Part 9

This couple, the two married fairies, were not selfish or lazy. They, too, kept on calling to men who had no pretty gardens, or fertile fields, to help in bringing them together and give them a home. When this was done, the ground was no longer loose, blown about, piled into billows by the wind, as in the desert, or left hard and dead, on the sea shore, or heaped up in dunes, in which no seed could sprout. But, when they mixed the clay and sand, there appeared the soil, that was soft, warm, rich and held the rain. So, wherever the seeds of wheat, or corn, or flowers, were dropped into the bosom of this new child of the clay and sand, called soil, the sun and showers made the seeds come forth as flowers, or fruit. One witty gentleman was so sure of what would happen, even on the prairies, that he said, “tickle the earth with a spade, and it will laugh a flower.” So the fairies called flowers “the smiles of the earth.”

It was out of the wedding of the fairies of the sand and clay, that beautiful Belgium was born—the country which the men and women living in it love so dearly, that they gladly die for it. In time of war, before the battle began, the knights and foot soldiers used to kneel down on the ground and kiss it. Then they prayed to be strong and brave, and vowed to defend their soil, from all enemies. How grandly they did it, we all know.

XVII

THE ENCHANTED WINDMILL

Ever so many ages ago, there were a couple of fairies, who had a very interesting family of fairy children, that lived entirely in the air. The father was named Heet and the mother named Koud.

If we were to translate these names out of Flemish, I suppose we might call them Heat and Cold. Curious names, were they not?

But then, if we knew all the names of the fairies, we should laugh at many of them, as being very funny.

This fairy father and mother had many children, which, altogether, they called Wenda; that is, if we use the oldest form of the speech which the Flemings used. On our tongues, this becomes Winds. In different parts of the world, these wind-fairies were spoken of, according as their dispositions were rough or gentle, in their behavior; or, noisy or sweet in sound; or, as they were scorching or freezing; but all winds are born of Heat and Cold, but only four were very well known by their names.

But now it is time to tell about the enchanted windmill, that first began its career along with winds, among which Zephyrus was the best liked and most attractive. The other wind fairies, children of Heet and Koud, were not exactly envious of their handsome and popular brother, Zephyrus, or of Flora his wife; but they wanted to show that they also could do something for human beings, even if not able to give them such lovely things as flowers or fruit. So the three met together to see what could be done.

Now one of the wise men, among mortals, had said that three good things a man could do, and at least one of these he ought to do—to have and name a child, or a flower, or a book.

When this was told to the other three wind fairies, Eurus, Boreas, and Auster, they were at first downcast. They had no children, and as for flowers, they were out of the question; for Zephyrus and Flora had all to do with these. As for writing books, that was not the business of fairies, but of men and women.

However, after long thought, they hit upon a plan, by which, working altogether, they might help human beings. If they could not have handsome children, they could at least save toil and trouble to others when grown up. With the help of the fairies, they could more quickly redeem swamps and morasses, changing them into lovely gardens and good grain fields, where flowers could grow and food be raised. They saw how hard men had to labor, in order to lift, pump, saw, hoist, grind, and polish. In draining the land, in cutting down trees, to make houses, and in grinding the grain, to make bread, men certainly needed help. They made up their minds that, while flowers were good, there were times, when bread and cake, cookies and crullers, puddings, and waffles, pot pie and potatoes might be better.

They summoned the elves of the mine and the forest to help them, and all together, they built a mill. It had long arms and sails outside, while within, were axles, wheels, windlass, ropes, pulleys, and grinding stones.

Set to other machinery, the mill could turn grain into flour for bread, and pump water out of a ditch, to make rich farm land, besides doing many other things.

The wind fairies were delighted with their success, and first, they made a present of the windmill to the Saracens, who employed it for hundreds of years.

But this is the way the first windmill was used. It was put on a raft, and floated on the water; so that men could pull it round to face the winds, as they blew. No one had then ever thought of putting it on land, or making a house of it.

By and bye, the crusaders from the Netherlands visited the Orient, and became acquainted with new seeds, flowers, fruits, and things they had never seen before, or at home. They watched with wonder the windmills, whirling their huge arms around and doing the work of thousands of men and horses.

Now there was a smart Fleming, Mynheer Molenaar, and crusader under Godfrey de Bouillon. When at home, he had been a miller on his lord’s manor. After studying the workings of the windmill, he put its parts on a ship and brought it home.

Then he built a raft, and, putting his windmill together, followed the custom, of hauling it around, according as the wind might blow. He anchored it by the Scheldt river side. As everyone wanted to get his grain ground more cheaply, by wind, than by horse power, the Belgian miller soon had plenty of customers and quickly made money.

But one day, the river rose to a flood and swept the windmill down and out to the sea. Distracted by his loss, and with poverty staring him in the face, he tore his hair with rage, and mourned all day and late into the night. Toward morning, he fell into a heavy slumber.

In his dreams, a Belgian wind fairy, accompanied by a Kabouter, appeared to him. Surprised at seeing a radiant and silvery creature, as bright as a star, alongside of a short, stumpy fellow, who was holding a box full of hammers and chisels, he forgot his troubles, and laughed heartily, smiling a welcome to both.

“We are glad you seem happier,” said the shining one, “for we have long wanted to help you and are ready to serve; for we fairies of the Netherlands, aided by our good friends, the Kabouters, have an idea for an improved windmill, that can beat either the Saracens, or the Greeks; for we can do what they could not.” Then they told how to make a mill that could turn its face to any wind that blew.

The Kabouter nodded, as if to say “yes,” and made what was rather a funny sort of a grin.

But Molenaar smiled again at this project, which seemed so nearly the impossible, as to be absurd, or an enchantment.

Altogether, with the contrast of a starry maiden and a blacksmith dwarf, the miller laughed again and this time, so loud, that he awoke.

But, pondering what the bright fairy had said to him, he resolved to act. That very day, with his head swelling with a new idea, he called together blacksmiths, masons, bricklayers, carpenters, and machinists. He paid them high wages, and urged on the building of a windmill on the land; yes, like a house, and a windmill that was to serve many purposes.

“He’s a fool, that fellow Molenaar, he is! The idea of making a dwelling and mill in one, and building it on land!” said one man who thought he knew all about windmills.

“Have the fairies cast a spell, on him?” asked another.

“The Wappers have certainly turned his brain,” said a third.

“He’s riding a Kludde horse, that’s what he’s doing,” jeered a fourth.

Then, all together, they tapped their foreheads with their forefingers, and uttered what became a proverb:

“He has a mill in his head.”

But Molenaar persevered. In less than a month, he had a comfortable brick house, three stories high, with a space like a cylinder, running down through the centre, and with stairways up to the floors above. On the first, or ground floor, was his flour mill, with grinding stones and bins. On the second, were four rooms for his family. On the third, were his parlor and linen closet; besides a playroom for the children. On the top were the wheels, axles, and sails; with a wide veranda, all the way around, by which the sails could be trimmed, reefed, or furled.

It was as good as a ship, and the children could take a walk all the way around the millhouse.

For three days, the breezes blew steadily from the west. For eight hours a day, the stones revolved merrily, and the bins were filled with meal.

Then the wind changed and swung around to the north.

“Now we’ll see what the old fellow will do with his mill-house,” said envious scoffers, as they passed by.

They had not noticed the contrivance, about which the fairies had told Molenaar. Around on the other side of the house, there was a windlass, with three long timbers reaching to the top. This, they had not seen before. It was a cap, or movable top.

A few turns of the windlass and the whole machinery, sails and all, faced the north wind. Soon the long arms, set with canvas, were whirling around at full speed, and most merrily the grit stones were turning, and the meal filling the bin.

It would be too long a story to tell, how this new sort of a Netherlands windmill could saw wood, pump the water out of ponds, and swamps, hoist barrels, and load wagons, besides grinding grain. In a few generations, both sandy Flanders, and swampy Holland were changed from heaths and mudholes, to a vast area of lovely flowers, beautiful gardens, and fruitful farms. The wind fairies had been only waiting, for ages, to become the servants of man.

XVIII

TURK, TURBAN, TULIP AND DRAGON

There used to be a great many kinds of dragons in the world. Anybody who looks at the old pictures, images, and decorations, or reads the stories of long ago, can see this.

There were bad dragons and good dragons. Some, like those that lived in China and Japan, had no wings; but very long tails. The Wyvern, or Scotch dragon, had two tails, like the Belgian lion, but the dragons in Turkey made up in wings what they lack in tail.

A long time ago, there was a Belgian crusader, a Fleming, who got acquainted with a dragon of most respectable character, that lived near Aleppo, which was one of the famous cities of the Saracens. This was a water-dragon, named Buccoleon (buc-có-le-on), that lived in the river near by, though sometimes, when it wanted to go on a picnic, or enjoy the company of the hill dragons, it flew into the mountains.

The Turkish water dragons were great friends of those fairies that lived in the clouds, and had much to do with the showers and heavy rains, that make the flowers grow.

A great many caravans passed through Aleppo. These brought the tea, ivory, silk, and spices from the countries in the Far East, where the sun rises. These, they sent from Aleppo, by sea, to Antwerp, one of the greatest seaports in the world. The camels did not, of course, require much rain water, for they only took a drink about once a week. When they did, however, they made up for it, with their long necks, by tasting the water all the way down; that is, for about two yards. On the other hand, when they had a cough, it was awfully troublesome, to have six feet of sore throat. So the good dragons pitied the camels, and were always kind to them.

It was necessary for the river dragons to keep on good terms with the hill dragons and cloud fairies; for, without rain, the river would dry up. Then the dragon, that lived in the water, would have no place to board, or to lodge, or even to wash in, for the river was its bath tub.

This river dragon was a peaceful creature and did not like war. In fact, among its fellow creatures, it was known as the Weeping Dragon, because it cried so much. Whenever there was a battle between the Belgian crusaders and the Saracens, this dragon wept great tears. Each tear, in volume and amount, was equal to a bucket of water. Why should men, the dragon thought, chop and hack each other to death, because one carried a crescent on his banner, and the other sewed a red cross on his coat, over his armor? After every bloody fight, this river dragon used to go over the fields where the men from Belgium were buried, and drop a tear over each grave. Then it mopped its eyes, with a great bandana handkerchief, because the Flemings had died so far from home.

Now a bucket full of tear-water, falling on each burial spot, changed the sandy soil into fertile ground, and thereupon up sprang a new flower.

This novelty in the plant world looked like a cup, held by its stem. It rose up, in the air and sunlight, and was very rich and varied in color. All the hues and tints, of the other buds and blossoms, seen in the gardens that lined the river banks, seemed to unite in this one flower, as if everything good in the dead man had come to life again in bright colors. On some days, when, in the early morning, the sunlight struck the dew drops that lay on these flowers, each one looked like a crown set with costly jewels.

Now a certain Belgian soldier, a Fleming, whose home town was Ghent, and who was a florist, by profession, noticed this splendid new flower. His name was Theophilus; but they called him Taff, for short. From the first, his hope and ambition, in going to the East, had been—if he were not killed while fighting the battles of the cross, or if he did not die of fever, or from the terrible ulcer, they called the “Aleppo button”—to take home a floral souvenir from the Turk’s country. He knew that all the little boys would be expecting to see him come home loaded with trophies, captured from the Saracens; but the strange flower would also show where he had been, and through what adventures he had passed.

The Pilgrims to Jerusalem always carried home a scallop shell; but he intended to surprise the Ghenters with something prettier.

What better than the spirit-flower, or memorial blossom, which sprang up, where the weeping dragon had shown its grief? In fact, Taff thought of naming it “the Dragon’s Tear.”

But when he thought of the bad reputation of dragons in his country, he feared that all the Ghent folk would laugh at him and say that a dragon’s tears were no better than a crocodile’s. Besides, the idea of weeping was not a cheerful one, nor did it tell of the victories of the cross and the crusaders. What then should be a proper name for the flower?

While pondering this question, Taff looked out and saw two big Turks quarreling. They called each other all sorts of bad names. Finally one cursed his enemy, saying:

“May you wear a hat in the next world!”

And the other retorted: “May your turban fall into a pig-sty!”

Now these, with the Turks, were the same as horrible oaths. It was against the law for Saracens, as it is for Turks, to wear a hat. All faithful followers of the prophet cover their heads with a turban, and any one, who does not thus protect his head, is looked on as a vile sinner. To let one’s turban fall among the pigs, is the greatest misfortune.

Whether it be a fez, that is, a round, red cap, with tassel on the top; or seventeen yards, of white muslin, or red damask, or green silk wound round one’s head, every disciple of the prophet must wear a turban. If it be not neatly wrapped, a man is apt to be called a Bashi Bazouk, or “rotten head.” All sorts of honors, and offices are denoted by the folds, colors, or methods of folding or wrapping the turban. Or, in the case of cleanliness and smartness on the one hand or dust or slovenliness, on the other, words of praise or nicknames, and low and vulgar terms, may be applied.

The tassel on the top is the handle, by which the good believer is lifted, by the angels, into Paradise!

When Taff noticed the variety of rich colors, and the beauty of the fashion of the Saracen headdress, he decided to name the new flower the Turk’s turban.

Now the word for this is tulipan, or tulip, for short. Thereupon Taff collected the seeds of this turban flower and when the war was over, he brought them to Flanders and planted them in his garden. Soon he had a tulip farm, and then orders came in, from all parts of Europe, for this wonderful flower.

The women did not care very much for the tulip, because it is not as well fitted, as are violets, or roses, or sweet peas, or honey suckles, for corsage bouquets, or to put in their hair. Moreover, in the language of flowers, it had neither poetry, nor message, nor meaning, like the pansy, for instance.

On the contrary, as the young ladies say, the men “adored” the tulip because of its bright colors. Every man, who had been a crusader, planted it in his garden, to remind him of the Saracens, whose heads he had cut off in battle; or, to tell, his sons and neighbors about the terrible warriors he had met and fought with.

This was necessary, for all the small boys were disappointed, whose fathers did not bring back a scimeter, a spear, a shield, a javelin, a real turban, a pair of turkish slippers, a harem shawl, or some other trophy, to show that they had really been to the wars. In fact, some of them expected their daddies to return with a string of Turks’ heads at the saddle.

So the tulip was called a man’s flower, and Taff got rich, by selling the bulbs. Then he cultivated many varieties, with new shapes and colors. It got to be the fashion to buy these, for every one wanted to show off the new hues and tints, the streaks and spots, and the flaming colors, and hoped to beat his neighbor with the most astonishingly big blooms.

At one time, it seemed as if the whole world had gone crazy over tulips. Thousands of dollars were paid for a single bulb, or even for a tulip in flower, which would lose its petals in a few hours. Every day the Bourse, or money market, was crowded with merchants and brokers; who were buying bulbs and plants, without ever seeing one of them. Prices were announced from distant markets, by means of signals given on the windmills. Some men had tulips on the brain. They sold all they had, chairs, tables, beds, dishes and even clothes, to buy tulips, red, yellow, blue, or black.

But wise men called all this madness, and even talked of “wind trade.” Soon the excitement died down, and the market fell as flat as a ship’s sails on the mast, when there is not enough breeze to flap them.

There was another Fleming, a returned crusader, whose first name was Isaac; but they called him Nyken for short. This man was a potter by trade. He was so pestered by the small boys who wondered why he hadn’t brought back two or three Turks’ heads, that he was at his wit’s end to explain and answer their questions. So Nyken hid himself away, resolving to get rich from what he had learned about turbans. Not having any garden, he could not raise flowers, so he made up his mind he would make tulips out of clay, and get rich, even faster than his neighbor Taff, who was an old bachelor; while Nyken had a wife, and three daughters, all highly accomplished.

So Nyken mixed his clay, got his potter’s wheel ready, loaded his palette with paints, and then set to work, with his “vrouw en kinderen”; that is, his wife Bab (or Barbara) and his daughters three, Beck, Beff, and Jin (that is Rebecca, Elizabeth, and Joanna). These fine girls had all been well educated in the public schools, which were, even then, the glory of the Netherlands. They kept everything secret until the market day.

Then, to the surprise of the whole town of Ghent, Nyken’s stall and shelves blossomed out like a bed of tulips. There was his fat wife, whom he called Bulb, for a pet name, and his three blooming daughters, whom he called his Tulip blossoms.

First in demand, was the turban-dish, or “Turk’s Head,” for baking apples, and pot pies, and cakes, and macaroni. This was made of earthenware.

Then there was hard, shining glazed ware, in many forms and for many uses, cups, saucers, vases and flower-holders. These were made into the form of the flowers themselves, or were decorated with tulips of many tints; besides those which were black, yellow, and red, the colors of the Duke of Brabant and of the Belgian flag.

What pleased the young folks, more than all else, was the bust of a Saracen. This was a copy of a real Turk, with a turban on his head. His hair was black, and his face swarthy. His mouth was wide open, as if ready for some one to throw a pill down his throat, which he should swallow, without chewing it.

This was called “The Gaper,” and was instantly popular with the apothecaries, who made the pills and sold them in boxes at a high price.

On the very first day, Nyken and Bulb had sold out their whole stock, and the three girls, Beck, Beff and Jin had already, in their minds, selected the new dresses and lace collars, which they intended to buy. Soon, all through the Netherlands, there was a “gaper” over every druggist’s shop. New medicines, and strange-looking bottles and boxes were seen on the counters.

There were “Saracen Sure Cure for Corns,” “Buccoleon Liniment,” “Dragons’ Elixir of Life,” “Palestinian Pills,” “Tulip Cure-Alls,” “Thousand-Years-of-Life Syrup,” “Crusaders’ Balm,” “Dragon-Scale Plasters,” “Oriental Ointment,” and a hundred other remedies.

Meanwhile, what had become of the Aleppo dragon?

It turned out, just as the fairies and hill dragons had predicted; that, as soon as the war was over, and peace came, this dragon’s eyes would dry up. Then, the energy, that was so long wasted, as they thought, on tears, would excite this dragon to travel, and then, also, the dry ground would turn no more into flowers. Instead, the stream of tears would strike inward, and all of a sudden, the dragon’s scales would become gold.

It happened just so, and soon Buccoleon’s skin was a mass of golden scales.

Hearing that the Flemings had done such wonders, with the turban flower, and the turban pottery, the dragon was filled with admiration and envy. He wanted to fly at once to Flanders, and see things. He had learned, rather to like Crusaders, but when further, a traveler told the dragon about the Turk’s Head, made of earthenware, for cooking, and the Gaper, for the medicine shops, Buccoleon laughed so loudly, that people in Aleppo thought it thundered.

But alas for men’s treachery!

There was always so much envy and jealousy among the guilds in Ghent, that riots sometimes broke out. Then the bells called out the people to put down the rioters, and do justice to all.

Just at this time, as Buccoleon, the Aleppo dragon, was flying toward Flanders, the goldsmiths of Ghent were almost savagely envious of both Taff, the florist, and Nyken, the potter. When they heard of the coming flight of Buccoleon, they posted archers on the high towers, and these shot to death the good water dragon of Aleppo.

The greedy goldsmiths expected, with hammers and chisels, to pry off its scales and sell them! They wanted to get rich quickly, like Taff and Nyken.

These bad men were awfully disappointed. For when the people heard of what they had done, they rushed into the belfry of the tower. Some of them climbed up the three hundred and seventy-six steps, and rang the great bell, making a terrific clangor.

Forthwith, all the citizens assembled, in the great square, to hear Taff and Nyken tell what this good dragon had done, and how its tears, over the dead Crusaders, had been turned into tulips.