Part 8

Overjoyed at the idea, the farmer’s boy asked if he could take his favorite donkey with him. Permission was given, and lo! the lad chose the one that was a transformed fairy. The boy rode to the great city on his long-eared beast, and, having arrived at the artist’s dwelling, he locked up the creature in the stable and reported to his master.

Now this happened just about the time for the spell to be broken, when Flax-Flower was to resume, not her former shape, which she could not, but something with a donkey’s name.

Now there were, already, a half dozen things called after the long-eared and useful beast, such as a pump, a drying frame, and several tools, but Flax-Flower longed to keep in good company. She therefore had made up her mind, which one she could choose. During the night, the spell was broken, and she took her final shape in wood, and in a frame with four legs, with pegs in it to hold a picture.

So when the farmer’s boy came into the stable, next morning, there was no donkey visible in the stall, but, instead, there stood a beautiful new easel. Carrying it into his master’s studio, he placed his masterpiece upon it, and the great painter was well pleased. When, in time, by hard work, the farmer’s boy had himself become great, she had held the pictures which he painted; and many rich patrons, ladies and gentlemen, came into his studio, to admire his triumphs.

So, for centuries, the artists, who painted lovely scenes and portraits, have employed, for their work, Flax-Flower, now become an easel, the name, which, in Flemish is Ezel, meaning Little Donkey; but she never spoke a word, thus excelling in silence even the original. But what had, in Æsop’s day, been reckoned, “the disgrace of creation,” became the bearer of beauty unto unnumbered generations of men.

XV

PUSS GEIKO AND HER TRAVELS

How the cat first got into Belgium is not known, but of the puss that was first seen in Japan, the record is full and clear. There are, however, two stories, for there are two kinds, wild and tame.

Japanese house cats have no tails. These they never had, or lost them long ago; and now, most of them have hardly enough to set up a rabbit in business. Even if, in a litter of bob-tailed pussies, a long-tailed kitten is born, out comes the carving knife and off goes the caudal extension. Cats in Japan must all be in fashion, to be allowed to live in a house with human beings.

So long as the Japanese puss stays at home, licks its feet, and cleans its face with its forepaws, using these for both wash-rag and towel, the creature is considered respectable, and there is no trouble in either the cat or the human family.

There was a certain puss named Geiko (gay-ko), which is the Kyoto pronunciation of Geisha (gay-shah); because she was so accomplished and so pretty, and made so much music at night. Except those Japanese cats that, long ago, traveled to the Isle of Man, she was the first modern member of the family that wished to reside abroad. Then—according to what her mother said, who told the story of her adventures in Belgium—her troubles began.

Now this is the way it came to pass.

It happened that a grandmother puss, named Guitar, because she also was so musical, that lived in Persimmon Street, in Kyoto, was inquired of, by an inquisitive kitten, as to when, and how, and why, cats first came to Japan. Her mistress, a little girl, named Taka (tah-kah), or Falcon, who went every day to school, had come home and told her that, once upon a time, Japan, being an island and the country made up of islands, there were no tame cats, but only wild ones. Now, would Grandma Guitar tell all about her ancestors, and about her Aunt Geiko, who had gone to Europe?

So that evening, after the six kittens had had their supper, Grandma gathered them all around her, and told how pet cats were first brought from China, into Japan, and to the Emperor’s court, about A.D. 1000. They were at first very great curiosities. Yet when they multiplied, they were even then kept in the house, and tied up at night. Some people thought cats were dangerous brutes.

“Why, grandma, dear?” asked one of the kittens. “Did they eat up all the birds?”

“No, I am inclined to think,” said Grandma, “that they were kept in at nights, for fear that they might be stolen, for they were still considered very valuable animals.”

Here Grandma Guitar paused, that is, she stopped in her story, long enough to wipe her mouth and face, with what serves pussies instead of a towel, napkin or handkerchief—her two fore feet.

Then continuing, she called on Kichibei (kee-chee-bay), a Tom, that lived next door. He was the lawyer among the cats of Persimmon Street, in which they lived. She requested him to read from the Government Book on Cat Law (Neko no Soshi). He made his bow, cocked his eye properly, and read the following regulation, of the year 1602.

“First, the cords on the cats in Kyoto shall be untied, and the cats shall be let loose.

“Secondly, it is no longer allowed to buy or sell cats. Whoever transgresses this ordinance, shall be punished with a heavy fine.”

The kittens were almost sorry, that their grandma had called in this lawyer; for he instantly began a long dissertation on the cats of China, Korea and Japan, quoting from the historians and law books. He told how, gradually, the cats, when they multiplied to millions, in the islands of Japan, got a bad reputation. In fact, all sorts of evil stories were told, and proverbs coined, and uncomplimentary expressions used concerning them. To tell the full truth, however, out of so many, some cats were really bad. It had even, of late years, become common to use cat skins to make banjos and guitars. That is the reason why the singing and dancing girls, or geishas (gay-shas in Tokyo, and gei-ko in Kyoto) were usually called “cats” in fun.

Then he went on to explain why there was a cat on every Japanese boat, or ship, as one could usually see—for in port, puss poked her head out of the windows to note what was going on. Of course, the seamen preferred a cat of three colors. For, although, as we say, a cat has nine lives, the Japanese sailors think Puss has at least three. He even went on to explain why ancient poetry referred so often to the flowers of the valerian plant, but so rarely mentioned them, in modern days. It was all because there were no cats in Japan in those early times, though so numerous now.

Kichibei, the lawyer, was going to tell more, but Grandma said “ippai” (ip-pi) and “mo yoroshi” (mo yo-ro-shee)—intimating that he had said enough, and thanked him. For the long talk of Kichibei had got to be so tiresome, that several of the kittens had fallen asleep, before he was more than half through.

Finally, when he ended and went off, Grandma thought it was time to go to bed. For these kitties were too young to go outdoors at night, like grown-up cats.

“Oh, but you promised to tell us about our Aunt Geiko.”

Now the way all those kittens woke up at once, to listen, showed that they would soon make the liveliest kind of roof scramblers, night prowlers, and street warblers; or be otherwise fitted for nocturnal accomplishments, just like their ancestors; and, all this, without being taught.

The lights having been put out, and all sitting in a ring, Grandma Guitar began. At once, it seemed as if fourteen little round balls of fire were glowing in the room; for each one of the cat’s eyes had widened from a slit, or long crack, to a circular window. In fact, they could all plainly see each other, even in the dark.

“Well, my grandchildren,” began the old lady cat, “you know that my daughter, your aunt Geiko, though born in the Blossom Capital, was the pet of a Belgian lady; and that both of them lived in Kobé, when they were in our country. They sailed away, a year ago, and, after a six weeks’ voyage, arrived safely at her home at the little village of Gingelhom in Limburg.”

“But, alas,” and here Grandma Guitar pulled out a Japanese paper handkerchief, from under her collar, and wept real cat tears. On seeing this, all the kittens cried in sympathy, and some meouwed pitifully.

Grandma Guitar was so overcome by her feelings, that she could proceed no further. So, from this point on, we shall tell, in our way, the story of what happened to Miss Puss Geiko, in Belgium, from what Grandma Guitar related to the kittens the next evening.

For, in order to make Japanese kittens understand and enjoy the whole story, it was necessary to go into so much detail, that it would be tiresome, especially to us human beings, who have traveled in Belgium.

For in old Japan, men with whiskers, or women with bonnets; or leather shoes, or chairs, or cheese, were unknown. Even cow’s milk, except for calves, or very old persons, was unheard of, as an article of drink or food. Grown up human beings thought it was wicked to take milk from the cow! And no wonder! for two strong men, working for an hour, could only get a quart or so, from the miserable little cows of the sort they then had.

So here is the story, as cut short, after being translated from Japanese cat talk.

When your Aunt Geiko arrived at Gingelhom, in Limburg, it took her some time to get accustomed to the strange human folks, and their ways; and, almost as much, to the cats of the neighborhood. Everything looked, smelled, and tasted so strangely.

The language bothered her a good deal, for she could not understand Flemish, even when dear little children, in wooden shoes, put out their hands and tried with gentle voices to coax Puss Geiko to come to them. Even when they wanted to smooth her back, or rub her head, she was frightened at their talk and ran away. Yet they were only saying, “Come pussy, come here”! When they brought Geiko a saucer full of something white, she would not go near it. It was cow’s milk, but she had known only mother milk, and had never seen what cows give us every day. If the Limburgers had only known it, dried fish would have tempted Geiko any time.

One day the lady, her mistress, set a saucer of cow’s milk before Geiko, and, when her own mistress called to her, in Japanese, she ran up gladly and purred as if very happy. But she did not go near the lunch prepared for her. Then the Belgian lady dipped her finger in the milk and rubbed it on pussy’s lips, and at once out came a little red tongue to lick it off. The eyes of your Aunt Geiko sparkled. This showed that she had discovered something good and liked it. She lapped up the cow’s milk, emptied the saucer, and always, after that, was glad to get more of what the lady said was “chichi” (chee-chee), which is Japanese for what we call “milk” and the Flemish “melk.”

But the story-teller is sorry to say, that, on the subject of tails, Pussy Geiko did not show either good manners, or a sweet disposition. If cats have a commandment, “Thou shalt not covet,” Pussy Geiko was an awful sinner.

Every time a cat of the country came near, Geiko would look enviously on its lovely, long tail. Then her eyes would turn green with jealousy. She would leap forward at the Belgian cat, and bite at, claw with both paws, tread upon, or scratch at its tail.

Geiko behaved just like a covetous human being, or a person who is jealous of another’s good looks, or fine clothes, or general prosperity. So she was never popular with the cats of Limburg, and some always growled, when they saw her.

Now it was not Geiko’s fault, that nature had not provided her with a handsome, long tail. For, while a Japanese cat has all the bones in that part, which a well-born kitten ought to possess, yet, for some reason, that which we call its “caudal extension” is not developed, and does not grow out.

On the other hand, it is sad to relate, that the Belgian cats were not so polite, as they might have been. They looked with suspicion on any animal from a strange country. The worst and most ill mannered among them, every time they saw Geiko, called out “Hello, Stumpy, where did you leave your tail?” This made the Japanese Puss, already in a state of nervous prostration, so lonely, that she nearly died; for she had no society. Sometimes, at night, she would go up on the roof and look up at the moon, and think of her mother and feel too sad to live.

A short life had Geiko, in Belgic Land, and one morning she was found dead. It was rumored in Japan, that the poor creature had died of homesickness. Malignant cats, that envied Geiko her trip abroad, declared, in their gossip, that it was pride and conceit, that killed her; but, anybody who knew cats was sure that these chatterers were only jealous of Geiko. The truth was, that Geiko went into a decline, when she found how the other cats treated her. Indeed, she was so miserable, and became finally so weak and frail, that a cat doctor was heard to declare that the least excitement would kill her.

The real truth finally leaked out. Her kind mistress, the lady, hoping to cheer Geiko up, strengthen her nerves, and, possibly restore her to health, tried to tempt her appetite with the local delicacy. Sad to tell, it was all mistaken kindness, for it went first to poor Pussy’s nose, and then to her brain. The lady had served up for the cat’s lunch, some Limburger cheese!

But alas, the odor, before she tasted it, even if she could have put it in her mouth, gave the final shock. So overpowered was the poor homesick puss, that she fell over and never recovered from the paralysis of her nostrils.

So, in the corner of a Belgian garden, one sees a little mound, and a memorial stone above it, with only the words:

GEIKO HIC JACET.... R. I. P.

XVI

THE MARRIAGE OF THE FAIRIES

Fairies are sociable creatures, and like to be where there are many children and some grown folks. Long ago, before human beings came on the earth, it was proposed, in a meeting of the fairies, that some of them should go to Moon Land and invite the Moonlanders to come and settle on the earth. This was because the fairies wanted more company.

In fact, life among the fairies had got to be very dull. Nothing happened, and some wanted to change their people and their scenery.

But one old fairy said “No! the earth is as yet too bare and rough. Who wants to live here, unless they are fairies, that do not eat, or like candy, or that require no clothes, or food, or houses, or carriages or pets?”

“Yes,” said another. “I agree with you. We must furnish this earth of ours with pretty things, like flowers, and fruit trees, and birds, and horses, and useful animals, and cats and dogs, and squirrels and rabbits. How can we go about it?”

During this debate among the wisest ones, there were two fairies that sat apart. It was noticed that they had put their heads together, talking every moment and sometimes both at once. They winked occasionally at each other, and often nodded knowingly, as if they understood things even better than those who talked most. Meanwhile, they seemed very happy. At last, with beaming smiles, they both spoke together to the assembled company.

We must not forget that while the fairies thus talked together, the giants of the frost kept on, busily cutting away the mountain sides, making the glacier a river of ice, that carried the rocks and gravel away and far down into the valleys and on the plains. In this way, the hard stone was ground into gravel, sand, clay, and dust, and scattered over the face of the earth. The glacier scratched, and chiseled, and grooved out the bed rocks, and then rolled the big stones over and over, and all together, until they were as round as oranges or marbles.

Usually this grinding was like that of a mill, which crushes the grain and makes meal, from which the miller blows away the bran, to get the white flour. So, at first, the rocks, thus broken and powdered, were mixed all together and tumbled about.

Yet many times the frost giants, the spirits of the storm, the wind, the sun, and the glacier worked together, and all with one purpose. Often they laid the different materials very neatly in separate beds, some in this place and some in that. By this process, the clay, the sand, the stones, and the gravel were separated one from the other. It seemed as if they expected human beings to come and live on the earth. These mighty forces, of heat and cold, were working for the fairies, so as to have everything in order and ready when men should come, so that they could plow and coax flowers out of the ground.

So when the fairies were all waiting, to hear what could be done, one of the two that had whispered together spoke out in meeting. She was a silvery looking creature, reminding one of moonlight. Her dress, which was gauzy and shining, seemed to be made of aluminum threads woven together. Her helmet, of this metal, was very light and polished until it reflected the light, like a mirror.

“I have a daughter,” said she, “named Klei. She is ready to be a bride, and, if she is married to the right one, I am sure her children will make the earth beautiful.”

“And I,” said the other, who seemed to be dressed entirely in crystal, and had on a helmet carved out of quartz, “have a son named Zand. He is tough and strong, and sometimes, when the wind vexes him, he fusses about and stings and bites. Yet neither the sea shore, nor the dunes, nor the desert, nor the wilderness could get along without him. When the tempest blows him about, it irritates him and he behaves roughly and raises a terrible storm. But, if my son, Mr. Zand, is married to your daughter, Miss Klei, I predict that wherever the two live together, or their children dwell, there the sandpipers will trip along the shore and sing their notes, the cows and sheep will graze, the flowers bloom, and the human beings will build houses and barns. In any event, if they two marry, they will make the earth beautiful.”

At this, which seemed like boasting to some of the old fairies, there was some shaking of the heads among them. “Rough and boisterous!” “Won’t settle down!” “Too full of grit to be pleasant!” “Too likely to take on different forms, and to be changeable, to make a good husband!” These were some of the remarks dropped by old fairies that were critical or jealous, or knew too well the pranks of the young fellow Zand.

“And she? Why she’s more changeable yet. Takes on different colors at different times, is hard or soft, according as she is hot or cold. Why, you can mould her to any pattern you please. Just like wax! Let water come near her and the fickle fairy will melt away, spilling and spreading herself over everything.”

“Yes, but she’s tough, and can hold water as still in its place, as in a bowl,” said another. “That shows a steady character, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t know. On the other hand, put fire near her and she hardens into stone. How frivolous! She’ll never make a good wife! If she does, she’ll so settle down, that you can’t move her!”

“Too much family pride on both sides,” snapped out a wizened old fairy. “Better not boast too much of one’s children! A little more modesty might be more becoming. As for my part, I don’t think either Mr. Zand or Miss Klei worth much. Neither has any good looks.”

The wise old fairies paid no attention to this gossip and these ill-natured remarks. They said that all these critics were jealous. The match was approved, and preparations were made, on an immense scale, to celebrate the wedding.

It would take too long to tell who were present at the marriage feast, how they were dressed, the way they behaved, and how the fairies of the fire and the ice were over-careful. The six daughters of the snow did not like to get near the sooty and smoky elves and kabouters, that came up, out of the mines and caves and lower earth, to see the company and the fun. In fact, fairies can be just as snobbish, and selfish, and impolite, as human beings. Some are very proud and selfish, and others kind and gracious.

The story-teller can only stop to say that the bride looked very sweet. She wore her mother’s dress of silvery braid, while, instead of orange blossoms, which do not grow in the mountains, or a bouquet of roses, or sweet pinks, which had not yet come on the earth, she had on her head a crown made of the edelweiss, which is found only on the highest mountains and usually growing near the edge of precipices and is very rare and precious. It was born on the earth, long before fruit trees, or forget-me-nots, or pansies, and it grew, because it had a white woolly coat like fur, that kept it warm in the intense cold that killed other plants; in fact the mischievous Jack Frost could never bite, or pinch it. So it lived on.

It is far more important, in this story, to tell of the children that were soon born of the two wonderful fairies, Zand and Klei. Wherever they touched each other, or lived for any length of time, there was born a new thing called soil. Whenever a seed was dropped in that soil, up sprang a flower, a stalk of grain, a fruit tree, or grass. Gardens, orchards, corn fields, and pastures were always found where this couple had had a home.

By and bye great forests covered the land, and in the forests, the deer roamed, and squirrels played, for many nut trees grew here. The birds built their nests in the trees and the woods echoed with their sweet songs. In fact, in the month of May, when the birds were courting and love making, and nest building, there was a continual concert. Then, when the young birds left the nests to fly, and carol, and chirrup, and find their own food, the world was indeed a lovely place to live in. So, at least, a thousand kinds of happy animals thought.

By and bye, came men and women, with babies and cradles, and boys and girls. They built houses and had happy homes. The fields were covered with grain, which the millers ground into flour, and then the mothers made bread and cakes, and crullers and doughnuts, and many other goodies. From the fruit trees, they picked pears and apples, and, from the bushes, blackberries and raspberries, to make jam and pies. From the cows, they obtained milk and cheese. Then, with pet dogs and cats, and horses and singing birds, and with every house full of children, all the people were very happy.

The men learned, from the glacier, not only how to crush grain and crack nuts, and to get food, but also how to cut and shape, and carve stone, so as to make beautiful houses, and castles, and temples, and churches. Then, when they saw how fire turns clay into a hard substance like stone, they mixed the clay with water and moulded the soft paste into cups and dishes, and pretty forms, and these they often painted and decorated. In time, they adorned their houses and halls with statues and sculpture. Then, the artists and teachers of beauty were rivals in building beautiful cities.

Now, in our language, for Zaan and Klei, we say Sand and Clay. For millions of years, after the fairies of the Zaan and Klei had married each other and made the fertile soil, from which such wonderful things came out, many other fairies were calling on men to make use of them, also, as they had already done with Sand and Clay.

They wanted human beings to know that the fairies of snow and frost, of sunshine and thaw, of light and air, and the many inhabitants of the air were willing to be continually busy, like those of the Zaan and Klei.