Part 14

The Flower family numbered nine: Father and Mother Flower and seven children. Father Flower was an unappreciated poet, Mother Flower was very much like all mothers, and the seven children were very sweet and interesting. Their first names all matched beautifully with their last name, and with their personal appearance. For instance, the oldest girl, who had soft blue eyes and flaxen curls, was called Flax Flower: the little boy, who came next, and had very red cheeks and loved to sleep late in the morning, was called Poppy Flower, and so on. This charming suitableness of their names was owing to Father Flower. He had a theory that a great deal of the misery and discord in the world comes from things not matching properly as they should; and he thought there ought to be a certain correspondence between all things that were in juxtaposition to each other, just as there ought to be between the last two words of a couplet of poetry. But he found, very often, there was no correspondence at all, just as words in poetry do not always rhyme when they should. However, he did his best to remedy it. He saw that every one of his children's names was suitable and accorded with their personal characteristics; and in his flower-garden--for he raised flowers for the market--only those of complementary colors were allowed to grow in adjoining beds, and, as often as possible, they rhymed in their names. But that was a more difficult matter to manage, and very few flowers were rhymed, or, if they were, none rhymed correctly. He had a bed of box next to one of phlox, and a trellis of woodbine grew next to one of eglantine, and a thicket of elderblows was next to one of rose; but he was forced to let his violets and honeysuckles and many others go entirely unrhymed--this disturbed him considerably, but he reflected that it was not his fault, but that of the man who made the language and named the different flowers--he should have looked to it that those of complementary colors had names to rhyme with each other, then all would have been harmonious and as it should have been.

Father Flower had chosen this way of earning his livelihood when he realized that he was doomed to be an unappreciated poet, because it suited so well with his name; and if the flowers had only rhymed a little better he would have been very well contented. As it was, he never grumbled. He also saw to it that the furniture in his little house and the cooking utensils rhymed as nearly as possible, though that too was oftentimes a difficult matter to bring about, and required a vast deal of thought and hard study. The table always stood under the gable end of the roof, the foot-stool always stood where it was cool, and the big rocking-chair in a glare of sunlight; the lamp, too, he kept down cellar where it was damp. But all these were rather far-fetched, and sometimes quite inconvenient. Occasionally there would be an article that he could not rhyme until he had spent years of thought over it, and when he did it would disturb the comfort of the family greatly. There was the spider. He puzzled over that exceedingly, and when he rhymed it at last, Mother Flower or one of the little girls had always to take the spider beside her, when she sat down, which was of course quite troublesome. The kettle he rhymed first with nettle, and hung a bunch of nettle over it, till all the children got dreadfully stung. Then he tried settle, and hung the kettle over the settle. But that was no place for it; they had to go without their tea, and everybody who sat on the settle bumped his head against the kettle. At last it occurred to Father Flower that if he should make a slight change in the language the kettle could rhyme with the skillet, and sit beside it on the stove, as it ought, leaving harmony out of the question, to do. Accordingly all the children were instructed to call the skillet a skettle, and the kettle stood by its side on the stove ever afterward.

The house was a very pretty one, although it was quite rude and very simple. It was built of logs and had a thatched roof, which projected far out over the walls. But it was all overrun with the loveliest flowering vines imaginable, and, inside, nothing could have been more exquisitely neat and homelike; although there was only one room and a little garret over it. All around the house were the flower-beds and the vine-trellises and the blooming shrubs, and they were always in the most beautiful order. Now, although all this was very pretty to see, and seemingly very simple to bring to pass, yet there was a vast deal of labor in it for some one; for flowers do not look so trim and thriving without tending, and houses do not look so spotlessly clean without constant care. All the Flower family worked hard; even the littlest children had their daily tasks set them. The oldest girl, especially, little Flax Flower, was kept busy from morning till night taking care of her younger brothers and sisters, and weeding flowers. But for all that she was a very happy little girl, as indeed were the whole family, as they did not mind working, and loved each other dearly.

Father Flower, to be sure, felt a little sad sometimes; for, although his lot in life was a pleasant one, it was not exactly what he would have chosen. Once in a while he had a great longing for something different. He confided a great many of his feelings to Flax Flower; she was more like him than any of the other children, and could understand him even better than his wife, he thought.

One day, when there had been a heavy shower and a beautiful rainbow, he and Flax were out in the garden tying up some rose-bushes, which the rain had beaten down, and he said to her how he wished he could find the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow. Flax, if you will believe me, had never heard of it; so he had to tell her all about it, and also say a little poem he had made about it to her.

The poem ran something in this way:

O what is it shineth so golden-clear At the rainbow's foot on the dark green hill? 'Tis the Pot of Gold, that for many a year Has shone, and is shining and dazzling still. And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray? For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way.

Flax listened with her soft blue eyes very wide open. "I suppose if we should find that pot of gold it would make us very rich, wouldn't it, father?" said she.

"Yes," replied her father; "we could then have a grand house, and keep a gardener, and a maid to take care of the children, and we should no longer have to work so hard." He sighed as he spoke, and tears stood in his gentle blue eyes, which were very much like Flax's. "However, we shall never find it," he added.

"Why couldn't we run ever so fast when we saw the rainbow," inquired Flax, "and get the Pot of Gold?"

"Don't be foolish, child!" said her father; "you could not possibly reach it before the rainbow was quite faded away!"

"True," said Flax, but she fell to thinking as she tied up the dripping roses.

The next rainbow they had she eyed very closely, standing out on the front doorstep in the rain, and she saw that one end of it seemed to touch the ground at the foot of a pine-tree on the side of the mountain, which was quite conspicuous amongst its fellows, it was so tall. The other end had nothing especial to mark it.

"I will try the end where the tall pine-tree is first," said Flax to herself, "because that will be the easiest to find--if the Pot of Gold isn't there I will try to find the other end."

A few days after that it was very hot and sultry, and at noon the thunder heads were piled high all around the horizon.

"I don't doubt but we shall have showers this afternoon," said Father Flower, when he came in from the garden for his dinner.

After the dinner-dishes were washed up, and the baby rocked to sleep, Flax came to her mother with a petition.

"Mother," said she, "won't you give me a holiday this afternoon?"

"Why, where do you want to go, Flax?" said her mother.

"I want to go over on the mountain and hunt for wild flowers," replied Flax.

"But I think it is going to rain, child, and you will get wet."

"That won't hurt me any, mother," said Flax, laughing.

"Well, I don't know as I care," said her mother, hesitatingly. "You have been a very good industrious girl, and deserve a little holiday. Only don't go so far that you cannot soon run home if a shower should come up."

So Flax curled her flaxen hair and tied it up with a blue ribbon, and put on her blue and white checked dress. By the time she was ready to go the clouds over in the northwest were piled up very high and black, and it was quite late in the afternoon. Very likely her mother would not have let her go if she had been at home, but she had taken the baby, who had waked from his nap, and gone to call on her nearest neighbor, half a mile away. As for her father, he was busy in the garden, and all the other children were with him, and they did not notice Flax when she stole out of the front door. She crossed the river on a pretty arched stone bridge nearly opposite the house, and went directly into the woods on the side of the mountain.

Everything was very still and dark and solemn in the woods. They knew about the storm that was coming. Now and then Flax heard the leaves talking in queer little rustling voices. She inherited the ability to understand what they said from her father. They were talking to each other now in the words of her father's song. Very likely he had heard them saying it sometime, and that was how he happened to know it.

"O what is it shineth so golden-clear At the rainbow's foot on the dark green hill?"

Flax heard the maple-leaves inquire. And the pine-leaves answered back:

"'Tis the Pot of Gold, that for many a year Has shone, and is shining and dazzling still."

Then the maple-leaves asked:

"And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray?"

And the pine-leaves answered:

"For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way."

Flax did not exactly understand the sense of the last question and answer between maple and pine-leaves. But they kept on saying it over and over as she ran along. She was going straight to the tall pine-tree. She knew just where it was, for she had often been there. Now the rain-drops began to splash through the green boughs, and the thunder rolled along the sky. The leaves all tossed about in a strong wind and their soft rustles grew into a roar, and the branches and the whole tree caught it up and called out so loud, as they writhed and twisted about that Flax was almost deafened, the words of the song:

"O what is it shineth so golden-clear?"

Flax sped along through the wind and the rain and the thunder. She was very much afraid that she should not reach the tall pine which was quite a way distant before the sun shone out, and the rainbow came.

The sun was already breaking through the clouds when she came in sight of it, way up above her on a rock. The rain-drops on the trees began to shine like diamonds, and the words of the song rushed out from their midst, louder and sweeter:

"O what is it shineth so golden-clear?"

Flax climbed for dear life. Red and green and golden rays were already falling thick around her, and at the foot of the pine-tree something was shining wonderfully clear and bright.

At last she reached it, and just at that instant the rainbow became a perfect one, and there at the foot of the wonderful arch of glory was the Pot of Gold. Flax could see it brighter than all the brightness of the rainbow. She sank down beside it and put her hand on it, then she closed her eyes and sat still, bathed in red and green and violet light--that, and the golden light from the Pot, made her blind and dizzy. As she sat there with her hand on the Pot of Gold at the foot of the rainbow, she could hear the leaves over her singing louder and louder, till the tones fairly rushed like a wind through her ears. But this time they only sang the last words of the song:

"And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray? For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way."

At last she ventured to open her eyes. The rainbow had faded almost entirely away, only a few tender rose and green shades were arching over her; but the Pot of Gold under her hand was still there, and shining brighter than ever. All the pine needles with which the ground around it was thickly spread, were turned to needles of gold, and some stray couplets of leaves which were springing up through them were all gilded.

Flax bent over it trembling and lifted the lid off the pot. She expected, of course, to find it full of gold pieces that would buy the grand house and the gardener and the maid that her father had spoken about. But to her astonishment, when she had lifted the lid off and bent over the Pot to look into it, the first thing she saw was the face of her mother looking out of it at her. It was smaller of course, but just the same loving, kindly face she had left at home. Then, as she looked longer, she saw her father smiling gently up at her, then came Poppy and the baby and all the rest of her dear little brothers and sisters smiling up at her out of the golden gloom inside the Pot. At last she actually saw the garden and her father in it tying up the roses, and the pretty little vine-covered house, and, finally, she could see right into the dear little room where her mother sat with the baby in her lap, and all the others around her.

Flax jumped up. "I will run home," said she, "it is late, and I do want to see them all dreadfully."

So she left the Golden Pot shining all alone under the pine-tree, and ran home as fast as she could.

When she reached the house it was almost twilight, but her father was still in the garden. Every rose and lily had to be tied up after the shower, and he was but just finishing. He had the tin milk pan hung on him like a shield, because it rhymed with man. It certainly was a beautiful rhyme, but it was very inconvenient. Poor Mother Flower was at her wits' end to know what to do without it, and it was very awkward for Father Flower to work with it fastened to him.

Flax ran breathlessly into the garden, and threw her arms around her father's neck and kissed him. She bumped her nose against the milk pan, but she did not mind that; she was so glad to see him again. Somehow, she never remembered being so glad to see him as she was now since she had seen his face in the Pot of Gold.

"Dear father," cried she, "how glad I am to see you! I found the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow!"

Her father stared at her in amazement.

"Yes, I did, truly, father," said she. "But it was not full of gold, after all. You were in it, and mother and the children and the house and garden and--everything."

"You were mistaken, dear," said her father, looking at her with his gentle, sorrowful eyes. "You could not have found the true end of the rainbow, nor the true Pot of Gold--that is surely full of the most beautiful gold pieces, with an angel stamped on every one."

"But I did, father," persisted Flax.

"You had better go into your mother, Flax," said her father; "she will be anxious to see you. I know better than you about the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow."

So Flax went sorrowfully into the house. There was the tea-kettle singing beside the "skettle," which had some nice smelling soup in it, the table was laid for supper, and there sat her mother with the baby in her lap and the others all around her--just as they had looked in the Pot of Gold.

Flax had never been so glad to see them before--and if she didn't hug and kiss them all!

"I found the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow, mother," cried she, "and it was not full of gold, at all; but you and father and the children looked out of it at me, and I saw the house and garden and everything in it."

Her mother looked at her lovingly. "Yes, Flax dear," said she.

"But father said I was mistaken," said Flax, "and did not find it."

"Well dear," said her mother, "your father is a poet, and very wise; we will say no more about it. You can sit down here and hold the baby now, while I make the tea."

Flax was perfectly ready to do that; and, as she sat there with her darling little baby brother crowing in her lap, and watched her pretty little brothers and sisters and her dear mother, she felt so happy that she did not care any longer whether she found the true Pot of Gold or not.

But, after all, do you know, I think her father was mistaken, and that she had.

[F] From "The Pot of Gold and Other Stories," by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, published by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company; used by special arrangement.

THE FAIRY THORN

_An Ulster Ballad_

BY SAMUEL FERGUSON

"Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning wheel, For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep: Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a Highland reel Around the fairy thorn on the steep."

At Anna Grace's door, 't was thus the maidens cried-- Three merry maidens fair, in kirtles of the green; And Anna laid the sock and the weary wheel aside-- The fairest of the four, I ween.

They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve, Away in milky wavings of the neck and ankle bare; The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave, And the crags in the ghostly air;

And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go, The maids along the hillside have ta'en their fearless way, Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray.

The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee; The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head, gray and dim, In ruddy kisses sweet to see.

The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row, Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem; And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds, they go-- Oh, never carroled bird like them!

But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze, That drinks away their voices in echoless repose; And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braes, And dreamier the gloaming grows.

And sinking, one by one, like lark-notes from the sky, When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw, Are hushed the maidens' voices, as cowering down they lie In the flutter of their sudden awe.

For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath, And from the mountain-ashes and the old white thorn between, A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe, And they sink down together on the green.

They sink together silent, and stealing side by side, They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair; Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, For their shrinking necks again are bare.

Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed, Soft o'er their bosoms beating--the only human sound-- They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd, Like a river in the air, gliding round.

Nor scream can raise, nor prayer can any say, But wild, wild the terror of the speechless three; For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, By whom, they dare not look to see.

They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold, And the curls elastic falling, as her head withdraws; They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold, But they dare not look to see the cause.

For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies, Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze; And neither fear nor wonder can open their quivering eyes, Or their limbs from the cold ground raise.

Till out of night the earth has rolled her dewy side, With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below; When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide, The maidens' trance dissolveth so.

They fly, the ghastly three, as swiftly as they may, And told their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain-- They pined away and died within the year and day, And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.

FAIRY DAYS

BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

Beside the old hall fire, upon my nurse's knee, Of happy fairy days, what tales were told to me! I thought the world was once all peopled with princesses, And my heart would beat to hear their loves and their distresses. And many a quiet night, in slumber sweet and deep, The pretty fairy people would visit me in sleep.

I saw them in my dreams come flying east and west; With wondrous fairy gifts the newborn babe they blessed. One has brought a jewel, and one a crown of gold, And one has brought a curse, but she is wrinkled and old. The gentle queen turns pale to hear those words of sin, But the king, he only laughs, and bids the dance begin.

The babe has grown to be the fairest of the land, And rides the forest green, a hawk upon her hand, An ambling palfrey white, a golden robe and crown; I've seen her in my dreams riding up and down: And heard the ogre laugh, as she fell into his snare, At the tender little creature, who wept and tore her hair.

But ever when it seemed her need was at the sorest, A prince in shining mail comes prancing through the forest, A waving ostrich-plume, a buckler burnished bright; I've seen him in my dreams, good sooth! a gallant knight. His lips are coral red beneath a dark mustache; See how he waves his hand and how his blue eyes flash!

"Come forth, thou Paynim knight!" he shouts in accents clear. The giant and the maid, both tremble his voice to hear. Saint Mary guard him well! he draws his falchion keen, The giant and the knight are fighting on the green. I see them in my dreams, his blade gives stroke on stroke, The giant pants and reels, and tumbles like an oak!

With what a blushing grace he falls upon his knee And takes the lady's hand and whispers, "You are free." Ah! happy childish tales of knight and faerie! I waken from my dreams, but there's ne'er a knight for me; I waken from my dreams, and wish that I could be A child by the old hall-fire upon my nurse's knee!

THE FAIRY QUEEN

Come, follow, follow me-- You, fairy elves that be, Which circle on the green-- Come, follow Mab, your queen! Hand in hand let's dance around, For this place is fairy ground.

When mortals are at rest, And snoring in their nest, Unheard and unespied, Through keyholes we do glide; Over tables, stools, and shelves, We trip it with our fairy elves.

And if the house be foul With platter, dish, or bowl, Up stairs we nimbly creep, And find the sluts asleep; There we pinch their arms and thighs-- None escapes, nor none espies.

But if the house be swept, And from uncleanness kept, We praise the household maid, And duly she is paid; For we use, before we go, To drop a tester in her shoe.

Upon a mushroom's head, Our table cloth we spread; A grain of rye or wheat Is manchet, which we eat; Pearly drops of dew we drink, In acorn cups, filled to the brink.

The brains of nightingales, With unctuous fat of snails, Between two cockles stewed, Is meat that's easily chewed; Tails of worms, and marrow of mice, Do make a dish that's wondrous nice.

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, Serve us for our minstrelsy; Grace said, we dance a while, And so the time beguile; And if the moon doth hide her head, The glow-worm lights us home to bed.