ nests, and stole fruit from the trees. This rascal had often heard of the elves of the pond in the forest meadow, their dances in the moonlight summer nights, and their sports with the gnomes, and he could not rest until he had seen the merry pastime with his own eyes. One warm June evening, when the moon was full, he stole through the forest and across the glade to a spot on the shore of the pond, where the rushes grew thick, and, hidden among them, waited with some little anxiety for what would happen.

During the first hours after sunset he heard nothing except the croaking of the frogs near by, and the bell-like tones of the more distant bullfrogs, and saw in the twilight owls and bats flying noiselessly hither and thither. Just after midnight the moon rose, the pond and the woodland meadow were lighted almost as brilliantly as day, and suddenly the impudent scoundrel cowering among the rushes started, almost frightened to death. Close beside his hiding place a silvery laugh rang out and, at the same moment, a young elf rose from the water and clapped her hands loudly. Instantly dozens of other elves appeared in the pond, surrounded the first one, shouted joyously, splashed the water till it foamed, dashed drops and streams into one another’s faces, and at last swam swiftly, in a long line, to the shore. There they had apparently concealed clothes and jewels in the bushes, or in holes in the ground, for in a short time they glided out of the reeds, clad in shimmering, floating veils, and glittering with gems, and frolicked about on the meadow.

The first elves were young girls. After them came young mothers with little elf children, many of whom could already walk alone; others fell down when they tried to stand on their small fat legs, and not a few were still on pillows. The mothers who had children at the breast nursed them, rocked them in their arms till they fell asleep, laid them in the tall grass on the shore, and hurried back to their companions to join their games and ring dancing. One baby in long clothes was laid by its mother among the rushes so near the spy that he could almost touch it with his outstretched hand. It was as beautiful as the angels in the pictures of Paradise, more beautiful than any mortal child he had ever seen. But he did not look at it long, for the scene in the meadow attracted his attention far more strongly. Some were playing blindman’s-buff, others tag, others still were dancing or striking shuttlecocks, then they all joined in songs with choruses, which sounded so sweet that even the hardened rascal in the reeds felt his eyes fill with tears, and finally they sat down in the grass and amid jests and laughter began to feast. At this part of the nocturnal festival the gnomes appeared, queer little men with long beards, who came tripping along laden with all sorts of dainties, and were received by the elves with shouts of joy. They were allowed to sit on the grass beside them and share their banquet, to which they contributed sweet fruit juices and delicious fruit. The water and mountain folk talked together for several hours, during which time an elf mother ran once or twice to the baby that lay near the rascal, to see if it was sleeping. Then the gnomes turned up their noses, beckoned to each other, pointed to the sky, where the first dim light of dawn was appearing in the east, took leave of the elves with many bows, and skipped hastily off to the forest, in which they vanished. The elves, too, felt the morning air and prepared to depart. Just at that moment the young rascal was possessed by the idea that he would play them a trick. At first he had had such a dread and horror of them that it almost stifled his breath. But after he had watched them awhile, and found them so beautiful and merry, so delicate and dainty, all fear had vanished and he did not believe that they could do him any harm. So, yielding to his natural spitefulness, he crept gently to the elf child, which was sleeping sweetly near him with its little fists tightly shut, hastily picked it up, and ran with it as fast as he could out of the rushes, across the clearing to the edge of the wood.

The elves saw him as soon as he stood up, and uttered a loud cry. Some sprang nimbly into the pond, others hastened to their children to protect them. A shriek of horror told the fugitive that the young elf mother had discovered the theft of her child. He turned his head and saw that several elves were pursuing him. Laughing scornfully, he increased his speed in order to reach the forest. Then there was a rushing noise in the air, fierce shouts echoed through the glade and across the pond, a strange whistling and hissing were heard, the rascal looked back again, and now he saw a large number of terrible serpents, which dashed out of the water and chased him with tremendous bounds. Terror seized him, he dropped the stolen child, and ran as if Satan and all his imps were at his heels.

Though the little elf fell softly on the moss, it was waked by the shock, and began to cry piteously. At the same moment a lively cock began to crow in the distant village, a heart-rending shriek answered him from the woodland meadow, then all was still. The wicked youth ran on with all his might, and did not stop until he had come out of the forest and saw his village before him. He was glad that he had escaped from the serpents, and did not trouble himself at all about the elf child whom he had left in the woods.

The cock’s crow had risen on the morning air before the mother had reached it, and the elf, in spite of her despair, was obliged to return to the pond without her child. The baby remained all alone on its bed of moss, weeping loudly, the forest animals came running from every direction to guard it, warm it, and lull it to sleep again. The hares sat close about it, the roes surrounded it in close ranks, the squirrels fanned the flies away from it, even a few lynxes which were left in the wood forgot their usual bloodthirstiness against the other forest creatures, passed their rough tongues tenderly over the child’s little face, that they might not hurt its silken-soft skin, and kept guard against foxes and badgers, which they would not allow to come near the infant. A hind gave the little elf its milk to drink, and after it was satisfied, it fell asleep.

The sky gradually brightened and began to glow with the hues of dawn, as two dogs, barking violently, ran up to the slumbering child. The animals that were lying and standing around it ran away from the baying, and were pursued for some distance by the dogs, until a shout brought them to a stand. A young forester, who had come into the wood with them before daybreak, called them back, for it was mating time and against the law to hunt game. The dogs returned and found the elf child, before which they stood a long time, snuffing it, and then, with uplifted forepaw, from time to time, giving a loud “wuff.”

The forester thought that they had found some kind of game, hurried to them, and was greatly surprised to see a sleeping child in the moss. He hoped at first that its mother was near, and had the neighborhood searched by his dogs. But, after circling around for a long distance, the intelligent animals returned without having discovered any human creature, so the forester took the child in his arms and carried it carefully to the forest house, five miles away.

“What sort of prey are you bringing there?” cried the chief forester in astonishment, when his assistant entered his room with the child. The young man told him that he had found it in the forest, near the elf pond, and asked what he should do with the foundling.

The chief forester, who had a sickly wife, numerous children, and a small house, looked troubled, and said: “It is certainly a beautiful baby, and I would gladly rear it, but that won’t do; there are plenty of us here already. The child must be taken to the orphan asylum.”

As soon as he spoke, he had his carriage brought, drove to the city with the child, and left it at the asylum. He had not looked at it on the way, that his heart might not be too heavy when he was obliged to part with it.

At the orphan asylum they found that the baby was a little girl. Everybody admired its beautiful little face, its dainty limbs, its fine coverlet, pillow, and clothes, and supposed it belonged to an aristocratic family. No distinction was made between the children in the institution, all were treated alike. The elf child was named Irene, for the saint of the day on which she was found, the garments which looked as if they had been woven from moonbeams were taken from it, a little shirt and jacket made of coarse, brownish yellow cloth, woollen socks, and a small cap were put on, and she was laid in a very hard bed with another child.

Irene felt the harsh touch of the coarse clothes on her tender skin, and began to cry violently. But no one came to her. The children were allowed to cry until they were tired and fell asleep. So Irene soon saw that it was useless to grieve, and gradually became used to the rubbing of the hard cloth. She was obliged to grow used to many other things besides: to the bottle which she received, instead of her mother’s breast, to being washed rarely and not thoroughly, to being left alone for hours, to having no loving arms clasp, carry, and rock her, or tender glances meet her blue eyes, when she gazed around seeking something, she herself did not know what.

Weeks, months, and years passed away. Irene grew in the usual way. She could soon stand, walk, and run, in doing which she often fell down, bumped her forehead, and made her little nose bleed. She learned to talk, and to make dolls out of rags and shavings; for there were no playthings in the orphan asylum, and, before she was five years old, she was obliged to do regularly light tasks, such as picking over coffee beans, shelling peas, and washing vegetables.

The nurses, teachers, and children in the asylum had always noticed that Irene’s eyes sparkled strangely, as if blue flames were blazing in them; but they thought it was a disease, and had the oculist of the institution examine them. He gazed a long time into the shining blue eyes, shook his head, prescribed a harmless eye wash and said it would pass away in time; the child would outgrow the trouble.

Irene, of course, had not the slightest remembrance of her origin; for she had been too small when the wicked rascal dragged her away. She did not know what it was to rest on a mother’s breast, to be embraced by a mother’s arms, to feel the kisses of a mother’s lips. But when on fine days, at recess, she was in the courtyard of the orphan asylum, and went to the fence which separated it from the street, she saw little girls passing by holding their mothers’ hands, and such a longing seized upon her that her little heart quivered, and tears ran down her cheeks. The other children who were there called her a cry-baby, and the matron threatened not to let her go outdoors any more if she wept in that way without any reason; for people in the street would think that the orphan children were badly treated, and the institution would get an ill name.

Something else was noticed, which brought many scoldings and even punishment upon Irene. As soon as she went outside of the door, either to breathe the fresh air in the courtyard or to walk in a long, dreary line with the other orphans, the birds of the sky flew from every direction,—sparrows, swallows, doves, singing birds, crows, even the most timid little birds of prey, such as hawks, sparrow-hawks, and kites, fluttered around her head with low cries, swept past her ears as if they wanted to whisper something quickly to her in their flight, and would not be driven away from her. The throng of birds frightened the other children, so that they scattered screaming. The matron reproved Irene for the disturbance, for she was certain that the child did something to draw the birds, and did not believe her when she protested that it was not her fault. She was considered a sneak and a liar, who, in some unknown way, had learned sly, secret arts; and one day the superintendent of the institution said that Irene was probably a gypsy’s child, who was obeying the promptings of her nature; they must keep a sharp eye on her, or she would never amount to anything good; the teachers distrusted her, the children shyly avoided her and, in spite of her gentle disposition and her beauty, she was eyed askance by everybody in the institution and always left to herself.

Lonely, unhappy, and silent, she had nearly reached her eighth year when one day a little girl of her own age, who in a great railway accident had lost father, mother, brothers, and sisters, and was the only one of her family left, was brought to the asylum.

Little Elizabeth—this was the poor child’s name—was already wise enough to understand fully her cruel fate. She had been the spoiled darling of her parents, and now she met with nothing but indifference. She had lived in comfort, and now learned the meaning of poverty. Instead of her pretty clothes, she wore the coarse, shapeless uniform of the institution. Instead of being dressed and undressed by her loving mother, she was obliged to do this for herself, and was scolded if she was clumsy at it. She wept quietly and constantly, until it almost broke Irene’s heart. Timid and reserved as she was to others, she went to little Elizabeth, spoke gently to her, and begged her to cheer up. But Elizabeth only shook her head, sobbing: “Oh, I cannot, I cannot! Why wasn’t I killed, too? Then I would now be with my mother. I cannot live without my mother.”

“Yes, you can,” replied Irene; “see, I have never known my mother; I believe I never had any. Yet I live.”

“If you have had no mother,” said Elizabeth, through her streaming tears, “then you do not know what it is to lie in her arms, or how it feels when she is gone.”

“No, I do not know,” replied Irene, sadly.

“But I know,” cried Elizabeth, with a fresh outburst of grief, “and I cannot live without my mother. What is the use of living, if nobody loves me?”

“I will love you,” said Irene, earnestly. Elizabeth looked at her with her wet eyes, and threw herself impetuously into her arms.

This had happened in the dormitory, before the children went to bed. Others had seen how the two hugged each other, and the next day at recess they went to Elizabeth, took her aside, and warned her against intimate friendship with Irene. Some called her the little girl with the diseased eyes, others the bird witch, a third the gypsy child. All said that she was a queer, unsocial creature, whom the teachers and matron did not like. Elizabeth, it is true, did not allow herself to be misled by the little slanderers, but she repeated everything to her new friend. Irene took the evil gossip and the enmity of her companions so much to heart that she could neither eat nor sleep, and was constantly in tears, which prevented her from doing neatly the sewing on which she was now engaged. In punishment the matron locked her up in a dark room. Elizabeth would not be separated from her, and wept and screamed so violently that she was whipped and also locked up in a room. When she was let out again, she was forbidden to walk or talk with Irene in the future, and threatened with severe punishment if she did not obey.

Irene met Elizabeth for the first time after her release from the dark room in the dormitory. When she rushed up to her and threw herself into her arms, Elizabeth whispered in her ear: “We must take care, the teacher has forbidden me to talk or walk with you or I shall be punished. But I will not give you up, even if I am.”

“You shall not be punished on my account,” said Irene, and went away from her, weeping silently. Both children were unable to sleep that night from sorrow. When all the others were in a sound slumber, Elizabeth rose softly from her hard bed, stole to Irene’s, and saw that she, too, was lying awake.

“I can bear it no longer,” said Elizabeth, in a low tone.

“Nor I,” replied Irene, in the same voice.

“Irene, let us get up and go away.”

“But where, Elizabeth?”

“Wherever our feet may carry us, sister; any place is better than this.”

“Now? This very moment? In the dark night?”

“No. The house is locked now. We cannot get out. But early to-morrow morning when we are dressed. Then it will be light, and the door will be opened and we can run away. Directly after breakfast. Will you, Irene?”

“I will, Elizabeth,” said Irene. The two children hugged each other affectionately. Elizabeth went back to bed comforted; Irene was somewhat consoled, too, and both fell asleep.

Little attention was paid in the morning to the children who were large enough to dress themselves alone, so it was not difficult for Irene and Elizabeth to slip unnoticed out of the wash room, beside the dormitory, into the courtyard, and from there into the street. When they were outside, they began to run, and kept on straight ahead until they were completely out of breath. Dogs chased them barking; but when they reached Irene, they snuffed at her, wagged their tails, and turned back. The two little girls had left the city behind them, and found themselves in the open fields. Seeing that no one was pursuing them, they went more slowly in order to recover their breath.

“Oh, dear Irene,” said Elizabeth, “how hungry I am!”

“I cannot give you your breakfast, sister,” replied Irene, sadly.

They were just under a tall tree, where many crows had built their nests. Irene had scarcely spoken when the whole flock of crows flew up screaming and vanished in the direction of the city. The children had not gone much farther when they heard above them a great rustling of wings and loud bird calls. It was the crows, which, returning from the city, dropped all sorts of things before the children and flew back to their tree again with the speed of lightning. Elizabeth stooped and picked up in paper horns small cakes and juicy cherries. She did not stop long to wonder, but divided lovingly with Irene, and both ate till they were satisfied. Then they walked on and on, the sun rose higher in the heavens, it was almost noon, and Elizabeth again began to complain, “Oh, dear Irene, I am so warm!”

“So am I, sister,” answered Irene.

“And I am so hungry and tired!” Elizabeth went on.

“So am I,” answered Irene.

“I can go no farther, Irene.”

“I see a wood over there, Elizabeth; let us go to it. We shall find shade, and can rest a little while.”

Irene held out her hand to her little friend and, with her help, she dragged herself to the edge of the wood, where they threw themselves down in the soft moss under the shade of the first tree. Irene sat down by her side, exclaiming, “If the crows would only come back now, and bring us more little horns of cakes and cherries!”

She had hardly spoken the words when there was a cracking and rustling in the underbrush, the bushes parted, and a hind sprang out and stood beside Elizabeth. The child started up with a cry of terror; but Irene said soothingly: “Don’t be frightened, sister, the animals will do us no harm. They have kinder hearts than human beings.”

In truth, the hind licked Elizabeth’s face with her big tongue, lay down by her side on the ground, and showed her full udder, from which drops of milk were trickling. Then Elizabeth understood that the kind animal wanted to feed her, and she began to suck the teat. When she was satisfied, Irene followed her example. Refreshed by the milk, and wearied by the unusually long walk, the heat, and the wakeful night, the two children lay down on the moss, and in a few minutes were sound asleep.

When they opened their eyes again, they saw the hind, which had kept faithful watch beside them all the time, and now knelt before Irene, turned her head toward her, and seemed to be inviting her to get upon her back.

“The dear friend wants to carry us,” said Irene; “we will ride a little, Elizabeth.” She helped the little girl to mount the hind. Irene climbed up behind her, and when the animal felt the children on its back, it rose and trotted carefully, that they might not lose their balance, into the forest.

“Oh, this is nice,” said Elizabeth, sighing; “I could not have walked any farther. My legs ache so, and my feet are so sore.”

They had slept many hours without knowing it, and now the sun was low, and the summer day was drawing to a close. The hind pressed farther and farther into the forest, the air grew cooler, the shadows became darker, and suddenly the children reached the wide clearing, where lay the broad pond as smooth as a mirror. The hind knelt down on the shore, shook herself a little, so that the children could not help sliding gently from her back into the grass, then sprang up, and in a few bounds was again in the forest, where she vanished.

“What shall we do now?” asked Elizabeth, anxiously.

“I don’t know,” replied Irene, softly.

“I am so frightened,” Elizabeth added, hiding her face on her little friend’s breast.

“Why?” asked Irene, stroking her hair caressingly.

“It’s so still and lonely here, and the mists are rising from the water. Night will soon come, and then we shall be all alone in the wild woods. What will become of us? Who will give us anything to eat to-morrow? And where shall we find a house and a bed?”

“Don’t be troubled, sister. Perhaps I am really a gypsy child, as our naughty companions called me. I am not afraid in the forest. We shall find our way through it, and the kind animals will help us do so.”

But Elizabeth shuddered and began to cry. “I am too miserable, sister,” she said, “and life is too hard. I wish I was with my mother.”

“Where you want to be, I want to be, too,” replied Irene, embracing her warmly.

Owls and bats began to fly noiselessly over the children, and the bell-like tones of the bullfrogs were heard.

“Irene,” said Elizabeth, “I will not suffer any longer. Look, the water before us is deep and cool. I shall sleep well at the bottom. I want to go down there.”

“Then I will go with you,” answered Irene.

The two little girls rose, kissed each other, clasped hands, and let themselves slip from the shore into the pond.

Just at this moment the sun set, and at the same time countless elves rose with loud shouts from the still water, caught the two children in their arms, and carried them to the shore.

“An elf child!” cried one, when she had looked into the sparkling eyes of Irene, who was gazing at her in timid surprise. “Your lost little one, Woglinde,” exclaimed a second. Then Woglinde, with a piercing cry, rushed forward, cast one glance at Irene, clasped her impetuously in her arms, and, laughing and weeping, covered her with a thousand kisses.

Irene now learned for the first time how a child feels in its mother’s arms. It was so warm! It was so soft! It was so happy! And it was so sweet to feel her mother’s kisses on cheeks and lips, eyes and hair, and to return them. She understood poor little Elizabeth’s grief at losing this joy, after she had once known it; and after the first exchange of caresses with her new-found mother, she gently released herself from her arms, saying, “Beautiful mother, let me go to my sister Elizabeth, she is all alone.”

The child was sitting on the shore, dripping wet and trembling, weeping quietly. Several elves were standing near, staring at her, and not knowing exactly what to do with the little girl. Irene made her way between them, hurried to Elizabeth, embraced her, and said, “Ah, Elizabeth, I am so happy; just think, I have found my mother in the water.”

“Why did not I, too?” wailed Elizabeth, weeping still more violently.

“Be calm, sister,” replied Irene, trying to comfort her. “My mother will take you, too, and then she will have two children.”

The elf Woglinde smiled, patted the wet cheeks of the mortal child, and was preparing to take off her dripping garments, as well as her Irene’s, clothe them in the glittering elf veils, adorn them with pearls and rubies, and refresh them with sweet juices. The nightingales were singing, the crickets chirped, the elves stood watching curiously, and the gnomes also came up, shaking their bearded heads in astonishment and dissatisfaction at this strange adventure.

Meanwhile the elf queen had also risen from the pond with her little gold crown in her hair, and while her subjects were dressing her and adorning her with jewels, they told her that Woglinde’s stolen child had returned and, with her, a little mortal.

The queen ordered the two little girls to be brought before her, kissed Irene kindly, and said to her in her silver-toned voice: “Welcome to your home, little daughter. We will keep you in the palace below until you have lost the unpleasant human odor. But you must send this little mortal child back to her relatives; for we will have no human beings with us.”

When Elizabeth heard this, she clung to Irene and whispered in her ear: “I will go back into the water again. That is the best place for me.”

But Irene threw her arm around her neck, and said to the queen: “I will not leave my Elizabeth. If she cannot stay here, I will go with her. And you will come with us, won’t you, beautiful Mother?”

Woglinde flushed and paled, struggled with herself, and suddenly threw herself at the elf queen’s feet. “Queen Mother,” she entreated, “be gracious, make an exception for once. Permit the mortal child to live among us.”

“That I cannot do,” replied the queen, raising Woglinde. “It is against the law of nature, which is our law. No mortal can live among us. Your little daughter has the choice of parting from her playmate, or giving up her elfin rank.”

“I will give it up,” cried Irene, firmly.

“And so will I,” said Woglinde, clasping both children in her arms.