Part 11

One evening Tommy’s grandmother had been telling him and his little brother Johnny a story about a brownie who used to do all the work in a neighbor’s house before the family got up in the morning. But the maids caught sight of him one night, and they felt so sorry to see his ragged coat that the next night they laid near his bowl of bread and milk a new suit and a new linen shirt. Brownie put the things on and danced around the room, singing,

“What have we here? Hemten hamten! Here will I nevermore tread nor stampen.”

And away he danced through the door and never came back again. Tommy wanted to know why, but his grandmother couldn’t tell him. “The Old Owl knows,” she said, “I don’t. Ask her.”

Now Tommy was a lazy boy. He thought that if only he could find a brownie that would do his work he would save himself a great deal of trouble. So that night, while little Johnnie lay sound asleep beside him, in the loft of the kitchen, as rosy and rosier than an apple, he lay broad awake, thinking of his grandmother’s story. “There’s an owl living in the old shed by the lake,” he thought. “It may be the Old Owl herself, and she knows, Granny says. When father’s gone to bed and the moon rises, I’ll go and ask her.”

By and by the moon rose like gold and went up into the heavens like silver, flooding the fields with a pale ghostly light. Tom crept softly down the ladder and stole out. It was a glorious night, though everything but the wind and Tommy seemed asleep. The stones, the walls, the gleaming lanes, were so intensely still, the church tower in the valley seemed awake and watching, but silent; the houses in the village round it had all their eyes shut; and it seemed to Tommy as if the very fields had drawn white sheets over them, and lay sleeping also.

“Hoot! hoot!” said a voice from the fir wood behind him. Somebody else was awake, then. “It’s the Old Owl,” said Tommy; and there she came swinging heavily across the moor with a flapping stately flight, and sailed into the shed by the lake. The old lady moved faster than she appeared to do, and though Tommy ran hard she was in the shed some time before him. When he got in, no bird was to be seen, but he heard a sound from above, and there sat the Old Owl, blinking at him—Tommy—with yellow eyes.

“Come up, come up!” said she hoarsely. She could speak then! Beyond all doubt it was _the_ Old Owl, and none other.

“Come up here! come up here!” said the Old Owl.

Tommy had often climbed up for fun to the beam that ran across the shed where the Old Owl sat. He climbed up now, and sat face to face with her, and thought her eyes looked as if they were made of flame.

“Now, what do you want?” said the Owl.

“Please,” said Tommy, “can you tell me where to find the brownies, and how to get one to come and live with us?”

“Oohoo!” said the Owl, “that’s it, is it? I know of two brownies.”

“Hurrah!” said Tommy. “Where do they live?”

“In your house,” said the Owl.

Tommy was aghast.

“In our house!” he exclaimed. “Whereabouts? Let me rummage them out. Why do they do nothing?”

“One of them is too young,” said the Owl.

“But why doesn’t the other work?” asked Tommy.

“He is idle, he is idle,” said the Owl, and she gave herself such a shake as she said it that the fluff went flying through the shed, and Tommy nearly tumbled off the beam in fright.

“Then we don’t want him,” said he. “What is the use of having brownies if they do nothing to help us? But perhaps if you would tell me where to find them,” said Tommy, “I could tell them what to do.”

“Could you?” said the Owl. “Oohoo! oohoo!” and Tommy couldn’t tell whether she were hooting or laughing.

“Of course I could,” he said. “They might be up and sweep the house, and light the fire, and spread the tables, and that sort of thing, before Father came down. The Brownie did all that in Granny’s mother’s young days. And they might tidy the room, and fetch the turf, and pick up my chips, and sort Granny’s scraps. Oh! there’s plenty to do.”

“So there is,” said the Owl. “Oohoo! Well, I can tell you where to find one of the brownies; and if you can find him, he will tell you where his brother is. But all this depends upon whether you feel equal to undertaking it, and whether you will follow my directions.”

“I am quite ready to go,” said Tommy, “and I will do as you tell me. I feel sure I could persuade them to come; if they only knew how every one would love them if they made themselves useful!”

“Oohoo! oohoo!” said the Owl. “Now listen. You must go to the north side of the lake when the moon is shining—(“I know brownies like water,” muttered Tommy)—and turn yourself round three times, saying this charm:

‘Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf— I looked in the water, and saw—’

When you have got so far look into the water, and think of a word that will rhyme with Elf, and at the same moment you will see the brownie.”

“Is the brownie a merman,” said Tommy, “that he lives under water?”

“That depends on whether he has a fish’s tail,” said the Owl, “and that you can see for yourself.”

“Well, the moon is shining, so I shall go,” said Tommy. “Gooby-by, and thank you, Ma’am;” and he jumped down and went, saying to himself, “I believe he is a merman, all the same, or else how could he live in the lake?”

The moon shone very brightly on the center of the lake. Tommy knew the place well, for there was an Echo there, with whom he had often talked. Round the edges grew rushes and water plants, and turning himself three times, as the Old Owl had told him, he repeated the charm:

“Twist me and turn me and show me the Elf— I looked in the water and saw—”

Now for it! He looked in, and saw—his own face.

“Why, there’s no one there but myself!” said Tommy. “And what can the word be? I must have done it wrong. It cannot be myself.”

“Myself!” said the Echo.

Tommy was almost surprised to find the Echo awake at this time of night.

“Much you know about it!” said he. “Belf! Celf! Delf! Felf! Helf! Jelf! There can’t be a word to fit it. And then to look for a brownie and see nothing but myself!”

“Myself,” said the Echo.

“Will you be quiet?” said Tommy. “If you would tell me the word there would be some meaning in your interference; but to roar ‘Myself!’ at me, which neither rhymes nor runs—it does rhyme, though, as it happens,” he added; “how very odd! it runs too—

‘Twist me and turn me and show me the Elf— I looked in the water and saw myself,’—

which I certainly did. What can it mean? The Old Owl knows, as Granny would say; so I shall go back and ask her.”

And back he went. There sat the Old Owl as before.

“Oohoo!” said she, as Tommy climbed up. “What did you see in the lake?”

“I saw nothing but myself,” said Tommy, indignantly.

“And what did you expect to see?” asked the Owl.

“I expected to see a brownie,” said Tommy; “you told me.”

“And what are brownies like, pray?” inquired the Owl.

“The one Granny knew was a useful little fellow, something like a man,” said Tommy.

“Ah!” said the Owl, “but you know at present this one is an idle little fellow, something like a little man. Oohoo! oohoo! Good night, or rather, good morning, for it is long past midnight.” And the old lady began to shake her feathers for a start. “Stay,” said she, “I think I had better take you home.”

“I know the way, thank you,” said Tommy.

“Do as I say,” said the Owl. “Lean your full weight against me and shut your eyes.”

Tommy laid his head against the Owl’s feathers. Down he sank and sank. He jumped up with a start to save himself, opened his eyes, and found that he was sitting in the loft with Johnnie sleeping by his side.

“Get up, Johnnie, I’ve a story to tell you,” he cried. And he told Johnnie all about it.

And after that Tommy and Johnnie were the most useful little brownies in that whole country.

—From MRS. EWING’S BROWNIES

THE STORY OF COQUERICO

Hear the story of this one.

He was a queer-looking little creature. He came out in the brood of a handsome black Spanish hen. All his brothers and sisters were as pretty as you would see in a day’s walk, but he was very odd-looking. He had only one good eye, one good wing, and one good leg to carry him about, hippety-hop, hippety-hop. When his mother saw he was crippled, she at once loved him best, and gave him the splendid name of Coquerico. But hear about him.

Maybe you think a one-eyed, one-armed, one-legged chick like Coquerico would be good and gentle. Why, if one of his brothers ran against him without meaning to, Coquerico flew at the poor fellow and called him names. And he was so conceited that he thought himself better than his brothers and sisters, and that he knew more than his mother.

So one day he hippety-hopped up to his mother and said, “My lady mother, I am too good for this family; I should be in the king’s court. I’m off to Madrid, where the king lives.”

“What are you thinking of, my poor little one?” cried his mother. “Who has put such nonsense into your head? Where would my little crippled one find a home like this—mulberry trees to shade him, a white-washed henroost, a high dunghill, worms and corn in plenty, brothers and sisters that are fond of him, and a mother who loves him dearly. Stay where you are, my child; believe me I know what is best for you.”

“Do you think so?” said Coquerico, saucily. “I don’t. I wish to go out into the world, where everyone may hear of me, I am so clever. I’m off to Madrid to see the king.”

“But, my son, have you never looked in the brook?” asked his mother. “Don’t you know that you have only one eye, one wing, and one leg? To make your way in the world you need the sharp eyes of a fox, the swift wings of a hawk, and the many soft legs of a spider. Once outside, you are lost.”

“My good mother,” said Coquerico, just as saucily, “I am well able to take care of myself. I am better than my family and must find people who can see how clever I am. So I’m off to Madrid to see the king.”

“Well, my son,” said the anxious mother-hen, “listen to your mother’s last words. Keep away from people known as cooks and scullions; you will know them by their paper caps, tucked up sleeves, and great sharp knives.”

So away went Coquerico, making believe not to see the tear in his mother’s eye. Without caring for those he left, he hippety-hopped out the gate and stopped only long enough to crow three times, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Then over the fields he went hippety-hop, hippety-hop.

By and by he came to a small brook almost choked by a couple of dead leaves. “My friend,” it called out to him, “will you free me that I may flow on? One stroke of your beak is enough.”

“Do I look like a brook-sweeper?” answered Coquerico. “Help yourself; I’m off to Madrid to see the king.” And on he went, hippety-hop, hippety-hop.

A little farther on Coquerico saw the wind lying breathless on the ground. “Dear friend, help me,” it cried; “here on earth we should help one another. If you will fan me a little with your wing I shall have strength to rise to my place among the clouds, where I am needed for the next whirlwind.”

“Do I look like a wind-bellows,” answered Coquerico; “help yourself. I am off to Madrid to see the king.” And on he went, hippety-hop, hippety-hop.

A little farther on he came to a newly mown field, where the farmers had piled up the weeds to burn them. As he stopped his hippety-hop to search among a smoking heap for a kernel of corn, he saw a little flame, barely flickering, it was so nearly out.

“My dear friend,” cried the flame, faintly, “will you bring me a few dry straws to rekindle me that I may burn brightly?”

“Do I look like a servant?” cried Coquerico, haughtily; “I’ll teach you to call out to a fowl that has business with the king.” And he leaped on the heap of dried weeds and trampled it down till it smothered the flame! Then he flapped his one wing and crowed three times, “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” as if he had done something to be proud of.

And so strutting and crowing, though he had to go hippety-hop, he arrived at Madrid and the king’s palace. Grand and beautiful as it was, he did not stop to look at it, but made for the hen yard, stopping every second step to crow, “Cock-a-doodle,” to tell the king and all the world he was coming.

In the hen yard there was of course no king, but a boy with a paper cap on his head and sleeves tucked up and a great sharp knife in his hand. “A scullion, I suppose,” said Coquerico to himself, “but he will not stop me; I have business with the king.”

“Well, you’re an odd one,” cried the boy, coming over to look at the new-comer. “Cook wants a rare bird for the king’s dinner, you’re just in time.” And he seized Coquerico and carried him into the kitchen.

Here the cook popped him into a pot of water and left him, and with the boy went out of the kitchen to attend to something else.

The water began to get warm and then hot. “Oh, Madame Water,” cried Coquerico, becoming all at once as meek as a dove, “good and gentle water, best and purest in the world, do not scald me, I beg of you.”

“Did you show any pity, selfish wretch?” answered the Water, boiling with indignation. Coquerico leaped out of the pot, knocking off the cover, only to land on the fire.

“Oh, Fire, Fire, do not burn me,” he cried, dancing around on his back; “oh, beautiful and brilliant flame, brother of the sun, and cousin of the shining diamond, do not roast me.”

“Did you have any pity, you selfish wretch?” cried the Fire, blazing so fiercely with anger that the chick in frightful pain leaped out of a window near by.

But as he landed on the flagging the Wind caught him and whirled him up. “Oh, Wind,” shrieked Coquerico, faintly, “oh, kindly Wind, oh, cooling breeze, you make me so dizzy my head reels. Pray let me down that I may rest.”

“Let you rest,” roared the Wind, “wait and I’ll teach you, you selfish wretch.”

And with one blast it sent him up so high that as he fell down he stuck on a steeple.

There, if you look, you may see him to this very day, forced at last to help others in this world, a weathervane.

—SPANISH FOLK TALE

THE SCARECROW

Once upon a time there was an old black crow, as old as the hills. And once there was a scarecrow, brand new to his business. The scarecrow was made of a corn stalk wearing the farmer’s cast-off hat and coat.

The very first day he took up his post in the cornfield, the old black crow, flying over, laughed at his disguise.

“Caw, caw, caw,” she cried, “I know you, poor old stalk, Bloodless is your body, You neither run nor walk.”

The scarecrow kept his temper and said nothing, and this looks as if he were clever. For the old crow had to take herself off without knowing what he was thinking of.

Now the scarecrow _was_ clever. He made friends with Magic Darkness and Moving Wind. He had made up his mind to frighten thieving crows away, no matter how old and knowing they might be. And that very evening when the old black crow, as old as the hills, came flying toward the cornfield, with her five black children after her, he whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.”

And they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent his body and pushed his arms together so that he looked exactly as if he were the farmer stooping to load a gun.

When the old black crow saw this, she whispered, “Turn back, children, and don’t speak for your lives;” and although she was as old as the hills, she turned tail as fast as she could, with her five black children after her. When she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of an apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, she breathed more freely.

“Oh, my children,” she panted, “it was no cornstalk scarecrow at all; it was the farmer himself, alive and loading his gun for us.”

But when she awoke in the morning light, she felt rather puzzled. “I’ve seen a good many scarecrows in my time,” she said; “I should know a man from a shadow. I’ll go and have a look at him in broad daylight.”

So as soon as breakfast was over and the crow children had gone to school to hear how featherless children make crow’s nests with their fingers, she spread her wings for the cornfield where she had seen the brand new scarecrow. There he stood as plain a humbug as ever deceived the eyes of a blind crow.

“I’m not old enough to be blind yet,” she said; “you’re a dried-up cornstalk if ever there was one. You’ll not frighten me this evening and send me and my children scurrying home.” And she sang mockingly,

“Caw, caw, caw, I know you, poor old stalk, Bloodless is your body, You neither run nor walk.”

But the clever scarecrow kept his temper and answered never a word. So again the old crow had to take herself off no wiser about his thoughts.

Well, toward evening along came flying again the old black crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. And again the scarecrow whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.” And they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent his body and pushed his arms together, then straightened him suddenly, like this, halfway, and held his arms out in front, one hand beyond the other, so, as if he were searching for the trigger of a gun.

When the old crow saw him she cried, “Turn back, children, at once,” turning herself so suddenly that she bumped into the beak of the first little crow behind her. It was not until she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of the apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, and had rested a minute, that she breathed freely.

“Oh, my children,” she said, “without doubt it was no scarecrow; it was the farmer, alive, and placing his finger on the trigger of his gun to shoot us.”

But again when she awoke in the morning light she felt puzzled. “It’s very strange,” she said. “I’ve seen a good many scarecrows in my time. I should know a man from a shadow. I’ll have another look at him in the broad daylight.”

So, as soon as breakfast was over and the crow children had gone to school to hear how featherless grown-ups get crow’s feet on their faces, she spread her wings for the cornfield. There stood the scarecrow as plain a humbug as ever deceived the eyes of a blind crow.

“Well,” she said, “unless blindness is catching and the bats gave it to me, you’re a dried-up corn stalk if ever there was one. If an old crow that was living before you were even thought of knows anything, you’ll not frighten me this evening!” And she sang mockingly,

“Caw, caw, caw, I know you, poor old stalk, Bloodless is your body, You neither run nor walk.”

But the clever scarecrow kept his temper, and answered never a word. So again the old crow had to take herself off no wiser about his thoughts.

Well, all good things go in threes, as every child who knows more than a crow can tell you. So the third evening along came flying the old black crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. And the third time he whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.” And the third time they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent him sharply down, lifted him halfway with his arms held out, one hand beyond the other, like this; then suddenly straightened him up with arms pointing up at the crows.

“Don’t shoot, dear farmer,” shrieked the old crow. She hadn’t time to turn tail. “My children and I will let your corn alone until you have harvested it.”

Immediately Moving Wind dropped the scarecrow’s armless sleeves and brought his hat back to its position on the top of the stalk. And away flew the old crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. When she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of the apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, and she had rested two minutes, she said, “My children, keep away from that field until I tell you the corn has been gathered in.”

When the corn was harvested, the old black crow and her five black children went gleaning to pick up the kernels that had dropped, and fat eating they had. And the scarecrow let them enjoy their meal in peace; his duty was done.

—ANGELA M. KEYES

OEYVIND AND MARIT

There was once a boy named Oeyvind who lived in a hut at the foot of a steep rocky hill. On the roof of the hut walked a little goat. It was Oeyvind’s own. Oeyvind kept it there so that it should not go astray, and he carried up leaves and grass to it.

But one fine day the goat leaped down, and away it went up the hill until it came where it never had been before. When Oeyvind ran out of the hut after dinner, he missed his little goat and at once thought of the fox. He looked all about, calling, “Killy-killy-killy-goat!”

“Bay-ay-ay,” said the goat, from the top of the hill, as it cocked its head on one side and looked down. And at the side of the goat kneeled a little girl.

“Is it yours, this goat?” she asked.

Oeyvind stared at her, with eyes and mouth wide open, and asked, “Who are you?”

“I am Marit, mother’s little one, father’s fiddle, grandfather’s elf, four years old in the autumn, two days after the frost nights.”

“Are you, though?” he said, as soon as he could get his breath.

“Is it yours, this goat?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I should like it. You will not give it to me?”

“No, that I won’t.”

Marit lay down, kicking her legs and looking up at him, and then she said, “Not if I give you a butter cake for him?”

Oeyvind had eaten butter cake only once in his life, when his grandfather came to visit; anything like it he had never eaten before nor since. “Let me see the butter cake first,” said he.

It didn’t take Marit long to pull out a large cake. “Here it is,” she said, and threw it down to him.

“Ow, it went to pieces,” said the boy. He gathered up every crumb, and he couldn’t help tasting a very small one. That was so good he had to eat another. Before he knew it he had eaten up the whole cake.

“Now the goat is mine,” said the girl, and she laughed and clapped her hands. The boy stopped with the last bit in his mouth.

“Wait a little while?” he begged, for he loved his little goat.

The small girl got up quickly. “No, the goat is mine,” she said, and she threw her arms around its neck. She loosened one of her garters and fastened it round the goat’s neck and began pulling the goat after her. The goat would not follow: it stretched its neck down to see Oeyvind. “Bay-ay-ay,” it said. But the girl took hold of its fleece with one hand and pulled the string with the other, and said, sweetly, “Come, little goat, you shall go into my room and eat out of my apron.” And then she sang,

“Come, boy’s goat, Come, mother’s calf, Come, mewing cat In snow-white shoes; Come, yellow ducks, Come out of your hiding-place; Come little chickens, Who can hardly go; Come, my doves With soft feathers; See, the grass is wet, But the sun does you good: And early, early, is it in summer, But call for the autumn, and it will come.”

And away she went with the goat, calling on all living things she loved to follow her.

The boy stood still as a stone. He had taken care of the goat since the winter before, and he had never thought he would lose it. But now it was gone in a moment and he would never see it again. He lay down and wept.

His mother came along and saw him crying. “What are you crying about?” she asked.

“Oh, the goat, the goat!”

“Yes, where is the goat?” asked the mother, looking up at the roof.

“It will never come back,” said the boy.

“Why, how could that happen!”

He could not tell her at once.

“Has the fox taken it?”

“No, oh, no.”

“Are your wits gone,” said his mother; “what has become of the goat?”

“Oh-h-h—I sold it for—for—a cake!”

As soon as he had said it he knew what it was to sell the goat for a cake.

“What can the little goat think of you, to sell him for a cake?” said his mother.