Part 6

“Was his name John?” “No, it was not.” “Was it Henry?” “No.” “Was it James or Conrad or Phillip or Habbakuk?” “No, no, no; it was none of them.” The Queen went over all the names she had learned, but not one of them was the right one, and the dwarf went away rejoicing.

The next day he came again and the Queen had a fresh list of names ready, for she had sent out messengers far and wide, and they had brought back every name they could hear of. But the dwarf said no to all of them. Not one of them was right. Then the Queen’s heart sank within her, but she plucked up courage, and as soon as the dwarf had gone, sent out other messengers, but these brought back not a single name but those she knew already. The Queen was in despair. She sat at the window and waited for the dwarf to come, and she held the baby in her arms.

Then she heard the King’s forester talking to his sweetheart in the courtyard below. He had heard nothing of how the Queen had sent far and wide to gather names, for he had been off in the forest for three days. The forester told his sweetheart how he had lost his way in the forest the night before. Then he had come to a hollow, and it was full of rocks, and a red fire was burning among them. Around this fire a crooked little dwarf was dancing and as he danced he sang:

“To-day I brew, to-night I bake, To-morrow I the young prince take, For none could guess, unless they were told That Brittle-Legs is the name I hold.”

When the Queen heard that, she laughed aloud. Then she arose and put the baby down, and sent word to the forester that he should tell no one else of what he had seen in the forest.

Not long afterward the dwarf came as usual.

“Well, and have you guessed my name?” he asked; “for if you have not I must have the child.”

The Queen pretended to be in great trouble. “Is it—is it Short-Shanks?” she asked.

“No,” cried the dwarf and his eyes shone like sparks.

“Is it Long-Arms?”

“No,” shouted the dwarf, and he hopped up and down with joy.

“Is it—is it by any chance Brittle-Legs?”

When the Queen said that the dwarf gave a scream of rage. His face grew first as black as thunder, and then as red as fire.

“Someone has told you! Someone has told you!” he shrieked and he stamped so hard that his foot sank down into the floor and he could not pull it out, so he shook it off and hopped away, leaving one leg behind him, and what became of him after that nobody ever knew. But the Queen lived happy and untroubled forever after.

“I WENT UP ONE PAIR OF STAIRS,” ETC.

Now I will tell you a joke; whatever I say to you, you must answer “Just like me.” Now we will begin.

I went up one pair of stairs.

_Just like me._

I went up two pair of stairs.

_Just like me._

I turned myself round about.

_Just like me._

I went up three pair of stairs.

_Just like me._

I made a cross on the wall.

_Just like me._

I went up four pair of stairs.

_Just like me._

I looked out of a window.

_Just like me._

And I found I was up as high as the highest tree-top.

_Just like me._

I saw something moving about in the highest tree-top.

_Just like me._

I stared and stared to see what it was.

_Just like me._

And then I saw it was a little monkey.

_Just like me._

Just like you! Ha, ha! You said the monkey was just like you; I think you must be a little monkey yourself if it looked just like you.

* * * * *

Now I will tell you something else. I will say _one_ and then you must say _two_; I will say _three_, and you must say _four_ and so on; but each time we must say after the number “a dead horse.” Like this. I say _one_ a dead horse, and you must say _two_ a dead horse.

Now begin.

One a dead horse.

_Two a dead horse._

Three a dead horse.

_Four a dead horse._

Five a dead horse.

_Six a dead horse._

Seven a dead horse.

_Eight a dead horse._

Eight a dead horse! Ate a dead horse! You said you ate a dead horse. Oh! oh! Did it taste good? I hope you enjoyed it. For my part I wouldn’t care to eat a dead horse.

* * * * *

Now I will tell you what kind of a lock I am, and you must be the same kind of a key. If I say I am a gray lock, you must say you are a gray key. If I say I am a queer lock you must say you are a queer key. If I say I am a rusty lock you must say you are a rusty key.

I am a gray lock.

_I’m a gray key._

I’m a red lock.

_I’m a red key._

I’m a dull lock.

_I’m a dull key._

I’m a monk lock.

_I’m a monk key._

You’re a monkey! You’re a monkey. That’s the second time you’ve said it, so now I’m sure it must be so. Well, what other kinds of locks and keys are we? Let us begin all over again.

I’m a don lock.

_I’m a don key._

Are you indeed? Are you really a dear little donkey? Who would have thought it?

THE STRAW, THE COAL, AND THE BEAN

A bean and a hot coal met each other on the highroad, and as they were both rolling along in the same direction they soon struck up a friendship.

Presently they were joined by a straw, and the three began talking together. They were all going out in the world to seek their fortunes.

“It is just a bit of luck that I can travel about in this way,” said the bean. “If I had not been a stout active fellow I would have been boiled into soup by now. The mistress was about to throw me into the pot with a lot of other beans, but I managed to slip through her fingers and rolled out through the doorway and down the steps without her even noticing I was gone.”

“That was a clever trick,” said the hot coal. “I, too, am a lively chap. I and my brothers were set to heat a kettle, but I jumped out of the fire, and I was so hot the cook did not dare to touch me. She pushed me out of doors with her foot, and now I am free to go about the world as I choose, and seek my fortune.”

The straw sighed. “I was never as active as that,” she said. “Always wherever the wind blew me I went. The farmer had picked up a whole armful of straws to make a bed for the cow; but the wind caught me up and carried me off—and here I am.”

While they were talking in this way the comrades came to a brook, and this stopped their journey, for they did not know how to get across. The straw could easily have sailed over on the first puff of wind, but that way would not do for the other two.

“Listen!” said the straw. “I am long enough to reach from one side of the stream to the other. I will lay myself across it like a bridge, and then you can both walk on over me without getting wet.”

To this plan the other two were glad to agree, so the straw laid herself across the stream.

“You go first,” said the bean, for he was a cautious fellow, and wanted to see whether the bridge was safe before he tried it.

The coal, however, was quick and fiery. He ran out on the straw, but half-way over he grew dizzy and had to stop.

“Quick! quick!” cried the straw. “I am burning”; for the coal was still very hot.

“Wait,” said the coal, balancing himself. “Just a minute!”

But the straw could not wait even for a minute. The coal had burned through it, and down they both went into the water, the coal hissing as it fell.

That seemed so comical to the bean that it began to laugh. It laughed and laughed; it laughed so hard that at last it split its skin, and that would have been the end of it if a tailor had not chanced to come by just then.

“Help! help!” cried the bean.

The tailor looked all about him, and then he saw the bean lying on the ground. He picked it up, and it did not take him long to see what was the matter with it. “This slit can be easily mended,” said he, and he whipped out his needle and thread and sewed up the bean in a trice. Unluckily he had only black thread, and the stitches made a line of black down the side of the bean. And ever since then, if you look, you will see that every bean of that kind has a black line down one side of it.

THE WATER-SPRITE

A little brother and sister were playing one day on the edge of a well that belonged to a water-sprite. The little girl held her brother’s hand, and leaned far over to look down into it.

“It seems to me that down below there I can see green meadows and flocks of sheep moving over them,” she said.

“It is only the reflection of the clouds,” said the little boy. “But be careful. I fear you will fall in.”

Even as he spoke the little girl slipped and fell into the well, and as she had hold of her brother’s hand she pulled him in after her.

The two children went down—down—down—through the waters, and when they came to the bottom they found themselves in a country of green meadows and trees and streams, and before them stood a shining castle with domes and towers.

This castle belonged to the water-sprite who owned the well.

The little brother and sister went up to the castle and knocked at the door, and at once the water-sprite opened it to them.

“Come in, come in,” said she. “I saw you playing on the edge of the well, and it was I who caused you to fall in. I am lonely here, so you shall stay with me and be my servants, and whatever I bid you do that you must do.”

The water-sprite would have been beautiful if only she had not been so green. Her face was green and her hair was green, and her eyes were green. Only her teeth were white.

The sprite led the children into the kitchen and there she gave the little girl a bucket that had no bottom. “Go,” said she, “and fetch me some water to boil the dumplings for supper. And you,” said she to the boy, “must cut me some wood,” and she gave him an ax that had no edge. It was as blunt as a hammer.

The little sister went out to the spring that the water-sprite showed her, and tried to dip up water, but as fast as she dipped it up it ran out again, for the bucket had no bottom.

The brother began to chop at a tree near by. He chopped and he chopped and he chopped, but he could scarcely make a dent, the ax was so blunt.

When the children came back to the castle without either wood or water, the sprite was very cross with them. “I can easily see that you are both very stupid,” said she. “But sit down; sit down at the table. Even if you are stupid I suppose you must eat.”

The children sat down at the table, and the water-sprite set before them a dish of dumplings, but as the dumplings had not been cooked and were only dough the children could not eat them. They slipped them into their pockets, and then, when the sprite was not looking they gave the dumplings to the water-cat that rubbed about their chairs.

After that the children went to bed and slept.

The next day it was the same thing over again. The water-sprite set them tasks that they could not possibly do, and gave them only dough to eat, so the children made up their minds to run away. They waited, however, until afternoon, when the water-sprite went up to the top of the well to look about her.

When they were about to set out, the water-cat said to them, “You do well to run away. You would not be happy here. But do not think my mistress will allow you to escape if she can help it. When she comes home and finds you gone, she will at once set out in pursuit of you. She can go very much faster than you, and she will certainly catch you unless you take with you her comb, her brush, and her mirror. These are magic things. Each time you find she is about to catch you, throw one or other of these things over your shoulder. By this means, and by this means only, can you hope to escape.”

The children thanked the little cat, and did as it advised them. They took the water-sprite’s brush and comb and mirror, and carried them off with them, and ran as fast as they could along the road that led to the upper world.

Soon after they had left, the water-sprite came home. When she found them gone she only stopped long enough to scold the cat, and then she put on her shoes of swiftness and started after them.

Presently the children looked behind them and saw her coming. She came so fast on her shoes of swiftness, that it seemed as though they could not possibly escape her.

However, the children remembered what the water-cat had told them. They threw the comb behind them, and at once it spread and grew into a wall of spikes, tremendously stiff and high. It took the water-sprite a long time to climb over this wall, and the children were well on their way before they heard her behind them again.

Then the little girl threw the brush over her shoulder. At once the brush became a great thick forest, through which the water-sprite could hardly find her way.

But she got through it at last, and then it did not take her long to be at their heels again.

“And now we have only one more thing left,” said the brother, and he threw the mirror behind him.

At once the mirror became a hill of glass so steep and smooth that no one could possibly climb it. The sprite tried to run up it, but no sooner had she gone a step or so than she slipped back again. At last, with a shriek of rage, she turned and fled back to her castle, and that was the last of her.

But the children went on their way, and the road led them straight to the upper world and the door of their home. After that they were always careful to keep away from the edge of the water-sprite’s well.

STAR JEWELS

A little girl once lived all alone with her old grandmother upon the borders of a forest. They were so poor that they were scarcely able to buy food for their mouths, or clothes to cover them.

“Never mind, Granny,” the little girl would say. “Some day I will be big enough to work, and then I will earn so much that I will be able to buy everything that we need, and to give something to other poor folk as well.”

One day the child went off into the forest to gather fagots. These she hoped to sell for a few pennies in the town over beyond the hill. She was to be gone all day, so she took with her into the forest a bit of the black bread, which was all they had left to eat.

It was winter, and the air was bitterly cold. The child wrapped her little shawl about her, and ran on as fast as she could. She was hungry, but she intended to save her crust until after the fagots were gathered.

Just as she reached the edge of the forest she met a boy, even smaller than she herself, and he was crying bitterly.

The little girl had a tender heart. She stopped and asked the child why he was weeping.

“I am weeping,” he answered, “because I am hungry.”

“Have you had nothing to eat to-day?” she asked.

“I have had nothing, and I am like to starve, for I know not where to go for food.”

The little girl sighed. “You are, perhaps, hungrier than I,” she said, and she took the crust from her pocket and gave it to the boy. Then she again hurried on.

A little farther on, she met another child who was even more miserable-looking than the first, for this child seemed almost frozen with cold. Her clothing hung about her in rags, and her skin looked blue through the rents.

“Ah,” cried she, “if I had but a warm little dress like yours! Help me, I pray of you, or I will certainly die of cold.”

The good little girl was filled with pity. “It is not right,” thought she, “that I should have both a dress and a shawl. I will give one of them to this poor child.”

She took off her dress and gave it to the child, and then wrapped the shawl closely about her shoulders. In spite of the shawl she felt very cold. Still she was near the place where the fagots were to be found, and as soon as she had gathered them she would run home again.

She hastened on, but when she reached the place where the fagots were she saw an old woman already there, gathering up the fallen wood. The old woman was so bent and poor and miserable-looking that the little girl’s heart ached for her.

“Oh, oh!” groaned the old woman. “How my poor bones do ache. If I had but a shawl to wrap about my shoulders I would not suffer so.”

The child thought of her own grandmother, and of how she sometimes suffered, and she had pity on the old woman.

“Here,” said she, “take my shawl”; and slipping it from her shoulders she gave it to the old woman.

And now she stood there in the forest with her arms and shoulders bare, and with nothing on her but her little shift. The sharp wind blew about her, but she was not cold. She had eaten nothing, but she was not hungry. She was fed and warmed by her own kindness.

She gathered her fagots and started home again. It was growing dusk, and the stars shown through the bare branches of the trees. Suddenly an old man stood beside her. “Give me of your fagots,” said he, “for my hearth is cold, and I am too old to gather wood for myself.”

The little girl sighed. If she gave him the fagots she would have to stop to gather more. Still she would not refuse him. “Take them,” she said, “in heaven’s name.”

No sooner had she said this than she saw it was not an old man who stood before her, but a shining angel.

“You have fed the hungry,” said the angel, “you have clothed the naked, and you have given help to those who asked it. You shall not go unrewarded. See!”

At once a light shone around the child, and it seemed to her that all the stars of heaven were falling through the bare branches of the trees, but these stars were diamonds and rubies and other precious stones. They lay thick upon the ground. “Gather them together,” said the angel, “for they are yours.”

Wondering, the child gathered them together—all that she could carry in the skirt of her little shift.

When she looked about her again the angel was gone, but the child hastened home with her treasure. It was enough to make her and her old grandmother rich. From then on they lacked for nothing. They were not only able to have all they wished for, but to give to many who were poor. So they were not only rich, but beloved by all who knew them.

SWEET PORRIDGE

There was once a poor widow who had only one daughter, a child who was so good and gentle that everyone who knew her, loved her.

One day the child went into the forest to gather firewood, and she was very sad because there was nothing left in the house to eat, and because she and her mother were so often obliged to go hungry.

She had already gathered a bundle of sticks, and was about to go home, when she saw a poor old woman who had also come to the forest for wood. The woman was so bent and stiff that it was pitiful to see her. The child felt sorry for her and wished to help her.

“Good mother,” said she, “let me gather the wood for you; it must be hard for you to stoop.”

She put down her own load, and gathered for the old woman as much as she was able to carry. “I would take it home for you,” said the little girl, “but my mother is waiting for me, and I must make haste, for I am already late.”

“Child,” said the old woman, “you have a good heart, and you deserve to be rewarded.” She then drew out from under her cloak a little iron pot. “Take this,” she said. “It is a magic pot. Whenever you are hungry you have only to say—

“‘Boil little pot Till the porridge is hot,’

and it will begin to boil and fill up with sweet porridge. When you have had enough say—

“‘Cease little pot, The porridge is hot,’

and it will stop boiling.”

She made the child repeat the words after her several times, and she then gave her the pot and hobbled away through the forest.

The child was filled with joy at the thought that now she and her mother need never be hungry again. She ran home as fast as she could, carrying the pot with both hands.

When she came in her mother asked her where the wood was.

“I have brought home something better than wood,” cried the child. “The wood only warms us, but here is something that will feed us as well.” She set the pot upon the table and said:

“Boil little pot Till the porridge is hot.”

The pot at once began to bubble and boil, and soon it was full and brimming over with sweet porridge. The widow caught up a spoon and dipped some of the porridge out into a bowl, but the more she dipped out the more there was in it. When all the bowls in the house were full, the child said:

“Cease little pot, The porridge is hot,”

and at once the pot stopped boiling.

The widow was overjoyed at the treasure the little girl had brought home. “Come,” cried she, “let us sit down and eat.”

“Yes, dear mother,” said the child, “but first I will carry some of the porridge to the neighbors who were so kind to us when we had nothing.”

She filled a large kettle with porridge and started out with it, but no sooner had she gone than the widow began to wonder whether they had kept enough for themselves. She did not feel satisfied, so she said to the pot:

“Boil little pot Till the porridge is hot.”

Immediately the pot began to bubble and boil. Soon it was full and the porridge began to run over. The widow wished to stop it, but she had forgotten what to say. “Enough!” she cried. “Stop! Stop!” but the porridge still boiled up and over the edge of the pot. The widow caught up the spoon and again began dipping out the porridge; she dipped as fast as she could. Soon all the pots and pans in the house were full and still the pot continued to boil out porridge. In despair the widow seized the pot and threw it outside the door, but the porridge flowed out from it in a stream, and ran down the road.

The little girl was coming home when she met the stream of porridge, and at once she guessed what had happened. She ran as fast as she could and when she came to the place where the pot lay she cried:

“Cease little pot, The porridge is hot.”

At once the pot stopped boiling, but already enough porridge had been wasted to have fed the whole countryside.

After that the widow never again dared to tell the pot to boil. When they wished for porridge it was the child who spoke to it. But from then on she and her mother never lacked for anything, for the porridge was so delicious that people came from far and near to buy from them.

CHICKEN-DIDDLE

One day Chicken-diddle had gone to sleep under a rose-bush, and a cow reached over the fence and bit off the top of the rose-bush. The noise wakened Chicken-diddle, and just as she woke a rose-leaf fell on her tail.

“Squawk! Squawk!” cried Chicken-diddle, “the sky’s falling down”; and away she ran as fast as her legs would carry her. She ran until she came to the barnyard, and there was Hen-pen rustling in the dust of the barnyard.

“Oh, Hen-pen, don’t rustle—run, run!” cried Chicken-diddle. “The sky’s falling down.”

The hen stopped rustling. “How do you know that Chicken-diddle?” asked Hen-pen.

“I saw it with my eyes, I heard it with my ears, and part of it fell on my tail. Oh, let us run, run, until we get some place.”

“Quawk! Quawk,” cried the hen, and she began to run, and Chicken-diddle ran after her.

They ran till they came to the duck-pond, and there was Duck-luck just going in for a swim.

“Oh, Duck-luck! Duck-luck! don’t try to swim,” cried Hen-pen. “The sky’s falling down.”

“How do you know that, Hen-pen?” asked Duck-luck.

“Chicken-diddle told me.”

“How do you know that, Chicken-diddle?”

“Why shouldn’t I know it? I saw it with my eyes, I heard it with my ears, and part of it fell on my tail. Oh, let us run, run until we get some place.”

“Yes, we had better run,” quacked Duck-luck, and away he waddled with Hen-pen, and Chicken-diddle after him.

They ran and ran till they came to a green meadow, and there was Goose-loose eating the green grass.

“Oh, Goose-loose, Goose-loose, don’t eat; run, run,” cried Duck-luck.

“Why should I run?” asked Goose-loose.

“Because the sky’s falling down.”

“How do you know that, Duck-luck?”

“Hen-pen told me.”

“How do you know that, Hen-pen?”

“Chicken-diddle told me.”

“How do you know that, Chicken-diddle?”

“Because I saw it with my eyes, and heard it with my ears, and part of it fell on my tail. Oh, let us run, run some place.”

“Yes, we’d better run,” cried Goose-loose.