Part 1

Produced by MFR, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

FAIRY TALES

FROM

GOLD LANDS.

SECOND SERIES.

BY MAY WENTWORTH.

High as the clouds are the mountains bold That tower in the glorious Land of Gold, And cañons dusky with twilight deep Where a thousand mystic shadows peep. There are vineyards graceful with trailing vine Rich in the wealth of the rosy wine, There are orange groves and lime trees green That glint in the sunlight’s glowing sheen, There are deserts yellow with priceless sand, All these you will find in the Golden Land.

NEW EDITION, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.

NEW YORK:

A. ROMAN & CO., PUBLISHERS.

SAN FRANCISCO:

417 & 419 MONTGOMERY STREET.

1870.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by

A. ROMAN & CO.,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

DEDICATION.

TO THE

CHILDREN OF CALIFORNIA,

WITH GOLDEN WISHES FOR THE CHRISTMAS-TIME,

I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE BOOK.

MAY WENTWORTH.

PREFACE.

In the pleasant Christmas-time I greet the children everywhere.

To some I shall not be a stranger, for we have met before, not face to face, but in the pages of the last year’s little book. In the sunny days of childhood, a year is so long a time, that when the summer and winter have passed it seems like an age gone by; yet as again I bring my Christmas offering, I hope to be remembered and welcomed as the friend who loves the children well.

They are the true critics, generous and fearless. For their warm hearts and keen appreciation, I write these stories of the Golden Clime.

May the joy and blessedness of the holy Christmas rest upon them, and follow them through all the sunshine and rain of the coming year.

MAY WENTWORTH.

SAN FRANCISCO, 1868.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

PAGE

THE LITTLE LACE-MAKER 9

GOLDEN SNOW 27

GRACIA AND CATRINA 63

THE DANCING SUNBEAM 104

THE YOUNG GOLD-SEEKER 115

THE WISHING CAP 129

CRIMSON TUFT 153

SNOWDROP AND ROSEBUD 209

LAZARUS AND BUMMER 230

FAIRY TALES.

THE LITTLE LACE-MAKER.

It was the happy Christmas Eve, yet it was very cold and dark. Over the quaint old town of Bruges hung the heavy snow-clouds, and the air was filled with snow-flakes, which fell so thick and fast that very soon the ground was covered with a white mantle, quickly hiding the foot-prints of the few who were still out buying the last gifts for beautiful Christmas trees. Through the narrow streets rushed the wind, shrieking round the comers in its shrill whistle, and seeming to say:--

“As I go, I bring the snow, On this holy Christmas Eve. Who can show Hearts like snow, On this holy Christmas Eve? Blow, blow, blow! Pure and fleecy snow, On this holy Christmas Eve.”

It was really strange what curious things the wind whistled that night, yet through all ran the refrain of the holy Christmas Eve.

Near the great belfry of Bruges was a stately mansion, where the fires burned brightly in the polished grates with a warm, rosy glow, making upon the wall grotesque shadows of a little boy and girl who were joyous with expectant happiness.

It was early, and the lamps were not yet lighted. The children danced up and down the warm, pleasant room, where they were to remain until the mother called them.

The dear, loving mother had been so busy in the great parlor, doing something full of mystery, yet the children were quite sure it was a delightful mystery, that would bring them a great store of happiness, and they were luxuriating in their own pleasant imaginings. The door was still locked, but the time was fast approaching for the grand opening.

“I can’t wait! I can’t wait much longer,” said the boy, impatiently. “What a lazy old thing Santa Claus is!”

“For shame, brother, to speak so of the good Santa Claus, who brings us such beautiful gifts. I will watch for him, the kind old Santa Claus, to come from the gift land for us in all the wind and snow,” and the little girl ran to the window and drew aside the rich, heavy curtain.

“But Santa Claus always comes down the chimney, little Miss Wisdom,” said the boy, joining her. “How it snows! I’m so glad. ’Twill be such fun for us boys to-morrow.”

“’Tis the old woman up in the clouds, picking her goose for Christmas dinner,” said the little girl, laughing and singing,--

“Old woman, up in the clouds so high, Making the feathers about us fly, Picking your geese for Christmas pie, Give me a piece of it by and by!”

Just then the mother was heard calling, and the children ran into the great parlor, all ablaze with light and beauty. In the center of all rose the beautiful Christmas tree, luminous with shining toys and many-hued candles.

Oh, it was delightful! To the little ones nothing could compare with the long-dreamed-of Christmas tree full of beautiful presents, just what they had been wanting, and hoped that wonderful old diviner, Santa Claus, would think of; and, of the whole year to them, no time was like the glorious Christmas season.

In quite another part of the town, very poor and squalid, lived the lace weavers.

In quaint old buildings, falling to ruins, they were huddled together, many wretched homes under one roof, yet even there they were trying to celebrate the birth of the blessed Christ child.

In the dingy rooms burned cheap tallow candles, and the little ones, with their poor wee gifts, were as happy as the brother and sister with the beautiful Christmas tree in the stately mansion.

One room only, a very small one, up in an attic in the lace-weavers’ quarters, was in darkness. By the window stood a little, sorrowful girl, very pale-faced, all alone, watching the snow-flakes.

It was very cold, and her clothes were thin and ragged. She shivered, for she was quite chilled through. She was an orphan. The father had died, oh! long ago, one whole year, an age in the life of a child. Only the week before, the mother was driven away to her last home in the paupers’ grave-yard, to rest in the plain deal coffin, till beautiful white wings should waft her up to Heaven the Golden.

It was very sad to see the little pale-faced child looking after the paupers’ cart, driven so roughly over the frozen ground, and the kind-hearted neighbors had pitied her, and, though they were poor lace-makers like the mother, they had given her food with their sympathy, and promised to help her on with the trade.

They were true-hearted, honest folk, but somehow in this joyous Christmas season they had all forgotten her, and, far up in the dreary attic-chamber of the old tenement-house, she looked out into the night and storm alone.

It was so dark in the room that she could not bear to leave the window, though the wind whistled in at the loose casement, making quite a clatter, and causing her little teeth to chatter with cold.

She was very hungry. She had eaten the last crust the night before, and everybody had been so busy. It was not strange, she thought, that they had forgotten her.

She could remember the last Christmas they were all together. How busy the mother was making the Christmas pie, and how the father brought home a wooden doll, saying, “’Tis for my good little daughter,” and kissed her. Then, taking her on his shoulder, he danced all about the room, and how the dear mother laughed.

She was so happy then, and now so desolate and wretched. Everybody else was happy; she heard the children shouting, and she was so faint and hungry.

Just then a man, in an oil-cloth coat and cap, came along, and lighted the street lamp opposite the window. That made it more cheerful; still, the child was so cold and hungry, she could bear it no longer.

“I will go out,” she thought, “into the light. Perhaps I shall dare to go in somewhere. The neighbors have been so kind to me, but I’m not used to them as I was to the dear mother. I will wish them a ‘Merry Christmas,’ and they will give me something to eat. Then, perhaps, I can sleep, and go away in my dreams to the beautiful land where it is warm with God’s pleasant sunshine.”

Taking from the shelf a faded shawl and torn bonnet, which had been the mother’s, she fastened them on as well as she could. But they were too large; it was all of no use, they would slip off again.

As she opened the door of her chamber, a great draught of wind rushed in from the street. Some one was coming in at the common staircase. She heard merry voices and footsteps on the stairs. She drew back into the darkness of her own room with shrinking timidity.

Very strange it was to her the cheery laughing, yet she had been as light-hearted once, but it seemed a great while ago.

When the sound of voices died away, she stole softly down the stairs to the door of the great front room, which had always been the grand place to her. Of all the neighbors, the woman in this best room had been most kind to her and the poor mother in _her_ sickness.

The little cold fingers gave a timid knock, but, within, the father and mother were talking, and the little ones laughing so loud, that no one said the welcome “Come in,” or came to open the door.

The cold winds whistled through the uncovered halls of the tenement house, and the child stood waiting with chattering teeth, and feet and hands so benumbed that she thought it would be better out in the street. There she could run and warm herself.

It was snowing fast, and the feathery flakes fell all over the worn shawl, covering its faded colors with soft white down; over the great bonnet that would fall back upon her neck; and over the rich, golden-brown curls, that were left bare to the storm.

As she ran on, the streets grew lighter, and on each side of the way were gay shops, with great windows filled with a thousand beautiful things. How much better it was than staying in the dark attic-room alone; and she thought, if she were not so cold and hungry, she could have quite enjoyed it.

There was a great jolly man walking on before her, humming a song. Presently he stopped to look in at a shop window, and she read in his broad, pleasant face that his heart was kind and loving. So, without stopping to dread it, she ran up to him, saying, “Please, sir, I wish you a merry Christmas.”

“Ah, ha! little one,” he said kindly, “you’ve caught a Christmas gift, but it is too stormy a night for little things like you to be out.” Drawing from his pocket one of many small packages, he said, “My babies will never miss this. Now run home, like a good child; no doubt the mother is calling you now.”

Then he hurried on, and the child, with trembling fingers, untied the parcel. How she hoped it was a piece of bread; but no! It was a pretty toy lamb, with a fleece as white as the snow that was covering her.

She was so much disappointed that the tears ran down her face very fast, and in the storm and cold this was uncomfortable.

Just then the beautiful chimes sounded from the great belfry of Bruges. This Christmas Eve they were played by a famous musician, who sat in the chamber below the belfry, and struck upon an immense key-board like that of a piano. These keys connect with hammers that strike the bells, so that in all the world there are no chimes like those of the belfry of Bruges.

There the grand musician sat and played, throwing the whole harmony of his soul into the music, and all the town of Bruges stopped to listen, and, clasping each other’s hands, whispered softly, “How beautiful!” for the divine music thrilled them.

Above all, it went to the heart of the little hungry child, out alone in the pitiless night and storm. The voices of the matchless chimes led her, and she hurried on to the great belfry, clasping the pretty white lamb closely in her little chilled hand.

Somehow she did not feel so hungry now, and that was a blessing. There was the stately mansion all ablaze with light. She could look in through the rich crimson curtains of the grand parlor window, and see the beautiful Christmas tree, and the happy children dancing around it.

It was very near the belfry, and she sat down on the broad steps, and, wrapping her shawl about her, listened to the wonderful chimes.

Still the snow fell heavily, covering her over with its cold white mantle, but she did not move. The voice of the chimes was whispering in her ear such beautiful things. It was delightful, and all the dread shadows that filled the night and storm faded away, for they were only born of earth.

Yes! it told her of a great Christmas tree up in Heaven the Golden. There was a pure white robe and shining wings, the priceless gift of the Father’s love. These were all marked with her name, and she was very happy.

She was no longer hungry nor cold, for the snow mantle was thick now over her little shrunken form. Only the tiny pale face looked out from the white covering, and that was leaning against the pillar of the great doorway. The old bonnet had fallen off; and she tried no longer to confine it. When the storm was over and the moon came out, it shone upon her golden brown hair, making it luminous with beauty.

How smoothly it sailed along, that crescent boat of the sky; and the deep blue eyes watching it saw such marvelous sights so pleasant, that a sweet peace gathered around the child. The poor little heart, that in the early hours of the blessed Christmas Eve beat with the quick flutter of fearful timidity and loneliness, was at rest in the holy calm.

Yes! there was the dear mother in the Golden Boat, so peaceful and free from care. How tenderly her dear eyes shone, and how beautiful she was in the radiant light of heaven! She beckoned with her hand, and the little child reached eagerly out to her, crying, “It is the mother! Oh, mother, dear, I am coming! Wait, mother! I am com--”

Up to the Crescent Boat on to Heaven the Golden, and to the throne of the loving God, had passed the spirit of the little child. Just then a bright star fell down from the fleecy clouds and rested upon the pure, ice-cold forehead, leaning so heavily against the great pillar of the stately doorway.

The cadence of the last chime was dying away upon the still night air. It was twelve o’clock, and the musician went home. The great belfry was left silent, and in the coming of the holy Christmas dawning all the peaceful town of Bruges slept.

In the morning the servant found a little child dead upon the door steps of the grand mansion, with the frost glittering like a crown of glory in her golden hair. It was said she was a poor lace-maker’s child, who had died in great poverty and want. The crowd gathered about the door, saying, “It is sad, oh! very sad!” but they knew nothing of what the music of the bells had been to her--nothing of the Golden Boat.

At last, when men came to take the poor little thing away to the paupers’ burying-ground, the good mother of the house said, “No, do not take her away, I entreat you.”

Then she folded the child in her arms, kissing her pale cheeks and golden hair, saying, “I will see to it. The good Lord led her to my door, and, though it is late, I will do all there is left me. She shall rest in the pleasant garden under the linden-trees.”

Dear little one! We can do nothing more now, but in Heaven the Golden the loving God will receive her, a most precious Christmas offering!

GOLDEN SNOW.

The snow-flakes were falling all over the northern Gold Land, for it was mid-winter. Against the ice-bound shore the angry breakers of the great Pacific dashed, and the wind whistled like a trumpeter.

A warm fire burned on the hearth of the fisherman’s hut, and with a red face the good-wife bent over it, preparing the supper. The old man stood by the window looking out, and thinking his poor thoughts of the wind and the tide, which ended always with the same refrain, “God help us fisher folk!” Suddenly he gave a quick start, exclaiming--“Hark! wife; what is that?”

The old woman dropped the wooden spoon, and listened to the clear voices that rose above the storm:--

“Golden Snow! Golden Snow! To and fro; Over her little heart We blow, Our dear little sister, Golden Snow.

“Open your door, That the fire-light’s glow May tinge the cheek Of Golden Snow-- Oh! dear little sister, Golden Snow.”

Then came the savage old trumpeter, and blew a great blast close by the door and window of the little hut. It was really quite startling, and the old woman clung to her husband’s arm; but above all they could hear the shrill clear voices calling--

“Open the door, For the wild winds blow Over the heart Of Golden Snow.”

“I can not do it,” said the good-wife, trembling; but the old man walked straight to the door. Though his wife entreated him, saying, “It is the Evil One who calls without, dear husband, do not open it,” he lifted the latch fearlessly. With a great bang in rushed the wind and blew out the candle.

“God save us!” cried the good-wife, crossing herself, almost ready to swoon with fright.

A bright glow from the fire fell upon a willow basket, covered with a fine crimson cloth. As the old man took it up, a little wailing cry rose, which touched the woman’s heart more than all her fears. Taking it from her husband, she exclaimed--

“God pity it! It is a little innocent child!”

The old man pressed hard upon the door, and drove out the ugly wind. Then he came to the fire, and saw his wife folding in her kind arms the most beautiful little child that even a poet could imagine. She was as white as a snow-flake, only the rose tinge upon her cheeks and her lips were like ripe cherries. Her hair was soft as silk, and lay in pretty waves of gold about her head, like the shining crown of a little princess.

The good people were greatly bewildered; but when they looked into the liquid blue eyes of the little one, it seemed like a deep fountain of happiness that was opened to them, and they were delighted beyond measure. As they had no children, this child seemed like a God’s gift, and they adopted her for their own.

Her little robes were of the finest material, daintily embroidered, but among them all there was nothing to tell her name or parentage, only a coral necklace with a golden clasp, engraved with the letters “G. S.”

“Was ever any thing so strange?” said the good-wife. “But she is our child now, and we will call her Golden Snow, for her hair is shining like gold, and her complexion fair as the driven snow.”

The poor fisher-folk had now something to love, and were never so happy in their lives.

The long winter gave place to the pleasant summer time, and the little child grew lovelier day by day, till in all the northern gold land there was not a maiden who could compare with her.

Good fortune had followed the fisherman. Ever since that stormy night he had never drawn in his net empty, and there had been always plenty in the larder. The old woman often said, “It all comes of Golden Snow--she is our luck child.”

As the years went by, she had taught the maiden all she knew herself, which was little enough, to be sure; but the child had other teachers. From the birds she received the gift of song, and learned the wonderful stories of the far southern lands.

The leaves of summer, and the evergreens of winter, whispered a thousand pleasant things in her ear, but it was the snow-flakes that she loved best of all. The old fisher-folk often heard them calling her as they flew about in the winter storm:--

“Golden Snow! Golden Snow! You are one of us. When the wild winds blow, Come out to us From the fire-light’s glow. You are our sister, Golden Snow.”

Then, before the good-wife could stop her, the little maiden would fly out into the storm, full of joy, dancing about as lightly as the snow-flakes themselves.

At first the old fisherman would run after her, and bring her in quickly, for fear that the chill of the storm would kill her; but when he saw that this only saddened her, and how rosy, laughing, and healthful she always was with the snow-flakes, he said to the good-wife--

“They do not harm her--let the child have her way.”

After this they would stand by the window watching her; and very often they heard her saying--

“My pretty sisters, how merry we are--how much I love you! The winter, oh! the winter, is the joy time, and my sisters the fairies of the winter.”

Then the snow-flakes would answer:--

“Golden Snow, Many maids are fair, We know, But none like the princess Golden Snow.”

So it happened that the old fisher-folk found out that Golden Snow was a princess, and they no longer wondered at the innate grace of the lovely child. Every thing she said, and all her ways, was so charming that it was impossible to resist her; but as she was so gentle and good, this was all well. Every night, before she went to sleep, she said reverently--“Our Father, who art in heaven.” The loving God heard her, and kept her heart pure, as she passed on through the portals of childhood into timid, dreamy maidenhood.

One day, in the winter time, when Golden Snow was about fifteen years old, a herald rode by the fisherman’s cottage, crying--“The prince! the prince will marry the most beautiful maiden in all the Gold Land. Hear! hear! the prince will marry the most-beautiful maiden in all the Gold Land!”

Then the old fisherman went out and asked the messenger what it meant.

“It means this,” replied the man, “that though the prince and all his ancestors were born in Russia, he has determined to marry only in the Gold Land, and the most beautiful maiden. For you must know, that though he is so high born in the old world, the estates are getting poor, but here he has won every thing. He has opened a mine so rich that he will never be able to count his money. He wishes his children to be real lords of the Gold Land--to be miner princes. So here he will marry even the poorest maiden, but she must be the most beautiful.”

Then he told how all the lovely young girls in the country were invited to a great feast at the castle, and that the prince would choose a wife from among them.

After this, the herald went crying before every house, no matter how humble, for this was the command of the prince.

The old fisherman went into the cottage, and told all to the good-wife.

“Golden Snow is the most beautiful maiden,” she answered.

“Yes,” said the old man, “Golden Snow is the most beautiful, but he who wins must seek her. She should not go to the castle for a husband, even though he were a king.”

This grieved the mother, for all her life she had eaten the bread of toil, and she longed to see the dainty fingers of her adopted child covered with rings, and to have her wear costly trailing robes, such as the wives and daughters of the great miner princes wore.

In the corner sat Golden Snow, braiding her silken hair, which was so long it swept the ground. She bound the broad plaits about her head, and formed a shiny-crown.

“Was there ever any thing like it?” said the old woman, sighing, and passing her brown hand fondly over the beautiful tresses.

“The father is right,” replied Golden Snow. “My sisters will see to it. Have never a care, mother;” and the maiden began singing the nightingale’s song, till the rafters of the old hut rang with the silvery melody.

“The chit of a child has never a care,” thought the old woman, “but it is different with me, who know what life is.”