Part 1

FAIRY TALES for WORKERS’ CHILDREN

by HERMINIA ZUR MÜHLEN

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY IDA DAILES COVER DRAWINGS AND COLOR PLATES BY LYDIA GIBSON

PUBLISHED BY THE DAILY WORKER PUBLISHING CO. 1113 West Washington Boulevard Chicago, Ill.

The Rose-bush The Sparrow The Little Grey Dog Why?

FOREWORD

Dear Little Comrades:

The work of translating this little book of fairy tales for workers’ children is very small in comparison to the joy I get from the knowledge that you, my beloved young comrades, are going to enjoy it.

You have read many fairy tales, some of them very beautiful and some that frightened you with their horrible giants and goblins. But never, I am sure, have you read such lovely stories about real everyday things. You see poor people suffering around you every day; some of you have yourselves felt how hard it is to be poor. You know that there are rich people in the world, that they do not work and have all the good things of life. You also know that your fathers work hard and then worry about what will happen if they lose their jobs.

Comrade zur Mühlen, who wrote these fairy tales, tells us in a beautiful way how these things can be stopped. All of us who work must learn that we can make the world a better place for workers and their children to live in if we will help one another. She shows us that the rich people who do not work but keep us enslaved are our enemies; we must join together, we workers of the world, and stop these wrongs.

Even the pretty, delicate Rose-bush knew how to use her thorns when the rich lady came near her. The little Sparrow died while seeking a better land for the Sparrow brothers, but he did not die in vain. The faithful little grey dog gave his life for the Negro boy who had saved him from being drowned; and the Crocodile proved that even an ugly, hungry beast can be more kind than a rich slave-owner. And our little lonely friend Paul learned that he must not stop asking why things were wrong in the world, but that he must make comrades of all the workers and teach them also to ask why, until millions would be asking that question and seeking to find the answer to it.

When you read these stories, I am sure you will want to lend the book to all your friends, so that they too may spend some happy hours with the new friends you have found in the book.

Your loving comrade,

Ida Dailes.

THE ROSE-BUSH

The Rose-bush did not know where she was born and where she spent her early days—it is a well known fact that flowers have a bad memory, but to make up for that they can see into the future. When she first became conscious of herself, she stood in the middle of a magnificent green lawn. To one side of her she saw a great white stone house, that gleamed through the branches of linden trees, to the other side stood a high trellised gate through which she could see the street.

A thin tall man carefully tended the Rose-bush; he brought manure, bound the drooping twigs of the Rose-bush together with bark, brought water for the thirsty roots of the Rose-bush to drink. The Rose-bush was grateful to the man, and as the buds she was covered with opened into dainty red roses, she said to her friend, “You have taken care of me, it is because of you that I have become so beautiful. Take some of my loveliest blossoms in return.”

The man shook his head. “You mean well, dear Rose-bush, and I would gladly take some of your beautiful blossoms for my sick wife. But I dare not do it. You don’t belong to me.”

“I don’t belong to you!” exclaimed the Rose-bush. “Don’t I belong to the person who has taken care of me and troubled himself about me? Then to whom do I belong?”

The man pointed with his hand to the gleaming white house among the trees and replied, “To the gracious lady who lives there.”

“That can’t be,” replied the Rose-bush. “I have never seen this lady. It is not she who has sprinkled water on me, loosened the earth at my roots, bound together my twigs. Then how can I belong to her?”

“She has bought you.”

“That is something different. Then the poor woman must have worked hard to save so much money. Good! Half of my blossoms shall belong to her.”

The man laughed a little sadly, saying, “Oh, beloved Rose-bush, you don’t yet know the world, I can see that. The lady did not lift a finger to earn the money.”

“Then how did she get it?”

“She owns a great factory in which countless workers drudge; from there comes her wealth.”

The Rose-bush became angry, lifted a bough up high, threatened the man with her thorn-claws, shouting, “I see you enjoy yourself at my expense because I am still young and inexperienced, telling me untruths about the world of men. Still I am not so stupid, I have observed ants and bees, and know that to each belongs the things for which he has worked.”

“That may be so among bees and ants,” the man sighed deeply, “yet among men it is different. There the people receive just enough to keep them from starving—all else belongs to the master. The master builds splendid mansions, plants lovely gardens, buys flowers.”

“Is that really true?”

“Yes.”

The man went back to his work and the Rose-bush began to meditate. Yet the longer she thought, the worse her temper grew. Yes, even though she usually had very fine manners, she spoke roughly to a bee who wished to visit her. The bee was still young and timid, and flew off in fright as fast as his wings could carry him. Then the Rose-bush was sorry for her rough behavior, because she was naturally friendly, and also because she might have asked the bee whether the man had spoken the truth.

While she was so engrossed in thought, suddenly some one shook her and a mischievous voice asked, “Well, my friend, what are you dreaming about?”

The Rose-bush looked up with her countless eyes and recognized the Wind, that stood laughing before her shaking his head so that his long hair flew about.

“Wind, beloved Wind!” joyfully exclaimed the Rose-bush, “You come as though you had been called. Tell me whether the man has spoken the truth.” And she reported everything the man had said to her.

The Wind suddenly became serious and whistled through his teeth so violently that the branches of the Rose-bush began to tremble. “Yes,” declared he, “all this is true, and even worse. I come here from all over the whole world and see everything. Often I am so seized with anger that I begin to rave; then the stupid people say, ‘My! what a storm!’”

“And the rich people can really buy everything?”

“Yes,” growled the wind. Then suddenly he laughed. “Not me. They can’t capture and imprison me. I am the friend of the poor. I fly to all lands. In big cities, I station myself before ill-smelling cellars and roar into them ‘Freedom! Justice!’ To tired, overworked people I sing a lullaby, ‘Be courageous, keep together, fight, you will conquer!’ Then they feel new strength, they know a comrade has spoken to them.” He tittered, and all the leaves in the garden stirred. “The rich would like to imprison me, because I carry the message, but I whistle at them. At night I rattle their windows so that they become frightened in their soft beds, and then I cry, ‘Ho ho, you idlers, your time is coming. Make room for the workers of the world!’ At that they are very frightened, draw the silken covers over their ears, try to comfort themselves: ‘It was only the wind!’”

The Wind lifted one of his legs high and pushed it with all his weight against the magnificent white house. The windows clattered, many things in the house were broken, a woman’s voice shrieked. The Wind laughed, then drew his leg back and said to the Rose-bush: “You also can do something, you flowers. Do not bloom for the rich idlers, and the fruit trees should not bear fruit. But you are pleasure-loving and lazy creatures. Look at the Tulips that stand up so sturdily all day, always saying nothing but ‘How lovely we are!’ They have no other interests.”

The petals of the Rose-bush became a deeper red, so ashamed was she of her sister-flower.

The Wind noticed this and tried to comfort her. “You appear to be a sensible, kind-hearted bush. I shall visit you more often. Give me one of your petals as a parting gift.” He took a deep red petal from a full blown rose. “Be happy—now I must leave.”

At that moment two poorly-dressed pale children came along the street. They stopped before the gate and cried as though with one voice, “Oh, the beautiful roses!” The little girl stretched her hands longingly toward the blossoms.

“Wind, beloved Wind,” called the Rose-bush, as loud as she could. “Before you fly away, break off two of my loveliest roses and throw them to the children. But be careful that the petals do not drop off.”

“Do you think I am so clumsy?” grumbled the insulted Wind, breaking off two handsome roses, and blew them lightly, gently to the children.

The children shouted joyfully, the Wind flew away, and the Rose-bush enjoyed the happiness of the children. Her enjoyment did not last long. An angry voice scolded the children. “What impudence is this, to steal the flowers out of my garden!”

The Rose-bush saw a silk-clad lady with fingers that were covered with rings threatening the children. Her smooth face was red with anger. The children were frightened and ran off crying.

The Rose-bush breathed deep with indignation and her breath blew sweeter perfume towards the lady’s face. She stepped closer. “Ah, the beautiful roses. I had better pick them, otherwise the rabble from the streets will steal them. And they are such an expensive kind.”

At this the Rose-bush became enraged, so that her blossoms blazed a fiery red. “If I were only strong as the wind,” thought she, “I would get hold of this evil woman and shake her so that she would become deaf and blind. Such a common creature has a whole garden full of the most gorgeous flowers and begrudges the children for two paltry roses. But you shall not have even one of my blossoms, you bad woman, just wait.”

And as the woman bent down to pick the flowers, the Rose-bush hit her in the face with a twig, stretching out all her thorns like a cat stretches out its claws, and scratched up the woman’s face.

She screamed aloud. The woman did not want to cease from her task, but the Rose-bush was as willful as she; wherever the hand of the woman reached, a large thorn sprang out and scratched her till she bled.

At last the woman, with torn clothes, with scratched, dirty hands, had to turn back home.

The Rose-bush was completely tired from the heated struggle. Her many green arms hung limply, her flowers were paler, she sighed softly. Yet she thought more deeply and arrived at a mighty resolution.

Late in the evening the Wind came flying to bid the Rose-bush good-night, and the Rose-bush said to him solemnly, “Listen to me, Brother Wind, I will follow your advice, I will no longer bloom for the idlers.”

The Wind caressed the leaves and flowers of the Rose-bush with gentle hands, saying earnestly, “Poor little Rose-bush, will you have the strength for that? You will have to suffer a great deal.”

“Yes,” replied the Rose-bush, “I know it. But I will have the strength. Only you must come every day and sing your song of freedom, so as always to renew my courage.”

The Wind promised to do this.

Then followed bad days for the Rose-bush, for she had decided not to drink any water, that she might cease blooming. When her friend came with the water pot she drew her little roots close to herself, that no drops might touch them. Ah, how she suffered! she thought she would faint. In the day-time the sun shone, and she became more thirsty every hour, always longing more for water. And at last, at evening came the longed for drink, but she dared not sip the full draught, she had to turn away from the cool precious liquid, to thirst again. After a while she thought she could not endure it. But the wind came flying, fanning her, singing softly and gently, “Be brave, be brave! You will conquer!”

Day after day the Rose-bush gazed at the gleaming white house in which lived people who had everything they wanted and then looked at the street where others passed by with thin, pale faces that were tired and sad, and this brought new strength to her heart.

She became constantly more sick and more weak; her arms hung down feebly, her blossoms dropped their petals, her leaves became wrinkled and yellow. The man who tended her watched her sadly and asked. “What is wrong, my poor Rose-bush?” and he tried every remedy he knew of to help her. But all in vain. One morning, instead of a handsome, blooming Rose-bush, he found a miserable, withered, dead bush.

That could not remain there, the withered branches and flowers spoiled the handsome garden. The gracious lady commanded that the Rose-bush be thrown out. As the man dug her up, the Rose-bush gathered her remaining strength and whispered beseechingly, “Take me home! Please, please take me home!”

The man fulfilled her wish. He planted the Rose-bush in a flower pot and took her to the poor, small room where he lived. His sick wife sat up in bed and said, “Ah, the poor Rose-bush, she is as sick as I am, but you will nurse us both back to health.”

The withered leaves and twigs moaned, “Water! Water!” And the man understood them and brought in a jar of water. The Rose-bush drank. Oh! what delight this was! Eagerly her roots sucked up the water, the delicious moisture passing through all her branches gave her new life. The next morning she could lift up her branches; the sick woman was as happy as a child and cried, “She will get well!”

And the Rose-bush really got well. In a short while she again became so beautiful that the poor little room was as fragrant as a garden. The pale cheeks of the woman became rosier every day, her strength was returning. “The Rose-bush has made me well,” said she, and all the flowers on the Rose-bush glowed deep red with joy when she heard these words.

The man and his wife were kind people, they gladly shared the little they had, and carefully broke off some roses to bring joy to tired people in other lonely rooms.

The roses had other magic powers; the Rose-bush, in her days of struggle and suffering, had learned the songs of the Wind. Now her flowers sang them very softly for their friends, “Keep together! Fight! You will conquer!” Then the people said, “How strange! The perfume of the flowers brings us new strength. We will fight together for a better world.”

But to the little children the roses sang in a tender, loving voice: “Little children, when you are grown up, you will no longer stand sadly before the gate. The whole world will belong to those who work, the whole world!”

THE SPARROW

Quarrel and disagreement ruled in the Sparrow family. Mother Sparrow squatted unhappily in her nest all day and Father Sparrow swore and grumbled and found fault with everything. The family that had once been so gay and happy was completely changed. And for all this misery the youngest Sparrow was to blame. One evening at supper he had declared, briefly and boldly, “I’m not going to school any more. I’ve had enough of being insulted by those aristocrats. Above all, I’m tired of all this life. I want to go out into the world.” He stuck up his bill and looked at his parents defiantly.

Mother Sparrow was so shocked that all her feathers stood up. She started helplessly at her naughty son, and all she could do was to say weakly, “Peep, peep.”

But Father Sparrow opened his mouth so wide in anger that the worm he had meant to eat slid quickly away. He was a person of action, did not believe in talking much, and proceeded to beat his son in the face with his sharp beak.

The young Sparrow screamed more defiantly than ever, “I won’t stay here any longer. I’ve had enough. I’m going out into the world.”

Then Mother Sparrow found her voice again and said tearfully, “You wicked child! That’s how you thank your parents for their love. Haven’t we brought you up well? You are the first sparrow in our village to attend Professor Swallow’s school of architecture and learn to build artistic nests. You belong to the best society and mingle with Swallows, Starlings and Yellow-bills. And this is how you repay us.”

“I don’t care a pin about fine society,” replied the excited young Sparrow. And he whistled defiantly, “Tweet, tweet!”

“No other Sparrow is studying such a respectable profession,” despairingly piped Mother Sparrow.

Then the young Sparrow began to make such a fuss that the whole nest shook. “A respectable profession, truly a beautiful profession. To build nests in which others live. To slave in the heat of the sun, carrying straws from all over, to weave them together, to see that everything is just perfect—and then the fine ladies and gentlemen move in, and throw me a little worm for my wages, hardly enough for a decent meal. Above all, these fine people. The swallows, always dressed up in their frock-coats; the Yellow-bills, always showing off their fine jewelry. And how they treat our own people, full of pride and scorn. Common laborer, they call me. I’ve had enough of it. I’m as good as they are, and maybe better.”

Mother Sparrow shrank in horror, but Father Sparrow blew up until he nearly burst and shouted, “Be silent, you lost soul, you whipper-snapper. You talk like a Bolshevik. You forget that I am chairman of the Council of Jesters. My son must not rebel against law and order.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Mother Sparrow, “and suppose the neighbors should hear you! How dreadful!”

The young Sparrow laughed shamelessly, seated himself on the edge of the nest and whistled a revolutionary song.

Father Sparrow rose hastily and grumbled in an undertone to his wife, “See to that young fool and make him behave. I must go to the meeting of the Singing Society.” He flew away without one look at his naughty son.

Mother Sparrow sighed deeply and asked in a complaining voice, “Now what is it you really want?”

The young Sparrow came closer, nestled against his mother, and said with a sweet smile, “I want to go away little mother, far away. To foreign lands where it is always summer.”

“But son of my heart, you know that even the stupid children of men learn in their schools that the Sparrow is not a migratory bird.”

“What is that to me? I can’t stand it here any longer. Always seeing the same things; in the distance the old church steeple, here before our noses the farm-house, and the dung-hill. No, I want to go away, far away.”

At that he spread out his wings and pushed himself head first out of the nest into space. It seemed very dangerous, but his wings carried him safely through the air.

But the young Sparrow was by no means as joyous and light-hearted as he seemed to be. The words of his parents had aroused all sorts of doubts in his mind. “Mother was really right,” he said to himself. “The Sparrow is not a migratory bird. No one has ever heard of a Sparrow that has flown across the great ocean and gone to foreign lands. But why shouldn’t I be the first one to do this?” he asked himself, with defiant courage. “Some one must always be the first one. If my venture succeeds, I will have proven to all the Sparrow folk that they need not freeze and starve in the winter-time, but can move to the warm countries and live happily. Certainly, the ocean....” The young Sparrow’s heart lost courage, he thought of what his teacher, the Swallow had once told him about the great, wild water that never seemed to end, about the angry frothy waves over which one had to fly daily. If one’s wings lost their strength, one fell down and was lost. One was swallowed by the waves.

At these thoughts the Sparrow almost wanted to give up the idea. He shrank together and began shivering. Then suddenly he thought how in past hard winters many wretched Sparrows had died of hunger and cold.

“No, no,” said he to himself. “I must not be so cowardly. This matter does not concern only myself, but all my brother Sparrows, all the Sparrows of future generations, who will live when I have been long dead. It will be worth every danger and every sacrifice if I can help them to a happier life.”

And the brave young Sparrow decided to leave the next day.

He spent that night in his parents’ nest, nestled close to his mother, wept a little secretly because it was hard for him to leave. Father returned late, and he was quite drunk, threw himself on his bed so that it cracked and fell asleep immediately.

The grey-white sky began to turn rosy, morning came flying on the wings of the wind and brought light to the world. The young Sparrow awoke, looked for the last time at his sleeping parents, and flew forth. He knew in which direction he must fly, for he remembered the stories of the Swallows. Now he flew exactly that way.

The sun climbed higher into the heavens, it became hotter and hotter, the poor Sparrow could hardly breathe. His wings were so tired and sore that he could hardly lift them. Still he flew further. He had resolved not to rest until the shadows would fall upon the earth.

Never had he lived through so long a day. Vainly his bright little eyes explored the heavens, but the great golden sphere of the sun shone brightly, would not go down.

“I was a fool,” thought the Sparrow. “Now I might be sitting at home in our nest, or be bathing in the puddle by the cherry-tree. Ah, how pleasant it would be to bathe; at this moment even the ocean would not be too large.”

Still he flew steadily on. But now he flew slowly, every beat of his wings caused him dreadful pain. He began to hate the sun, this merciless glowing red sphere that would not go down. To give himself courage, he made up a little song, singing it very softly and moving his tired wings in time to its rhythm.

“My cause is the cause of my brothers, My strength must save them all; If I fail I do wrong to the others, And their chains will never fall.”

At last, at last, great black shadows fell upon the earth. A refreshing breeze came flying, coolly fanning the weary Sparrow, carrying him gently along on its mighty wings.

As the sun went down behind a blue hill, the tired Sparrow alighted on a large meadow. He lay panting in the tall grass. The soft chirping of the crickets lulled him to sleep; his eyes closed.

Rough, loud voices of men awakened him. Under a knotty old nut tree he saw two ragged, dust-covered men seated. One of them pulled his torn boots off, looked woefully at his blistered feet and said, “I can’t run any more, I must rest a day.”

“Just another half hour,” the other man said comfortingly. “Just to the next railroad station. There we will hide in a freight car and ride until morning. Then it will not be far to the sea.”

The Sparrow had listened carefully to their conversation. “So people get tired, too,” thought he, “and then they ride. I don’t know what that means, but I know that one does not tire oneself that way. If people ride, why shouldn’t Sparrows also ride?” He decided to follow the men, and since they left in a short time he flew after them.

They arrived at a house in front of which two shining bands were stretched on the ground. Now night had really come. All was hidden in darkness, only the stars shone faintly in the sky. The Sparrow stayed near the two men and waited.

Suddenly something dreadful appeared. Through the darkness a gigantic black beast came rattling, its red eyes shining so brightly that one could see them from a great distance, it puffed and panted, the earth shook after it. It shrieked frightfully as it came near. Then suddenly it stopped. It let out clouds of smoke from its long black nose.