Chapter I: Part 1

YOU SAW
these little men
on the cover guarding the
road that leads to Fairy Land.
Do you believe in Fairy Land?
If so, they will let you pass. If
not, they will make you
turn back the way you
came and will not let
you into

THE FIR-TREE FAIRY BOOK
]

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THE PIED PIPER ORDERS THE RATS INTO THE WATER
]

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+THE
FIR-TREE
FAIRY
BOOK+

+FAVORITE FAIRY TALES+

+EDITED BY+

+CLIFTON JOHNSON+

+ILLUSTRATED BY
ALEXANDER POPINI+

BOSTON

LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY

1912

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Copyright, 1912,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
─────
All rights reserved

Published, November, 1912

THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

IN the volumes that make up this series of fairy books are to be found the favorite wonder tales of many nations in a version especially suited for the home fireside. The interest, the charm and all the sweetness of the stories have been retained, but savagery, distressing details and excessive pathos have been dropped, and the books can be read aloud or placed in the hands of children with entire confidence.

The reasons for such changes as I have made in the stories are perhaps self-evident. Surely, most parents and teachers will agree that our little people are better off without some of the sentiments of the barbaric past when the tales originated. We can well spare most of the spectacles of falsehood, gluttony, drunkenness, torture and gore that are found in the usual tellings, and we can get along without the cruel fathers and wicked stepmothers. Civilization and culture have advanced vastly since the time when the stories started. Our primal instincts are more controlled, and law, education and ethics mean vastly more. The necessity therefore seems clear for softening or changing the crude ideals and doubtful morals and coarseness that have so often survived in the old stories.

The tales are drawn from many sources, and usually are the result of a comparison of several versions, and a combination of the best features of these versions into a simple straightforward whole such as children will read with understanding and pleasure.

The plan I have indicated was begun with “The Oak-Tree Fairy Book,” the initial volume of this tree named series, and has been consistently pursued in all the later volumes.

CLIFTON JOHNSON.

HADLEY, MASS.

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CONTENTS

SOURCE PAGE

THE PIED PIPER England 3

THE FIR-TREE Andersen 14

THE BABES IN THE WOOD England 27

ALEXANDER JONES Scotland 35

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY Grimm 43

THE LOVE OF THE SNOW-WHITE FOX Japan 52

THE GRAZIER’S WIFE Spain 56

THE MAGIC HORN Norway 60

THE ENVIOUS NEIGHBOR Siam 72

BLUEBEARD France 76

THE SPENDTHRIFT MERCHANT’S SON Russia 84

THE AMBITIOUS THRUSH India 92

THE BEWITCHED BOTTLES Ireland 99

A PEACE MEETING China 117

THE SOLDIER AND THE DRAGON France 121

THE FAIRIES OF MERLIN’S CRAG Scotland 134

THE LITTLE BOY AND THE BIG COW England 141

A BOTTLE OF BRAINS England 144

THE PEDDLER OF SWAFFHAM England 154

THE ORANGE FAIRY Turkey 158

THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE Roumania 173

JOHNNY GLOKE England 179

HANS THE HEDGEHOG Grimm 184

THE MAGPIE’S NEST England 194

PUSS IN BOOTS France 197

THE MASTER AND HIS PUPIL England 208

THE WHITE TROUT Ireland 213

THE FORTY-NINE DRAGONS Greece 217

THE FOUR CLEVER BROTHERS Grimm 233

THE YOUTH WITHOUT FEAR Grimm 242

THE WONDERFUL TURNIP Grimm 259

THE ENCHANTED DOVE Grimm 264

THE THREE WISHES England 270

THE OLD HORSE Grimm 276

THE DONKEY CABBAGES Grimm 279

SWEET PORRIDGE Grimm 290

THE PRAYING GEESE Grimm 292

THE DARNING NEEDLE Andersen 294

THE RABBIT AND THE GREEDY India 300
MONKEY

THE NIGHTINGALE Andersen 306

THE PRINCESS AND THE GIANT Ireland 325

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

The Pied Piper orders the rats Frontispiece
into the water

The Mayor hears something 6

The fir-tree 16

The babes in the wood 31

They ran around the table 37

The sleeping beauty 48

There were hunters who wanted 52
to kill the fox

Barbara admires herself in the 58
mirror

Philip blew into the large end 67
of his horn

He gathered all the gold he 74
could carry

At the door of Bluebeard’s 78
secret room

They carried him away through 89
the air

The thrush in her new clothes 95

Two tiny men climbed out of 109
the bottle

At the peace meeting 119

The bear and rabbit begin the 126
attack on the dragon

The two brothers and the fairy 135

The cow wouldn’t stand still 142

The lass stopped and looked at 149
him

The peddler of Swaffham 155

The dervish 158

He met a giantess 161

He rushed forth from the shop 177

Johnny loses control of his 182
fiery steed

Hans rode away to the forest 187

First she took some mud 194

Puss in Boots greets the king 198

Puss and the ogre 203

The learned man and his big 209
book

While he was looking a number 223
of dragons came out

The dragon pursues the ship 239

He threw the sexton downstairs 244

The bed began to move 252

Away he went with the turnip 260

The door in the tree 266

A noble string of sausages 273
hung from his nose

The horse started for home 278

To his horror he perceived 284
that he had been transformed
into a donkey

Begging for mercy 292

The proud darning needle 295

The man gave chase 301

The nightingales at court 315

The giant bringing home a bear 331

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+THE
FIR-TREE FAIRY BOOK+

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE PIED PIPER

THERE is a sleepy little town by the seashore, which for a time, long ago, was decidedly noisy. But the noise was not so much due to the number of people in the place, or the traffic on the streets, as it was to the fact that the town had been invaded by a horde of rats. Such an invasion had never been seen before nor ever will be seen again. The place was scarcely worth living in, so infested was it with these rats. The people found them in their breeches or petticoats when they put on their clothes in the morning, and it was nothing unusual to discover a rat’s nest in one’s shoes or pockets, or in one’s Sunday hat or bonnet.

The rats were great black creatures that ran boldly through the streets in broad daylight, and swarmed all over the houses. There was not a barn, or a cornrick, or a storeroom, or a cupboard, but they gnawed their way into it.

They fought the dogs and killed the cats
And bit the babies in their cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats
And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladle.

Even the barrels of beer were not safe from them. They would gnaw a hole in the barrel head, and into this hole some master rat would thrust his tail, and when he withdrew it dripping with beer all his friends and relatives would crowd around and each would have a suck at the tail.

They were bad enough in the daytime, but they were still worse at night. Then they were busy everywhere—in the walls and ceilings, and also in the rooms from cellar to garret. There was such a chase and a rummage, and such a squeaking and squealing, and such a noise as of gimlets, pincers and saws that a deaf man could not have rested for one hour together. The people could hardly hear themselves think, and many a mother felt obliged to sit up and keep watch over her children lest some big ugly rat should run across their faces.

Cats and dogs, poison and traps were of no avail. Nor were prayers any more effective. Of course many of the rats were killed, yet others constantly came to take the place of the dead ones. The mayor and the town council were at their wits’ end. They were sitting one day in the town hall racking their brains, when a queer-looking stranger arrived in the place. As he tramped up the chief street he played the bagpipes, pausing in his playing now and then to sing this refrain:

“Who lives shall see
This is he,
The ratcatcher.”

He was a tall, gawky fellow with swarthy skin, a crooked nose, a long moustache, and piercing eyes. His broad-brimmed felt hat had a scarlet cock’s feather stuck into its band, and there was not a color of the rainbow that could not be found in his jacket and breeches. A leather belt girded his waist, and on his feet were sandals fastened by thongs passed round his legs. He stopped in the great market-place before the town hall and went on with his piping and singing. The town beadle heard the purport of the song, and asked the stranger if he could rid the town of the rats with which it was overrun.

“Yes,” was the reply, “if you will make it worth my while.”

Then the beadle hurried off to report the stranger’s words to the council. As he approached their place of meeting the mayor was saying: “What to do, I know not. My poor head aches, I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.”

Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door, but a gentle tap?

“Bless us!” cried the mayor, “what’s that?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!”

Then he said in a louder voice, “Come in,” and the beadle entered.

“Please, your honor,” said the beadle, “a very queer fellow has come to town who says he is a ratcatcher, and that he can clear the place of rats if we make it worth his while.”

“Then he is a sorcerer,” said the councilors with one voice. “We must beware of him.”

The mayor, who was considered clever, reassured them. “Sorcerer or not,” said he, “if this bagpiper speaks the truth, I doubt not it was he who sent us this horrible vermin in order to get money from us for inducing them to go away. Well, we must catch the evil-minded in their own snares. You leave it to me.”

“Leave it to the mayor,” said the councilors one to the other.

“Show him in,” said the mayor, and the beadle soon brought the ratcatcher before them.

“I am called the Pied Piper,” he said, “and ratcatching is my trade. What would you pay me to rid you of every rat in the town?”

Much as they disliked the rats they disliked parting with their money still more, and they fain would have higgled and haggled. But the Piper was not a man to stand nonsense, and the upshot of the matter was that they agreed to pay him at the rate of a penny a head as soon as there was not a rat left to squeak or scurry in the place.

The bagpiper announced that he would operate that very evening when the moon rose, and he requested that the inhabitants should leave the streets free, and content themselves with looking out of their windows while he was at his task.

When the townspeople heard of the bargain they exclaimed: “A penny a head! This will cost us a great deal of money!”

“Leave it to the mayor,” said the town councilors with a sly shrug of the shoulders.

Toward nine o’clock the Piper reappeared in the market-place, and as soon as the moon showed above the roofs he put his bagpipes to his lips and began a shrill, keen tune that penetrated to the remotest nooks and alleys of the town. Then a strange sight was seen. From every hole the rats came tumbling, and ran to the market-place, until it was so full of them that the pavement was hidden from sight. At length the piper faced about, and, still playing briskly, went down a street that led toward the harbor. At his heels followed the rats with eager feet and upturned noses. Every fifty yards he stopped and gave an extra flourish of the pipes while he waited for the toddling little rats and the less vigorous ones to catch up with those that were stronger. Meanwhile the townsfolk looked on from their windows, and many a blessing they called down on his head.

When he reached the harbor and had marched to the outer end of a wharf, he turned about and looked at the multitude of rats. “Hop, hop!” he cried, pointing with his finger toward the water.

Not far from the end of the wharf a big whirlpool had formed, and the rats, obedient to the Piper’s orders, began to leap from the wharf, and swim straight to the center of the whirlpool, where they disappeared. This continued till midnight, when only one rat was left—a big rat, white with age, who dragged himself along with difficulty. It was the king of the band.

“Are they all there, friend Whitey?” asked the Piper.

“They are all there,” replied Whitey.

“How many?” the Piper questioned.

“Nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine,” was the answer.

“Then go and join them, old sire,” said the Piper. “Good-by.”

So the old rat jumped into the water, swam to the whirlpool, and down he went out of sight.

The Piper walked back into the town and went to bed at an inn; and for the first time in three months the people slept quietly through the night. There was no noise to disturb them, and they slept the more serenely because now there was a prospect they would have a chance to enjoy food that the rats had not tasted before them. In the morning, so rejoiced were they over their delivery from the plague of vermin that they threw up their caps and hurrahed, and they rang the church bells till they rocked the steeples. But at nine o’clock, when the Piper went to the town hall to get his pay, the mayor and the council and the townsfolk generally began to hum and ha, and to shake their heads, for where was all that money to come from? Besides, it had been a very easy job that the Piper had done and had only taken him a little while.

“Sirs,” said the Piper, “all your rats took a jump into the harbor last night, and I guarantee that not one of them will come back. There were one million, and you can reckon how much is due me at a penny a head.”

“My good man,” said the mayor, “you must know that we are poor folk; surely you will not ask us to pay such a sum.”

“I only want you to do as you agreed to do,” responded the Piper.

“Ah,” said the mayor, “then let us reckon the heads. Have the kindness to bring them here that we may count them.”

The ratcatcher did not expect this treacherous stroke. He paled with anger, and his eyes flashed fire. “The heads!” he cried, “if you care about them, go and find them in the harbor.”

“So you refuse to hold to the terms of your bargain,” said the mayor. “We have good reason to refuse you all payment, but you have been of use to us, and we will be glad to recompense you to the extent of twenty pounds.”

“Keep your recompense to yourself,” retorted the ratcatcher proudly. “It would be better for you if you paid me quickly all that is my due. For I can pipe many kinds of tunes, as folk sometimes find to their cost. If you do not pay me I will be paid by your heirs.”

“Would you threaten us, you strolling vagabond?” shrieked the mayor. “Begone and do your worst now that the rats are drowned.”

“Very well,” said the Piper, and he pulled his hat down over his eyes, turned short on his heel, and left the hall.

The townspeople were much pleased over this outcome. They rubbed their hands gleefully, and laughed over the ratcatcher, who they said was caught in his own trap. Above all they laughed at his threat of getting himself paid by their heirs. “Ha, ha!”

But when the Piper reached the market-place, he again put his pipes to his lips. This time there came forth no shrill notes, but a tune that was joyous and resonant, full of happy laughter and merry play. At this call the children all ran forth to the Piper from schoolroom and playroom and nursery. Every little boy and girl in town hurried to the market-place, attracted by the magic music. Then the stranger began to walk up a street that led out of the town, and they followed him, dancing, laughing, and singing.

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering.

On they went out of the town gate and into a forest that was near by, a forest full of old oaks and wide-spreading beeches. In among the trees went the Piper in his many-colored garments, and the laughter of the children gradually faded away as they went deeper and deeper into the cool green wood.

Hour after hour passed, and the children did not return. Then their parents went in search of them, but at nightfall came back desolate to the town. Nor was searching in future days any better rewarded. The mayor sent east, west, north, and south, to offer the Piper, if he could be found,

Silver and gold to his heart’s content,
If he’d only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.

But never were the hearts of the townspeople gladdened by the sight of the Piper and his following of singing, dancing children issuing from the ancient oaks of the forest. What became of the children is a mystery even to this day.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE FIR-TREE

ON the borders of a forest a pretty little fir-tree once started to grow. The sun shone full on him, the breezes played freely around him, and in the neighborhood grew many companion fir-trees, both large and small. But the little fir-tree was not happy. He was always longing to be full grown. He thought not of the warm sun and the fresh air. He took no pleasure in the songs of birds, or in the clouds that sailed over him. He cared not for the merry, prattling peasant children who came to the forest to look for berries.

By and by it was winter, and the ground was covered with the glistening snow. Then the fir-tree often saw a hare scampering about, and sometimes the hare would jump right over the little fir-tree’s head. The tree did not like that at all. However, when two winters had passed, the fir-tree was so tall the hare was obliged to run around him; for each year he sent upward a long green shoot, just as all fir-trees do, and you could tell how old he was by counting the number of joints on the main stem.

“Oh, that I was as tall as the big trees I see near me!” sighed the little tree. “Then I should spread out my branches so far, and I could look over the wide world around. The birds would build their nests among my branches, and when the wind blew I would bend my head so grandly just as all the big trees do. Yes, I want to become tall and old. That is the only thing worth living for.”

Every autumn the woodcutters came and felled some of the largest trees. The young fir-tree shuddered when he saw the grand trees crash to the ground. He watched the men chop off all the boughs from the fallen trees, and how terribly naked and lanky and long they looked then. They could hardly be recognized. Finally they were loaded on wagons, and were drawn away from the forest. Where could they be going? What might be their fortunes?

When it was spring, and the swallows and the storks returned from the south, the tree called to them, and said: “Know you whither they have taken the great trees that have been cut? Have you met these friends of mine?”

The swallows knew nothing about the matter, but one of the storks looked thoughtful for a moment, nodded his head, and said: “Yes, I believe I have seen them. As I was flying from Egypt to this place I noticed several ships, and those ships had splendid masts. I have little doubt those masts were the trees of which you speak. They supported the sails so that the ships moved on gloriously.”

“Oh that I too were tall enough to be a mast, and journey on the sea!” exclaimed the fir-tree.

“Rejoice in your youth,” said the sunbeams. “Rejoice in the fresh life that is within you.” And the sunbeams caressed the tree, and the wind kissed him, but he understood them not.

Christmas was drawing near, after the little fir-tree had lived and grown for several years, and many small trees were felled by the woodmen. Some were no taller than the restless young fir-tree who was always longing to be away. The branches were not cut off, but the trees were put on wagons, green boughs and all. When the wagons had gone, the fir-tree asked where his companions were being taken.

“We know, we know,” twittered the sparrows. “They are on the way to the town. You cannot imagine what honor and glory they will receive. We have peeped through the house windows in years gone by, and we know. They will be planted in a warm room, and be decked with the most beautiful things—sweetmeats, playthings, and hundreds of bright candles.”

“And what happens afterward?” asked the fir-tree, quivering with excitement in every bough.

“We saw no more,” the sparrows replied, “but what we did see was beautiful beyond compare.”

“That is far better than sailing over the sea,” cried the fir-tree with delight. “How I wish such a glorious lot might be mine! And there must be something still better to follow, else why should any one take such trouble to decorate the trees.”

“Rejoice in our love,” said the air and the sunshine. “Rejoice in your freedom.”

But rejoice he never would. Time went on and he grew more and more sturdy and full of dark green foliage, and when the next Christmas drew near he was the first tree that was cut. Then for a moment he forgot to think of his good fortune, and was sorry to be compelled to leave his home. He knew he should not see the other trees again, or the little bushes and flowers that had flourished under his shadow—perhaps not even the birds.

At last he found himself in the courtyard of a house in the town whither he had been carried with a load of his fellows, and a man picked him out from among the rest and said: “This is a beautiful one—the very thing we want.”

Then two smartly dressed servants came and carried the fir-tree into a large and handsome parlor where he was planted in a stout tub filled with sand. A young lady, assisted by the servants, now began to adorn him. On some branches they hung little bags filled with candy. From others apples and walnuts were suspended, looking just as if they had grown there; and a great number of tiny wax tapers, red, white, and blue, were fastened to the boughs. Here and there were hung dolls and picture books and toys, and on the summit was fastened a large star of gold tinsel. This was indeed splendid!

“In the evening the tree will be lighted up,” they said.

“Would that it were evening,” thought the tree. “Would that the candles were already lighted. What will happen then? Will the trees come out of the forest to see me? Will the sparrows look in at the windows? Shall I stand here adorned both winter and summer?”

At last evening came, and the candles were lighted. Oh, what radiance! The tree trembled in all his branches so that one of the lights set fire to a bough. “Heaven preserve us!” exclaimed the young ladies, and they sprang forward and extinguished the flame.

The tree dared not tremble again, though he felt greatly bewildered in the midst of all this glory and brightness. Suddenly, both the folding doors that communicated with the next room were flung open, and a troop of children rushed in. The older people followed more quietly. At first the children gathered about the tree soberly gazing and admiring. Then they began dancing and shouting and tearing off the presents.

“What are they doing?” thought the tree. “What will happen now?”

The candles burned down to the branches, and were blown out, and the children amused themselves with their beautiful playthings. No one thought any more of the tree except the old nurse, who came and peeped among the boughs, but it was only to see whether perchance an apple or a candy bag had been left among them.

Later in the evening the children tired of their play and begged their father to tell a story. “Very well,” said he. “Would you like to hear about Chicken Licken, or about Thumpty Klump, who fell down stairs, but afterward won a princess and came to a throne?”

“Chicken Licken!” cried some.

“Thumpty Klump!” cried others, and there was a great uproar.

When they grew quieter the man told the story of Thumpty Klump, and, as soon as he had finished, the children clapped their hands and called for another story, but they did not get it.

The fir-tree stood meanwhile quite silent and thoughtful. “The birds in the forest never related anything like this,” said he. “Thumpty Klump fell down stairs, and yet won a princess and was raised to a throne. Yes, yes, strange things come to pass in the world. Who knows but I may fall down stairs and win a princess?”

He rejoiced in the expectation of being next day again decked out with candles and glittering ornaments and playthings. In the morning the maids came in. “Now begins my magnificence anew,” said the tree to himself.

But they dragged him out of the room, up the stairs, and into an attic, where they thrust him into a dark corner and left him. “What can be the meaning of this?” thought the tree. “What am I to do here?” And he leaned against the wall and thought and thought.

He had plenty of time to think as much as he pleased, for day after day and night after night passed, and yet no one entered the attic. “It is winter,” said the tree. “The ground is hard and covered with snow. They cannot plant me now. So I am to stay in shelter till spring. How kind they are! I only wish it was not so dark and so dreadfully lonesome.”

“Squeak! squeak!” cried a little mouse, just then gliding out of a hole in the wall.

Another followed. They snuffed at the fir-tree and slipped in and out among the branches. “It is horribly cold,” said the little mice. “Don’t you think so, you old fir-tree?”

“I am not old,” responded the fir-tree. “There are many trees much older than I am.”

“How came you here?” questioned the mice, “and what do you know? Tell us about the most delightful place on earth. Have you ever been there? Have you been into the storeroom where cheeses lie on the shelves, and bacon hangs from the ceiling, where one can dance over tallow-candles, where one goes in thin and comes out fat?”

“I know nothing about that,” the tree answered, “but I know the forest, where the sun shines and where the birds sing.”

Then he spoke of his youth and its pleasures. The little mice had never heard anything like it before. They listened with all their ears, and said: “Well, to be sure, how much you have seen! How happy you have been!”

“Happy!” repeated the fir-tree in surprise, and he thought a moment over all he had been saying. “Yes, on the whole, those were pleasant times.”

He then told about the Christmas Eve when he had been decked with toys and candles.

“Oh!” cried the little mice, “how happy you have been, you old fir-tree!”

“I am not old at all,” declared the tree, “and it is only this winter that I left the forest.”

“How well you can talk!” said the little mice, and the next night they came again and brought with them four other little mice who also wanted to hear the tree’s history.

The more the tree spoke of his youth in the forest the more vividly he remembered it. “Those were pleasant times,” he remarked in conclusion, “and they may come again. Thumpty Klump fell down stairs, and yet for all that he won the princess. Perhaps I, too, may win a princess;” and then the fir-tree thought of a pretty little birch-tree that grew in the forest. She was a very real and very lovely princess to him.

“Who is this Thumpty Klump?” the little mice inquired.

So he related the tale. He could remember every word of it perfectly, and the little mice were so pleased they jumped for joy. The night following, several more mice came, and on Sunday they returned and brought with them two rats. The rats, however, declared that the story was not at all amusing, and the little mice, after hearing the rats’ opinion, did not like it so well either.

“Do you know only that one story?” asked the rats.

“Only that one,” answered the tree. “I heard it on the happiest evening of my life, though I did not then know how happy I was.”

“It is a miserable story,” the rats declared. “Do you know none about pork and tallow? Don’t you know some storeroom story?”

“No,” said the tree.

“Well, then, we have heard enough,” said the rats, and they went their way.

They did not come again, nor did the little mice. As the lonely days passed, the tree sighed and said: “It was very pleasant when those lively little mice sat around me listening to my words. Now that, too, is all past. However, I still have the pleasure of remembering it.”

One morning people came and gave the attic a cleaning out. The tree was dragged from the corner and carried down stairs. Once more he beheld the outdoor daylight. “Life is about to begin again,” he thought.

He felt the fresh air and the warm sunbeams. He was out in the court, and the court adjoined a garden where everything was fresh and blooming. The roses clustered bright and fragrant round the trellis work, the apple-trees were in blossom, and the swallows flew backward and forward twittering, “Quirri-virri-vit, my beloved is come!” But it was not the fir-tree whom they meant.

The tree was filled with delightful hope. He tried to spread out his branches. Alas! they were all dry and stiff. He was thrown down on a heap of weeds and rubbish. The star that had been fastened on his top sparkled brightly in the sunshine. Some children were playing in the court. They were the same who at Christmas-time had danced round the tree in the parlor. The youngest perceived the gold star and ran to tear it off. “Look at it, still on the ugly old Christmas-tree,” cried he, trampling and breaking the boughs under his feet.

The tree looked at the flowers of the garden blooming in the freshness of their beauty, and he called to mind his happy forest life, the merry Christmas Eve, and the little mice who had listened so eagerly when he related the story of Thumpty Klump. “Past, all past,” sighed the poor tree.

Presently a servant came and set fire to the rubbish heap. The children all ran to the place and jumped about in front of the blaze, crying, “Hurrah, hurrah!”

The tree burned to ashes and the fire flickered out. Then the boys began to play about in the court as before, and on the breast of the youngest sparkled the gold star that the tree had worn on the happiest evening of his life. But now the tree has come to an end, and the story also has come to an end.

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THE BABES IN THE WOOD

A GREAT many years ago there was a brave and kind gentleman who was held in high esteem by all who knew him. His wife was good and beautiful, and they loved each other most tenderly. They lived together happily for many years, but at last the gentleman fell sick, and day after day he grew worse. So grieved was his lady by his illness that she, too, sickened. No medicine or anything else gave them any relief, and they realized that soon they would die. It troubled them greatly to think that they would be taken away from their two children, one a fine boy three years old, and the other a pretty little girl not quite two. They talked together about the children’s future, and decided to give their babes into the care of the gentleman’s brother.

He was sent for, and when he came, the dying man said to him: “Ah! brother, you can plainly see that the time of both my wife and myself on earth is short. As for pain or death, we fear them not, but we are distressed to think of what our poor babes will do without their parents. Brother, they will have no one but you to be kind to them, and I commend them to your care.”

“If you treat them well,” said the mother, “God will reward you.”

“Have no fear as to my taking good care of them,” said the brother. “May God never prosper me or mine if I should do them wrong.”

Not long afterward the gentleman and the lady died, and they were buried side by side in the same grave. It was found that the gentleman’s will gave his son three hundred pounds a year after he came of age, and the girl was to be paid five hundred pounds in gold on the day that she married. But if they happened to die before the money was paid to them their property was all to go to their uncle.

He took them to his own home, and for a time made much of them and showed them great kindness. At length, however, he began to covet their wealth, and to wish that they were dead so he could possess it; but they continued sturdy and well. Finally he said to himself: “It would not be very difficult for me to have them killed in such a way that my neighbors would never suspicion that I was responsible for the deed. Then their property would be mine, and that would be an end of the matter.”

With this thought in mind the cruel uncle soon determined how to dispose of the children. He hired two burly ruffians, who were used to doing desperate deeds, to take the little boy and girl into a thick, dark wood, some distance away, and slay them. To his wife he told an artful story of intending to send the children to London where they could be brought up by one of his friends. “Would you not like that, my pretty ones?” he said to them. “You will see famous London Town; and you, my lad, can buy a fine wooden horse there, and ride on it all day long, and you can buy a whip to make him gallop, and you can buy a sword to wear by your side. As for your sister, she shall have pretty frocks, and she shall have dolls and other nice playthings.”

“Oh, yes, I will go, uncle,” said the little boy.

“Goody-good,” said the little girl, “and I will go, too.”

So he got them ready, as if for a long journey, and sent them off in a fine coach in charge of the two wretches. As they rode along the children prattled pleasantly to the men who intended to be their butchers. When they reached the borders of the dark, thick wood, the ruffians took their charges out of the coach and told them they might walk a little way and gather some flowers. While the children were running about, the men turned their backs on them and began to talk about what they had to do.

“Truly,” said one, “now that I have seen their sweet faces and heard their pretty talk, I have no heart to do the cruel deed.”

“Nor have I,” said the other, “but we have been paid so much to do this thing that I shall complete my part of the bargain.”

The more kindly disposed ruffian would not agree to such a course, and they argued till they got angry and began to fight. They drew the big knives with which they had planned to kill the babes, and the one who wished to spare the children stabbed his comrade so that the fellow fell dead in the grass.

The victor now knew not what to do with the children, for he wanted to get away as quickly as possible lest he should be found there and made to suffer for the death of his companion. He thought the best thing he could do would be to leave them in the wood, and trust that they would be kindly treated by whoever passed that way and discovered them. So he went to where they had rambled in their flower-picking, and said, “Take my hands, and come with me.”

The babes in the wood
]

For two long miles he led them on, and then they began to complain that they were hungry. “Stay here,” quoth he, “and I will go and get you something to eat.”

So away he went, and the babes sat there a long time waiting for him to return. “Will the strange man come soon with some cakes for us?” said the little girl.

“In a little while, I think,” responded the boy.

“I wish I had some cakes,” said she.

Then they stood up and looked all about as far as they could among the trees, and no one could they see. They listened, too, but heard no sound of approaching footsteps—nothing, only the wind fluttering in the foliage above their heads.

“Perhaps we had better go to meet the man,” said the boy; and hand in hand they wandered about in the wood.

They found some blackberries, and stained their lips eating them. At last night came, and they sat down and cried themselves to sleep. When day dawned again they resumed their wandering, but they could not find their way out of the wood, nor were they any more successful in the days that followed, and as they could not live on blackberries, they died. There was no one to bury the pretty babes; but Robin Redbreast saw them lying in the woodland, and he covered them with leaves.

Meanwhile the wicked uncle supposed they had been killed according to his orders, and he let it be understood that they had died in London of the smallpox. He took their fortune to himself, and thought he had provided amply for his comfort and pleasure to the end of his days. But instead of happiness he experienced only misfortune. He had no peace of mind, because he had an evil conscience, and his thoughts dwelt on the death of the babes. Moreover, his barns burned, his harvests failed, his cattle died in the field, and his two sons, who had gone on a voyage to Portugal, were wrecked and drowned. In the end he was brought to want and misery. He pawned his jewels and mortgaged his land, and he was thrown into jail for debt, and there died.

About that time the ruffian who had left the children in the wood was captured, after committing some crime, and was sentenced to be hanged. When he knew that he must die, he sent for the keeper of the prison, where he had been shut up, and confessed all the wicked deeds he had done. Among other things he told of the two babes he and his companion had been hired to kill, and thus their sad fate was made known.

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ALEXANDER JONES

“JEAN, move a wee bit east,” requested the town clerk as he sat at one end of the high-backed bench before his fire on a chilly autumn evening. “You’re taking too much room. You have more than your share of the seat.”

But Jean, his wife, had just got her knitting into a tangle, and was not in the best of humor. So she declined to move an inch, or to attend to what her husband was saying.

“Jean,” said he again, “move a wee bit east. It’s not right to sit so selfish. I’m at the very end of the bench, and here you are with your elbows digging into me. Sit a bit east, do you hear?” And when she did not respond, the town clerk gave his wife a rude shove.

“What do you mean by pushing me like that?” she demanded; “and what do you mean by east? There’s no such thing as east, and I can prove it.”

“No such thing as east!” shouted the town clerk. “Will you not believe the sun?”

Then he affirmed in a loud voice that, as the sun went around the earth every day and was always rising every moment somewhere in the east, therefore, everywhere was the east all over the world. So he hoped his wife would not make a goose of herself and talk nonsense.

Jean now rose to her feet, and said he did not look at the matter in the right way at all. As for the sun, it was all the time setting somewhere in the west and doing it every moment. Therefore, everywhere was west, and she trusted her husband would not be so foolish as to mention east again.

He shook his head and was going to reply, when she began to run around the table to show how the sun went, at the same time crying loudly, “West, west, west!”

This made the town clerk very angry, and he got up and ran around the table in the opposite direction, yelling, “East, east, east!” to show how he thought the sun went.

Yet it only ended by their getting extremely giddy and banging their heads together, a thing which hurt very much, and did not improve their tempers, or help the solving of the difficulty, you may be sure.

Meanwhile Alexander Jones sat quiet in a corner and said nothing.

The town clerk and his wife agreed in one thing, which was that the question was of too deep importance to be left unsettled. So they went to the grocer, who had a good-sized house up the street, and Alexander Jones went with them. They told the grocer about their dispute; and the grocer, and the grocer’s wife, and the grocer’s maiden aunt, and the grocer’s wife’s youngest married sister, and the grocer’s wife’s youngest married sister’s little girl were all much interested. But one took one view and another took another, and they all ran around the table, some this way, crying, “East!” and some the opposite way, crying, “West!” to show how the sun moved, in their opinion. It only ended in their getting extremely giddy, and banging their heads together, a thing which hurt very much and did not improve their tempers or help to solve the difficulty.

Meanwhile Alexander Jones sat quiet in a corner and said nothing.

They all agreed in one thing, which was that the question was of too deep importance to be left unsettled. So the whole company, including Alexander Jones, went to the home of the mayor. It faced on the market-place, and was the largest house in the town. They told about the dispute with all the ins and outs of the matter; and the mayor and the mayor’s wife, and the mayor’s favorite uncle, and the mayor’s oldest nephew, and the mayor’s oldest nephew’s little boy were all much interested, to say the least. But one took one view, and another took another view, and they ran around the table, some this way, shouting, “East!” and some the opposite way, shouting, “West!” to show how, in their opinion, the sun really moved. It only ended in their all getting very giddy and banging their heads together, a thing which hurt and did not improve their tempers or help to solve the difficulty.

Meanwhile Alexander Jones sat quiet in a corner and said nothing.

They all agreed in one thing, which was that the question was of too deep importance to be left unsettled. So the mayor called a meeting of the whole populace in the town hall. The people assembled, and Alexander Jones was there among the rest, and the only persons not there were Peter the watchman and his sister Jessica. Then the mayor told all about the dispute, and everyone was naturally much interested. But one took one view, and another took another view, and they all wanted to run around a table to show how each thought the sun moved. Here, however, a difficulty arose, for, alas! there was no table in the town hall to run around, and what were they to do? They were not going to be balked by a trifle like that, not they. So they requested the mayor to stand in the middle, and let them all run around him, each in the direction he or she pleased.

But the mayor objected strongly. He said it would make him dizzy to see some folks going one way around him, and some the other. “I would certainly be sick,” he declared. “Therefore, I suggest that Alexander Jones be placed in the middle. Yes, why could we not run around him? Better make use of him, he is so stupid and says nothing. Besides, I want to run around with the rest of you myself, and why should I be cut out?”

“No, no, no!” cried the people, “Alexander Jones is too small, and we should tread on him. He would not do at all.”

They insisted that the mayor must do as he had been asked. Hadn’t they only the other day given him a gold badge to wear, and he must make them some return for it, or they would take it away. So the poor man had to give in, but he insisted on having his eyes bandaged, and also on having a chair to sit in. Otherwise, he knew he would be sick. Then they bandaged his eyes, seated him in a chair, and began to run around him, some this way, crying, “East!” and some the opposite way, crying, “West!” But they only got very giddy, and banged each other’s heads, a thing which hurt and did not improve their tempers or help solve the difficulty. Worst of all, just at the end, when they could run no longer and were quite out of breath, Eliza MacFadden, the fat widow who kept the candy shop, fell plump against the mayor, and sent him and his chair tumbling to the floor.

Meanwhile Alexander Jones sat quiet in a corner and said nothing.

The mayor pulled the bandage off his eyes in a towering passion and declared that something must be settled there and then. He threatened, if they did not agree, he would put a tax on buttons, which was rather clever of him, for everyone, old and young, male and female, wore buttons, and would feel the tax. But he himself would be affected by it less than anyone else because he wore a robe, that instead of being buttoned was fastened by a buckle at his neck, and by a jeweled girdle around the waist.

Now the town clerk addressed the people, and said: “We must avoid this button tax at all hazards. Let us devise some way to solve for all time the terrible riddle which gives us so much concern. I propose that we call in from the street Peter the watchman, for he is up and about at all hours, late and early, and would know more than most about the sun’s movements. Yet, if we ask him, we must also ask Peter’s sister Jessica. She does the mayor’s washing and is a person of importance in the town. Peter would certainly decline to come into the hall unless she came with him.”

This was, indeed, most provoking for me, because there was no room left in the town hall for another person, and two would have to go out, in order to admit Peter the watchman and his sister Jessica. I was the first to be put out, for I was a stranger and only present in the hall out of courtesy. Next they turned out Alexander Jones, because he was so stupid and said nothing. Thus it happened that I never knew what was the decision of the meeting. But perhaps you wonder why Alexander Jones was so dull as to sit still in a corner and say nothing. Yet how on earth could he do anything else? Alexander Jones was the town clerk’s

TOM-CAT.

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THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

ONCE upon a time, long ago—so long, indeed, that even the very oldest people now alive cannot remember it—there dwelt a king and queen in a great, white, marble palace with splendid halls and high towers and a golden roof that flashed in the sunlight. All round the palace for miles and miles there were gardens and pleasure-grounds with terraces and green lawns and flowers and ancient trees. Peacocks walked about on the lawns, and deer loitered in the shady glades, and gold and silver fish swam in the ponds and fountains.

But in spite of all this beauty the king and queen were not happy, because they had no child. So when at last a little daughter was born to them they were very glad and there were great rejoicings all over the kingdom. Bonfires as big as hay stacks were kept burning all night, fat oxen were roasted whole in the market-place of every town, and the church bells were rung until the ringers were out of breath.

A few weeks later all was bustle and hurry in the palace to make ready for the christening feast, and the maids trimmed the halls and chambers with flowers, and sprinkled the floors with sweet-scented leaves and petals. Among the guests invited to the christening were seven powerful fairies, and the choicest foods were provided for them, and golden dishes from which to eat.

The feast was just going to begin when suddenly there was a clashing of brazen claws and a rushing of wings, and something like a black cloud seemed to pass before the tall windows and darken the room. Then the great doors burst open with a terrible bang, and an old fairy with her face almost hidden in a black hood jumped out of a chariot drawn by fierce griffins, and came into the hall. The king turned pale, and the queen nearly fainted, for this was the spiteful fairy Tormentilla, who lived alone an immense distance away from everywhere in a dismal black castle in the middle of a desert. The queen in her happiness had forgotten all about her, and so neglected to send her an invitation.

However, another chair was brought for Tormentilla, and she was given a place of honor at the table, and everyone tried to make up for the oversight—but all in vain. Nothing pleased her. She would neither eat nor drink, and sat scowling angrily about her until the feast was over.

Then she and the seven other fairies went to the chamber where the tiny princess lay sleeping in her cradle, and each stepped forward in turn to bestow a magic gift.

The first said, “She shall be as good as gold.”

The second said, “She shall be the cleverest princess in the world.”

The third said, “She shall be the most beautiful princess in the world.”

The fourth said, “She shall be the happiest princess in the world.”

The fifth said, “She shall have the sweetest voice that ever was heard.”

The sixth said, “She shall be loved by all who know her.”

Next the old cross fairy took her place beside the cradle, and shaking her cane at the king and queen, shouted, “And I say that before she reaches the age of twenty she shall prick her hand with a spindle and die of the wound.”

At this the queen fell on her knees and begged Tormentilla to recall her cruel words. But the wicked fairy, without replying, turned and left the hall. Then the eighth fairy went to the queen and said: “Do not cry, my dear lady; for though I cannot relieve the princess of this enchantment I can make it less severe. She shall not die, but instead shall fall asleep for a hundred years. When those are past, a prince shall come and awaken her with a kiss.”