Chapter II: Part 2

Then he grew faint with fear as he beheld his soldiers clawing the empty airs and turning horror-stricken countenances to him. "Sire," they whispered, "something is holding us back. Something is here that we do not see!"

At that moment the air-spies dropped to the ground like tired birds. "The wind holds us back," cried one. "No!" exclaimed another, "we broke our machines against a wall miles in the air! This is a bewitched country."

"We will wait and try again," said King Theophile.

So they encamped on the spot, and far off in the haze they saw the other army pitch its tents, and they heard the soldiers singing. All night their banners waved in the wind and the faint music continued.

At dawn King Theophile's army was astir, and those air-spies whose vehicles were still unbroken, began their flight violently--and were as violently pitched back. The phalanxes were ordered to advance, but some fell dead with horror as they drove their limbs against an unseen barrier. For the limpid air revealed only the placid fields; and in the distance among the golden shadows, men smiling like the still saints in paradisal meadows. "These be happy warriors," sighed the King, and for once in his life he longed to call the foe "brother" and ask how the harvest went; and to pillow his head on the same knapsack with a soldier, and so sleep sweet and brotherly.

But the wall which shut out his hate, now shut out also his love, so that he could not walk across the fields and embrace those smiling warriors waiting in the sunshine for a battle that was never to take place.

So sadly one day he turned his army back to the sea-strand, and the rocking boats, and away from the vision of calm eyes gazing at him through golden shadows, where the land lay fair and open.

Now when the last of the fleet had disappeared below the horizon the people of the Dark Wood kingdom went mad with joy; and the Wizard was escorted to the palace by all the army. The Princess Myrtle and Prince Merlin met him at the entrance to the throne-room, and pages scattered flowers beneath his feet.

"O Wise Man," cried the Princess, "how shall we reward thee for thy wisdom?"

"Only children crave rewards," replied the Wizard. "It will be pleasure enough for me to return to my little hut and to hear the woodpeckers in the eaves; and to see the white owls fly when the stars glow above the dark forest branches."

Now the Military Commander was the only person in the kingdom who was not sharing the general joy. He was grumpy because he had lost all the honor of winning a bloody battle. Even the sight of all his army alive and well could not soothe the wound to his vanity; so when the Princess and the Wizard were exchanging the last courtesies, he strode forward, bowed, and said:

"Your Highness, this invisible wall is all very well, but how will our people reach the seacoast through this perpetual barrier? Can this mighty Wizard destroy what he has erected?"

Then all the court looked at the Wizard, who asked to be led at once to the great concourse where the people were assembled. "This is a question to be settled by the nation and not by the court," he averred.

So the knights and ladies moved like living flowers to the concourse where the people were assembled--the pure grain of the kingdom. And the Wizard called in a loud voice to them, "Men and women, is it your will that your good deeds be destroyed or remain in everlasting remembrance? For this wall will never keep any true soul from the sea, nor any honest man; but he that is a rogue will beat in vain against it!"

Then the people shouted, "We will keep this wall which we have built with our good deeds."

So the wall stood forever, but the Wizard journeyed home, and knew the joy of the tired traveler who sees his own little nook again. That night he ate his bread and drank his draught of water on his own doorstone; and watched the white owls fly, hoping that Wisdom would let him be quiet awhile in the arms of the forest before she sent him out again to teach the restless hearts of men.

THE TREE IN THE DARK WOOD

In the kingdom of the Princess Myrtle were many forests cut through with roaring streams which dashed and danced their way over immense shining black bowlders that looked like ebony bears lying in the current. So high were the trees of these woods that they shut out the sun, and he who walked through them felt himself among the columns of a gigantic temple.

In the darkest wood of all people sometimes lost their way on bitter nights when the white stars hung just above the tree-tops and the frost-fairies filled the air with the little snaps and crackles of their orchestra--the queer, marred music of winter. The reddening of dawn found these poor adventurers frozen unless they had the good fortune to find what all the countryside knew as "The Tree in the Dark Wood."

The whispers of generations had established the fact of the existence of this tree since the hour when the woodcutter, Peter Garland, had wandered too far into the forest, and had been benighted on the feast of St. Stephen when the air sometimes sings with snow. He had become half paralyzed with the cold, his poor lantern had gone out, and he was about to say his last prayers thinking he would never live until morning, when suddenly, in the midst of the whirling snow, he saw extended the limbs of a most beautiful tree. It was not so tall as the others, and shining fruit of a delicious appearance hung upon its branches amidst its thick foliage.

Best of all, poor, half-frozen Peter felt a wonderful warmth glowing from its trunk, and with the warmth came a soft crimson light; so he stole up to it as if he were a little boy and this tree were his beautiful Mother; and he cuddled down in the arms of its great roots and went to sleep.

When he woke up it was morning; and the sun was turning the surface of the snow into sheets of iridescent light. He yawned and stretched out his arms, then remembering his wonderful rescue of the evening before, he gazed upward, but saw only a tall pine tree with shining brownish cones pendant from its branches. Where was the beautiful green summer-tree hung with crimson fruit? Where was the light like the sun's rays through painted glass?

"But here am I alive and warm," thought Peter. "And the night was bitter. This tree must change its shape at the footfall of evening; and I will mark it, lest it should be lost to us."

So taking out his knife he cut three crosses in the bark of the tree; then setting his face to the sun, for his cottage lay to the east of the Dark Wood, he hacked the trees all along the way; and at last emerged in the path which led to his dwelling. His wife and all the neighbors, who had given him up for dead, came running to meet him with cries of joy; but when he told them what had happened they tapped their foreheads and glanced at each other. "Poor man," they said, "the frost-king hath stolen his wits."

"But I marked the tree with three crosses," he cried, "and I can lead you straight to it."

They laughed, but to humor him they said he might take them to his wonderful tree after dinner, when hot soup had given them all courage; so that afternoon there was a long procession of people trudging through the Dark Wood with Peter at their head. By the time he arrived at the tree he was trembling like a leaf with excitement. There, sure enough, stood a tall pine-tree marked with the three crosses, but it was otherwise in no way different from its fellows. "Yes, but wait for evening; then you will see it change," said Peter.

They laughed a little and grumbled a little; but most of them had filled their lanterns and brought bread and cheese against a hungry time, and after all, it was not so cold in the forest, for the North Wind with his blue ballooned cheeks could not blow hard down those long avenues. Peter was full of excitement, for he was sure that the tree would become magical as soon as the sun set.

When the last splashes of crimson had faded from the topmost boughs he began anxiously to watch the tree about which all the villagers had seated themselves in a circle after first scraping the snow from the dead leaves. Darker and darker grew the air, and brighter the stars, while far off in the forest the great cats began to talk to each other, and the owls hooted and flew. Suddenly Peter gave a cry of joy. "See! See! the wonderful fruit, the glowing leaves!"

"Nonsense!" said his wife. "O, poor loon, he will never be right again!" and she began to weep into her apron.

"It is true! It is true!" cried another voice, that of hard-worked Bennie Brown, who supported an old father and mother and a crippled sister by his labors.

"Yes, it is the most beautiful tree," said a young girl, who had once sold her golden hair to buy bread for a mother with a new-born child. "O the wonderful fruit! the sweet warmth."

The others stared and rubbed their eyes; and looked angry. "You lie, Bennie!" one cried; "You are a silly girl, Elsa," shrieked another.

"They speak truth. See you not the crimson light?" spoke grave Henry Baird, who had rescued many from drowning in the mountain streams.

Those who did not see grew more and more furious. "Crazy people," they cried. "Loons! silly babblers! will you teach us?" Then some began to beat Peter; others to belabor young Elsa, at which Bennie ran to her rescue, and being as brave as he was good, laid about him with his fists, and cried "Shame on you, to hurt a woman, because your own eyes are blind." Soon everyone was fighting, but those who saw the tree felt a great strength in all their limbs, and warmth and joy; so that they soon escaped from the brawling disappointed ones and ran lightly homeward with singing hearts.

But the dispute thus started went on through many months until half the village refused to speak to the other half. Finally a good old hermit traveled over the ridges of the mountains and forded many streams to reach a place which had become famous by its quarrel. He arrived in harvest time. Those who knew that the tree glowed with life were in the fields quietly at work, for what had they to trouble them who had found the truth? but the others who could not see were leaning over each other's fences with their neglected gardens at their impatient heels; and arguing and arguing the matter.

The hermit being a wise man asked no direct questions concerning the tree, but went himself that evening into the forest and there beheld the miracle.

Next day he made friends with the villagers; and because warm words open the heart, soon the good hermit had the life histories of all the inhabitants, as well as the names of those who had seen the tree and those whose sight was blinded.

After which he retired into the wood to think upon what he had learned; and to sort out his people like little colored beads. What he discovered was this: that all those who had made sacrifices for their fellows, like Bennie Brown and young Elsa, were able to see the tree, but the selfish and the hard-hearted and the indifferent could not behold it.

When he was quite sure of this he went calmly back to the village and calling together all the inhabitants he told them exactly why some saw the tree and why it was hidden from the sight of others. These latter only laughed at his words, though some of them were cut to the heart, but they were too proud to reveal the wound.

The hermit's explanation, however, was accepted by many; and rumor carried it far beyond the borders of the village, so that after a while the nobility heard of it, and the burghers in the walled towns where beautiful tapestries were always drowsing into wonderful life on looms that could weave dreams. The result was that it grew quite fashionable to journey to the tree to make a test of one's character, as people go to physicians to have their blood examined. In the bright summer evenings long processions could be seen winding like a varicolored serpent among the gray trees. Swords flashed, banners flew, troubadours sang snatches of little lilting airs like the rise and dip of birds' wings, and beautiful ladies jingled the golden bridles of their steeds.

Few of these ladies brought their betrothed with them, lest they should be made ashamed by not being able to see the tree; and should thereby be discovered as possessing hard hearts beneath their sweet manners. It was rumored, indeed, that people known to be selfish and cruel had proclaimed, nevertheless, that they beheld a glorious tree, so that liars were made, and hypocrites. Others said this was but the jealousy of disappointed ones whose own lives had blurred their eyesight.

Now in the realm dwelt a splendid young knight whose name was Sir Godfrey, and who took pleasure in all manner of chivalrous deeds towards the ladies of his own rank. He was tall and strong-limbed, with clear blue eyes, and a fresh skin, and when he wore his golden armor he looked like the pictures of St. George. His home was a low-set castle of aged stones held together by a vast ivy vine, and around the castle was a moat so deep that it gave back a midnight darkness to the noon sky.

Now Sir Godfrey was in love with the Lady Beatrice whose lands adjoined his. She was pale and slender as any lily, with black heavy hair that had no light in it, but in her heart was much light; and because her soul mirrored more than her eyes, she did not love easily, which reluctance of hers was a grief to Sir Godfrey, who pressed his suit in vain.

One day when the roses were full-blown and all the little lambs were skipping in the broad green fields, Sir Godfrey rode on his great white horse towards the castle of the Lady Beatrice which was high up on a hill, and faced the dawn. And he proudly rode because he saw that she was watching him from the rose-terraces. But after a while he beheld her no more, and he thought, "She knows I know she was watching." Pride put a smile on his lips, because she had never watched for him before.

He spurred his horse to reach her the quicker while she was in this mood. Now just before he gained the gate of the castle a goose-girl with her geese blocked the road, and he cried impatiently, "Out of the way! out of the way!" and scarcely reined in his horse, so that there was danger of the girl's being hurt. She was quick on her feet, however, and sprang aside, but one poor bird was trampled under the steed's hoofs, at which the girl gave a sob and called out, "You are wicked, wicked!" Then he put his hand in his purse and drew out some gold pieces and flung them towards her; but she did not see them, for her face was buried in the down of the bird, which was a pet.

When he reached the gate, there in the shadow of the arch stood the Lady Beatrice. Her face was as white as a gardenia flower, and she did not smile when she greeted him. He wondered what he had done to offend her, and after a page had led away his horse he employed all his graceful arts to win the smile he craved as a thirsty man longs for water. Sometimes she glanced at him from beneath her lashes as if seeking to read his soul; and once he saw her lips tremble, but the smile did not come.

They were pacing up and down between the nodding roses that seemed to be saying to Sir Godfrey, "Kiss her! kiss her!" until no longer could he bear it, and he sank on one knee before her and poured out his heart.

She listened like a maiden turned to snow. Then when he was silent she spoke thus to him: "Will you go with me and my ladies to the Tree in the Dark Wood this very night? If you can behold the Tree filled with fruit and rosy flame I will marry you, if not I cannot be your bride. But you must promise me upon the cross-hilt of your sword that you will speak truthfully. You must not deceive me to gain my hand."

Then Sir Godfrey gave his word joyfully, for he was sure that he would behold the magical Tree. He thought of all his noble deeds and the beautiful ladies for whose sake he had tilted in tourney; and of all his prowess as a knight in king's courts.

So when the sun was low, he with Lady Beatrice and her train of ladies rode forth from the gates towards the Dark Wood which lay like a cloud in the distance; and Sir Godfrey was full of song and jest, for he never doubted that soon he would be the betrothed of his beautiful lady; but she was silent and looked often towards the west where the rosy clouds slept.

When the procession entered the wood it was as if the gray spaces had turned all at once into a garden. Flashes of jewels and silks threw magic colors on the twilight, and the troubadours in the train sang so sweetly that all the birds were mute. As night came on the, pretty little lanterns were lit and swung at the horses' bridles.

The Tree was nearly reached when Lady Beatrice halted her procession and bade it await her and Sir Godfrey, for she loved him too well to have him mortified before other people; and she feared that he would not behold the glowing fruit-bearing Tree. But never a doubt crossed his mind, for he remembered all his noble deeds that he had performed beneath the eyes of gallant knights and fair ladies.

So they rode on to the Tree, and he unhooked the lantern from his saddle and held it high.

"Why do you do that?" asked the Lady Beatrice.

"To find the three crosses," he said.

"But the Tree is glowing like a jewel," she cried.

Then he grew gray as the ashes of a long-spent fire, for he knew that he had failed; and his pride suffered a mortal wound, since it was greater than his love. "You are deceived, Lady Beatrice, like all the rest," he said. "There is no magic Tree."

For answer she turned her horse and rode sadly away. Her heart was too heavy for speech. As he saw her going the sense of loss cut like a knife into his spirit, and his pain was keen, for he still loved for his sake and not for hers. She, seeing that he suffered, longed to comfort him, but she was not one of those who live for the moment, and she held her peace.

When they reached the waiting procession everyone looked at Sir Godfrey, and his pride was, by the challenge of their eyes, again aroused, for he could do nothing, nor feel nothing unless he was before a mirror. So he began to be very gay; and though he would have scorned to speak a lie, he acted one that everyone might believe he had seen the magic Tree. But the Lady Beatrice remained silent and sad. When they reached her gates he asked her permission to enter; then she said: "Some day, not now."

He rode away without a jest, for she had never before refused him any courtesy, and his heart was heavy within him. That night he could not sleep, but tossed upon his bed, sometimes grieving because he had not seen the magic Tree and so had been made of no worth in the Lady Beatrice's eyes; sometimes in anguish because she had not allowed him to enter her gates.

But in all this he loved himself, so the pain was but transitory, and next day he put on his finest doublet of leaf-green satin lined with primrose silk and edged with pale corals, and rode to her gates. There the porter brought back word that the Lady Beatrice could not see him.

Sir Godfrey was angry then, and he sought to make her jealous. Next day when at the jousts, he sat at the feet of her cousin, Lady Alladine, nor did he look towards the Lady Beatrice.

But all that only heaped fire on his own heart, and he rode home to his castle with his brow dark. The singing birds seemed to mock him, and he thought he heard the shrill laughter of the goblin-men, who live in the deep dells. That night he could not sleep; but murmured again and again that she was his own love, and not the Lady Alladine.

So full of meekness he rode next day to the castle of his heart's life, but the porter brought back to him the same message, and Sir Godfrey departed full of anguish. His pain, like a scourge, drove him on and on until he was far off in the desert amid the tangled and tripping briers and the keen-edged stones. The rain beat upon his head and upon his silken clothes, but he was unmindful of it, because he had begun to grieve not for himself, but for his sweet lost love.

The days went by and he grew thin and worn with his grieving; and because he learned how salt is the taste of tears he began to pity everything that suffered. He was well-nigh worn out with his memories, for now he never thought of his noble deeds, but of the times when he had given pain to others. Often he remembered the poor goose-girl and her birds. At first he would say, "I gave her gold"; then a voice in his heart answered, "Gold cannot pay for life."

So one day he went to the market-place and bought a fine gray goose with a bill as red as a cardinal's robe; and he tucked the bird under his arm, though the people jeered to see a noble knight carrying a goose. But Sir Godfrey cared not. He went straight to the village green where the goose-girl was leading her birds around, and bowed low before her as if she were a great lady.

"I am sorry that I killed one of your flock," he said. "Will you take this fellow for forgiveness's sake?"

Then the tears came into her eyes, and she took into her arms from his the gray goose whose bill was red as a cardinal's robe; and stroked his feathers.

"Why do you cry?" asked Sir Godfrey.

"I am glad you are a true knight," she answered.

Then Sir Godfrey wished with all his heart that he might bring tears to the eyes of the Lady Beatrice, for he felt that never more would she believe him a true knight.

The world was full of flying leaves, for it was autumn; then the winds died and the snows came. Bitter winter chained the mountain streams and laid the forests asleep. The stars shone blue, and on the windowpanes were fairy pictures.

Now the time drew near the birth of Christ, and one day Sir Godfrey was overjoyed to receive a message from the Lady Beatrice, bidding him to a feast on Christmas Eve. It seemed to him that he could not wait for the hour to come, and all that day he thought upon the joy of beholding her again.

Towards nightfall the wind rose and the snow began to fly, but to Sir Godfrey it was as if the air were full of dainty flowers. Nor did he regard the cold nor the whistling tempest, but rode in deep joy and humility to the castlegate of the Lady Beatrice.

When he had nearly reached it he heard a feeble voice crying: "Stop, Sir Knight; for the love of heaven, stop!" and looking down he saw a bent old woman holding her hands out to him in supplication.

Every moment's delay was as the point of a sharp sword against his heart, but he had himself suffered too much to turn from the voice of pain; and leaning from his saddle he said, "What can I do for you, Mother?"

"Sir Knight," she replied, "my home lies on the farther side of the Dark Wood, and the neighbor who was to convey me thither has no doubt forgotten his promise. I have a sick son there for whose sake I made this journey. Wilt thou, for the love of heaven, take me up behind thee and convey me through the Dark Wood to my dwelling? I cannot walk through this tempest, and my son may die."

Then Sir Godfrey was as a man turned into marble by enchantment, and his heart was sore with struggle. Before him were the lights of the castle which held his love. If he carried this woman to her home, he could not see his Lady Beatrice, who, perhaps, would never forgive him for not appearing at her summons.

The thought was as death to him, and he looked broodingly down at the poor woman. "I am bidden to a feast, Mother," he said, "the porter of this castle will give you shelter for the night, and in the morning I will convey you through the Dark Wood to your home."

"The morning may be too late, Sir Knight," she said sadly.

Then without a word Sir Godfrey turned his horse, and though his heart was like lead, he bent a cheerful countenance to the stranger, and assisted her to the place behind the saddle, and off they rode together through the night and storm.

Sir Godfrey spoke but little, since his thoughts were with the Lady Beatrice and the empty chair at the feast which should have been his. He saw her face imprinted on the night's dark veil and heard her voice calling him on the whistling wind. The old woman behind him muttered of the storm while on and on they rode.

At last they entered the Dark Wood, and here they made slower progress, for the light of Sir Godfrey's little lantern was feeble and the trees cast confusing shadows. By and by the old woman began to moan that she was cold, that she felt herself dying of the cold. "O would that we could reach the Tree which sheds warmth and bears fruit even in this bitter weather," she cried. "O Knight, hasten forward to the Tree."

But Sir Godfrey made no answer, for he was now sure that he should never be holy enough to behold the Tree; and he, too, felt the sorrow and cold of death creep upon him, and a dreadful fear that never again should he leave the Dark Wood alive, but would perish there miserably. He could no longer see the path, and the arms of the old woman clinging to him were like the touch of ice. "O Mother!" he cried, "Pray for our deliverance, for I have lost the road."

At that moment his lantern went out, and he gave a cry of despair, for he had nothing wherewith to relight it.

"Fear not," cried the old woman, "but press on."

So through the dark he urged his horse, seeing nothing and feeling more dead than alive; for he now knew that both he and his passenger must perish of the cold.

But even as he was resigning his heart to the will of heaven, he saw afar off a beautiful, clear, rosy light shedding long rays over the snow, and where the light lay the snowflakes fell no more, but a delicate breeze, soft and caressing, issued like a breath of spring from that circle. The old woman cried, "The Tree! the Tree!"

Sir Godfrey's heart leaped with joy. He could not believe that he was at last worthy to behold the Tree, yet there it rose, oh, so glorious! its trunk glowing with a sweet, warm fire, its branches covered with lights and heavy with delicious fruit. He laughed with joy, while the old woman softly wept. Even the horse saw the fine sight, for he whinnied his pleasure.

Then the knight dismounted and turned to lift the old woman down, when suddenly she threw back her hood, and straightened herself; and there, smiling into his eyes, was his own love, the Lady Beatrice. "O my true Knight," she cried. "For the sake of a stranger thou didst brave death. Now with thy love shalt thou live."

Then Sir Godfrey cried out with joy and took her in his arms and kissed her many times, while from behind the Tree came running all the true-hearted nobles and peasants who had been able to see its wonders, and they all circled Sir Godfrey and the Lady Beatrice while they plighted their troth. Then all ate the fruit, and made merry in the rosy warmth until the Christmas morning dawned, when they went back in the sunshine to celebrate the marriage of Sir Godfrey and the Lady Beatrice, who lived happily ever afterwards; for how otherwise could it be with lovers that had together beheld the Tree in the Dark Wood?

THE CAT THAT WINKED

Once there was an old woman who lived on the edge of the Dark Wood in a small cottage all covered with thick thatch and over the thatch grew a honeysuckle vine; but at the gable where the chimneys clustered, the wisteria flung purple flowers in May.

On the topmost chimney was a stork's nest, and there dear grandfather stork stood on one leg, unless he was wanted to carry a little baby to some house in the village; when he flapped his wings and flew away over the tree-tops to the Land of Little Souls.

Now the old woman loved her home, because she had lived there many years with her husband. She loved the two worn chairs on each side of the great hearth, and her pewter dishes, and her big china water-pitcher with flowers shining on it--not for themselves, but for the reason that once someone had used them and admired them with her.

Into the little latticed windows the roses peeped, and these Mother Huldah loved too, and tended carefully all through the sweet-smelling summer-time. But perhaps she liked best the long winter evenings when she spun by the fire and sang little songs like these:

"My heart as a bird has flown away,
(Princess, where? Princess, where?)
Into the land that is always gay,
Out of the land of care.

"But no bird flies alone to bliss,
(Princess, why? Princess, why?)
I have no answer but a kiss,
And then the open sky."

Nobody listened but Tommie, who was an immense black cat, held in great reverence by the villagers, for he had the greenest eyes and the longest whiskers and the heaviest fur of any cat in the kingdom. Moreover, he had hundreds of mice to his credit and no birds, for he was a good and wise grimalkin. Sometimes he talked with his tail and sometimes he opened his pink mouth and said just as plain as words that he had been stalking through the moonlight and had seen old Egbert go limping home as if he had the rheumatism.

So next day Mother Huldah with her little bag of medicines and ointments would go to old Egbert's hut, and sure enough, find him bedridden; or Tommie would tell her that Charlemagne the stork had carried a baby to a poor mother who had no clothes for it. Then Mother Huldah would go to her great cedar chest and take out linen that smelled all sweetly of lavender, and carry it with some good food to the poor woman.

Mother Huldah was so kind and generous that everybody got in the habit of taking things from her without sometimes so much as a "thank you," or an inquiry as to her own health. But the little children loved her because she made them pretty cakes; and told them the stories she used to tell her own children, her two fine sons who were soldiers. These sons sent her the money upon which she lived and out of which she made her little charities, and they wrote her fine brave letters, and every year they came home to see her, bearing beautiful presents from foreign lands, ivory toys and shining silks (which she always gave to some bride) and workboxes of sweet-scented wood richly carved--to show how much they loved her.

One dreadful year a great war broke out, and not long after Mother Huldah heard that her two sons had been killed, and she herself thought she would follow them through grief. But she lived on and as she grew more sorrowful she went less and less to the village, and people began to forget her. Even the little children stayed away since she had no longer the heart to tell them the tales she had once told her sons; and she must no longer bake the little cakes since every day saw her small hoard of money diminishing.

At last, when the winter tempests were raging, and the sleet was beating upon the thatch, there came a day when no food remained in the cottage; and Mother Huldah felt too weak and sick to go out in quest of it. Nor did she wish to tell her neighbors that no food remained in the cottage.

So full of weary dreams and old sad thoughts she sat down in one of the armchairs before the fire, and whether she nodded from drowsiness, or whether Tommie nodded at her she never knew, but he moved his black head and opened his pink mouth, and said he, "Suppose I fetch you a bird just this once."

She was much surprised, for Tommie had never talked to her before, but she did not show how astonished she was because she was always very polite to him. So she replied, "Bless your whiskers! Tommie! but we won't break through our rule. Maybe some neighbor will fetch me a loaf!"

"Maybe they will and perhaps they won't," said Tommie, "they're an ungrateful lot."

"They think I am still rich, my dear," she answered.

"So you are, but not in the way they mean," Tommie said. "And, Mother Huldah, if they neglect you a day longer it won't be your Tommie's fault."

Then Mother Huldah shook her finger at him. "You switch your tail just as if you were going to steal something. Tommie, I brought you up better than that."

"Steal! nonsense!" cried Tommie. "Most of 'em have more than they need, anyway."

"Tommie, I believe you're hungry, or your morals wouldn't be so queer!" Mother Huldah said reprovingly.

"Hungry!" exclaimed Tommie. "I dream of lobster claws and chicken wings and blue saucers full of yellow wrinkled cream, twelve in a row. No wonder my morals are queer!"

Then what happened was that poor Mother Huldah dozed off to sleep and when she awoke there was Tommie staring into the fire, his green eyes like two lanterns and his whiskers standing out very stiff and knowing, and at Mother Huldah's' feet was a wicker basket from which issued a most appetizing odor. "Why, Thomas" (she always called him Thomas in solemn moments), "what's this?"

"Your dinner," said Tommie, and yawned like a gentleman who lights a cigarette and says, "O hang it all! what a beastly bore life is."

"Thomas," questioned Mother Huldah solemnly, "where did you get this dinner?" for she had taken the cover off the basket and found a small roast chicken with vegetables and a bread pudding.

"Why, I was strolling down the gray lane when I met a woman carrying that basket and I smelled chicken; so up I stood on my hind legs, and winked at her and I said, 'Thank you, I know you are taking that to Mother Huldah; let me carry it the rest of the way.'"

But Mother Huldah cried, "Maybe the dinner wasn't for me, and you frightened her so she had to give it to you."

Tommie yawned again. "Don't you think that the best thing you can do with a good dinner is to eat it?"

So Mother Huldah ate her dinner, hoping all the while that she was making an honest meal; then, when she had fed Thomas, she asked him if Charlemagne was on the roof. "Indeed, no!" cried he. "Charlemagne has flown to the war country to fetch you a baby!"

"Alas!" cried Mother Huldah. "I pity the poor babes, but how can I bring up a baby?"

"It is your granddaughter," said Tommie. "Charlemagne told me that a year ago your son Rupert married, but he meant to bring his bride home as a surprise to you. Then the war broke out and--"

"O poor little daughter-in-law!" cried Mother Huldah. "Did she break her heart?"

"Yes, and so she followed Rupert to the Country of the Brave Souls; but Charlemagne is fetching the baby in a warm woolen napkin tied up at the four corners; and when his wings get tired from flying he puts a bit of sugar and a drop of water in the baby's mouth and leans his feathery breast against its little feet to keep them warm!"

"Yes! yes!" said Mother Huldah, "a baby's feet should be always kept warm--but, dear me, dear me, the Sweet One will need milk before long, and the grain of the whole wheat to help her grow! I have no money to buy her food."

Tommie looked very wise. "Mother Huldah," he said as he drew a black paw knowingly over one ear, "don't you know that wherever a baby comes, help comes? Open the linen chest and get your shining shears and begin to make little shirts and dresses. I think I'll take a look at the weather."

He made the last remark carelessly like a young gentleman who will stroll out and leave the women-folk to their devices.

"O Tommie!" said Mother Huldah, "you are not going to do anything impulsive?"

"Mother Huldah," replied Tommie, "did you ever know a cat to do anything impulsive unless he saw a bird, or a mouse?"

With that he left her, and she watched him walk away down the forest path with the sunlight glistening on his coat and his tail held high and straight. Sometimes he would pause and lift one foot daintily, the toes curling in. Mother Huldah always said that Tommie heard not with his ears but with his whiskers, and perhaps it was true.

Tommie himself was making his own plans as he went along. "If I tell these villagers outright that Mother Huldah is in need, each person will think, 'O well, Neighbor Jude, or Gossip Dorcas has more to spare than I. Someone else will take care of the poor old lady, I am sure.' And it will end in her getting nothing at all. I will not talk about her, but to each person I will talk about himself, for that is the way to get people interested."

At which Tommie smiled, and because his great-grandfather was a Cheshire Cat, his smile gave him a wise and jovial look, as if the Sphinx of Egypt should suddenly see a joke. With a good heart he went daintily on his way, shaking the snow from his paws at times, until he reached the village green. Now in the middle of the green stood the pump, made of wood with a flat top. On this Tommie seated himself, put his paws neatly together, folded his tail about them, made his green eyes perfectly round, and stared straight ahead of him.

Now even a cat when he looks as if he could think for himself will draw people's attention; especially if he seems to enjoy his thoughts. And Tommie, seated on the pump in the bright winter sunshine, looked as if he had something in his mind that pleased him.

"Heigh-O," said one of the passers-by. "Here's a witch-cat!"

"You are mistaken," replied Tommie with a wink. "I belong to Mother Huldah, and she is the best woman in the village."

The man was so astonished that he dropped a parcel of eggs he was carrying, and they were all broken.

"That's what comes," said Tommie, "of imagining evil where none exists."

The man was so angry that he made some snowballs hastily and began to pelt Tommie with them; but Tommie understood the beautiful art of dodging--which some people never learn all their lives--so he didn't get hit. By this time a crowd had gathered about the angry man, and were asking him what was the matter.

"Matter!" he shrieked, "that black object on the pump gave me impudence!"

"Heigh-O!" cried little Elsa. "How could a cat give thee impudence!"

"Ask him then," said the man. "He can talk like any Christian."

At which the crowd all looked at Tommie, who winked at them and said, "Does anybody here want to ask me any questions? I'll tell him what he wants to know in perfect confidence between him and me and the pump. If my answer pleases him, he can give me a silver piece. If my reply make his heart go pit-a-pat with joy he can give me a gold piece. If he doesn't like my answers, he needn't give me anything. Now that's fair, isn't it?"

Then everybody looked at everybody else, and dropped their jaws and rubbed their eyes. Nobody stirred for a minute, then a fine young fellow stepped forward, blushing. This was Carl, the miller's son, who was straight as a birch-tree, and had blue eyes like deep lakes, and he walked right up to the pump, and bowed, then he whispered into Tommie's ear, "Does Lucia love me?"

Tommie winked his right eye and smiled. "Carl," he replied, "get up your courage and ask her to-day, for she loves you better than anyone in the world."

Then Carl felt his heart go pit-a-pat, and all the snow wreaths on the trees seemed to turn to bridal flowers. "Thanks, dear and wise Pussy," he said, and took out his handkerchief and spread it at Tommie's feet and on it he placed not one, but three gold pieces.

When the villagers saw the gold pieces glittering in the sun and beheld the radiant face of Carl, they all began to wonder, and each person wanted to try his own luck. "After all," said each one to himself, "if I don't like what the cat says I needn't pay him anything."

The next person to go up was the village tanner, whose skin was like leather and whose eyes were little like a pig's. Tommie was already acquainted with him, having been kicked out of his tannery once when on an innocent mousing expedition.

"Say," said the tanner, "will my Uncle Jean leave me his farm?"

"No," answered Tommie, winking his left eye. "That he won't! He knows you are always wishing he would die!"

The tanner was so angry that he snarled: "Don't you ever let me catch you around the tannery again, or I'll make you into a muff for my daughter."

"Black furs are not fashionable this winter," said Tommie. "Next?"

Everybody laughed when they saw that the tanner hadn't paid money for his information, and so, presumably, didn't like it. But strangely enough, instead of discouraging this led them on to try their luck; and the next person who came to ask Tommie a question was poor, old, half-blind Henley the miser. He put his mouth close to the cat's ear, so the people behind him wouldn't catch what he said, and in a hoarse voice he asked, "Say, old whiskers, will my fine ship loaded with dates and spices reach Norway safely?"

"Yes, it will," said Tommie, "long before your withered old soul will reach a haven of peace."

Henley was so excited over the first words that he didn't even hear the last ones. He hopped about on one leg, and was rushing off at last when Tommie cried, "Heigh-O, you haven't paid me!"

The miser felt in his pockets and drew out a silver coin and laid it on the handkerchief.

"Not at all," said Tommie. "Remember the Worth of that cargo! Gold or nothing."

Henley began to whine. "I'm a poor old man, Tommie. I'll leave the cream jug on the doorstep every day and no questions will be asked!"

"I'm not a thief," answered Tommie. "Mother Huldah brought me up better than that. Come, you don't want to have any quarrel with a black cat."

Whereupon Henley reluctantly drew from his pocket a gold piece, while all the villagers opened their eyes very wide, and wondered what Tommie could have told the old gentleman to make him so liberal.

The next person to come up was a little shy girl named Clara. She had big brown eyes and fair floating hair, and under her white chin and about her little white wrists were soft furs; for her father was a wealthy moneylender. She came close to Tommie and whispered, "Tell me, beautiful Pussy, if I shall ever win the love of Joseph Grange."

Tommie winked his right eye several times and replied, "My dear, I see it coming!"

She flushed with joy. "And what shall I do to hasten it?"

Tommie reflected a moment. "Be pleasant, but not anxious. A lady with an anxious expression has little chance of winning a lover! Don't invite him too often; don't talk too much. Now I haven't hurt your feelings, have I?"

"No, indeed," she said, for she was a young lady of good sense. "And Tommie, dear, will you take these gold pieces to Mother Huldah. She was so good to me when I was a little girl, and because I have been so absorbed in my own affairs I haven't been to see her lately."

"That's the trouble with being in love," said Tommie, "it's apt to make people selfish, and it should make them love and remember everybody. It does when it's the real thing."

Little Clara clasped her hands earnestly. "I will come to see Mother Huldah this afternoon," she said, "and bring her some cakes of my own baking."

After Clara one person and another came up. Some asked foolish questions, some wise. Some paid down money, others didn't, but the pile of gold and silver at Tommie's feet grew steadily.

Now all novelties, even talking cats, soon cease to be novelties, and towards afternoon when the villagers saw how much of their money lay at Tommie's feet, some of them began to be discontented. Of these the tanner was the ringleader, and he said to the other grumblers, "If we can get that lying cat off the pump, we can then take his money. I have three big rats in the trap at the tannery, and I know Tommie is starving hungry by this time. We'll let 'em loose on the ground in front of the pump. When he makes a spring one of you grab the money and run."

Now the tanner had guessed right. Tommie was hungry, but he was determined to keep his post until sundown. After a while no more people came, and he was just thinking he would take up the handkerchief by the four corners and go home, when he espied a group of people approaching. Suddenly, oh, me, oh, my! three dinners were scampering towards him, such rats, such big, splendid rats in fine condition. Tommie had never used such self-control in all his nine lives, but he sat tight and though his whiskers showed his agitation he never budged.

The tanner was mad clear through, and he cried out, "He's a wizard; he ought to be killed" because some people can't see others controlling themselves without thinking there's something wrong with them. Then he began to make snowballs and to pelt poor Tommie. Now Tommie, as has been said, was a good dodger, but nevertheless when it rains snowballs it's hard not to get hit. It might have fared badly with him had not some knights and ladies at that moment appeared on the scene in the train of the beautiful Princess Yolande, one of the fairest princesses in all the realm. She rode a great white horse, and she was robed in cream velvet and white furs, while about her slender waist was a girdle of gold set with sapphires which were as blue as her eyes. By her side rode Lord Mountfalcon. He was all in black armor, for he was mourning a brother who had died in the distant war.

Love as well as grief filled his heart, for his dark eyes were continually upon the beautiful Princess, who now reined in her horse and cried out in a sweet voice, "Shame upon you men to hurt a poor cat."

"He is a wizard and he belongs to a witch," called out the tanner.

"O what a wicked lie," said Tommie. "I don't care what names you call me, but my mistress is one of the best women in the land. She has come to poverty in her old age. For her sake and to get her a little money, I've sat here all day answering truthfully all questions. Now, dear Princess Yolande, believe me, for I am a true cat."

The Princess was so astonished that she couldn't speak for a moment. At last she turned to Lord Mountfalcon and said: "Truly, we have come to wonderland. I'd rather believe the cat than the people who were pelting him, and I have a mind to test his powers. Let us alight and ask him questions."

Then they all dismounted and with the pages and the ladies and the gentlemen in armor the scene was as gay as the stage of an opera. Everybody chatted and laughed, and some of the court ladies stroked Tommie's fur with their pretty white hands; and one took off her bracelet and hung it about his neck.

But when the Princess Yolande went forward to ask her question, everyone fell back. Then with sweet dignity, as became a princess, she stood before Tommie and said, "Tell me if Lord Mountfalcon love me truly."

Tommie didn't wink, for he knew the ways of court, his grandfather having been chief mouser to old King Adelbert; but he purred a warm good purr, like a mill grinding out pure white grain.

"If the sky in heaven be blue, Then Mountfalcon loves you true; If the sun set in the West, Lord Mountfalcon loves you best."

"You see," he added, "I'm not much of a poet, but those are the facts."

"Never was bad verse so sweet to me," cried the Princess and she put down a whole bag of gold at Tommie's feet.

After her came Lord Mountfalcon himself with that sad grace of his, and all his spirit shadowed with love and grief. "Sir Puss," he said, "shall I wed ever the Princess Yolande?"

"Before there are violets in the vales of the kingdom," replied Tommie.

"Two saddlebags will not hold the gold I shall give thee," exclaimed the nobleman.

"Bring them to the cottage where Mother Huldah lives," said Tommie. "And I ask this further favor: When you leave this spot will you take me up behind you and give this money to a page to convey; and so bring me safely home with the wealth, for I fear mischief from the tanner."

"Most willingly," said Mountfalcon. "I will present your request to the Princess."

After him all the court came with questions; so when the page advanced to gather up the money the load was almost more than he could carry. Then Tommie jumped down from his perch, and another page lifted him safely on to the big warm back of Lord Mountfalcon's horse, which felt fine and comforting to poor Tommie's feet. He was so tired that he took forty winks after he had told the Princess how to reach the cottage of Mother Huldah.

When he woke they were all in the dim forest and the Princess Yolande and Lord Mountfalcon were talking in low tones like the whisper of the wind through flowers; and it seemed as if their talk were all of love and dreams and far-away griefs and tears that must fall.