Part 5
May the child nurtured on the wit and wisdom of the simple story simply told live happy ever after!
Thus we arrived at this place together, where the people were in the habit of spinning up the tow. It was an enforced custom with them that each in turn should relate some little tale, or history, and to tell the truth, not only the noble women, but also myself and my friend, found our entire pleasure in such stories, and we often used to stop old beggars and give them a trifle more for telling us them.
—JUCUNDUS JUCUNDISSIMUS, 1680.
STORIES
Now the children all draw near ’Tis the time a tale to hear.
THE FAIRY HORSESHOE
At midnight a long time ago an honest hard-working blacksmith heard someone in his shop hammering, hammering, hammering, for all the world like another blacksmith making a shoe. But the sound was very quick and light, more like tapping, tapping, tapping. And all the time, whoever it was was whistling the prettiest tune you ever heard, and singing between times:
“I’m a cunning blacksmith, I can make a shoe, Heat the iron, Bend the iron, Hammer it true— Il y ho, il y hoo, Il y ho, il y hoo— I’m a cunning blacksmith, I can make a shoe.”
The blacksmith listened and thought, and listened and thought, and listened and thought. Then he sprang out of bed on tiptoe, crying softly, “I have it! I have it! It’s one of the wee small people. I’ll catch him if I can for good luck.” The blacksmith needed some good luck. His work was to shoe the horse and shoe the colt and shoe the wild mare; and he did it well. But he hadn’t enough to do, and so he was very poor.
Well, to go back, the blacksmith sprang out of bed on tiptoe. Then without making the least bit of noise in the world that ever was heard, he opened the door of his bedroom and looked all about the shop. He couldn’t see sight nor light of anybody, but he heard the hammering, and whistling, and the singing between times:
“I’m a cunning blacksmith, I can make a shoe, Heat the iron, Bend the iron, Hammer it true— Il y ho, il y hoo, Il y ho, il y hoo— I’m a cunning blacksmith, I can make a shoe.”
“It’s very odd,” said he, under his breath; “where can the wee small thing be!” All of a sudden, as he peered about more sharply, he spied it stuck in the girth of a white mare standing in the stall nearest the forge. The elfin smith was wearing a bit of an apron before him, and a tid of a nightcap on his head, and hammering away at a speck of a horseshoe.
“He’ll bring me good luck, if I can only catch him,” said the blacksmith so softly that his own ears could scarcely hear. And without making the least bit of noise in the world that ever was heard, he tiptoed up behind the wee small body, opened his hand, and—snatched him up, crying, “Ha, ha, I have you.” With that he opened two fingers to take a look, when—out jumped the elf, crying, “Ho, ho, see me go,” and away he did go like a streak of lightning.
But he left the wee bit horseshoe in the blacksmith’s hand. And it did bring him good luck, so that ever after he had plenty to do. So many horses and colts and wild mares came to be shod that he had to build a larger shop with nine-and-seven stalls.
When the blacksmith died, he left the good luck fairy horseshoe to his sons, and they left it to their sons, and they left it to their sons; so that if they haven’t lost it the blacksmith’s great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandchildren have it yet.
—ANGELA M. KEYES
THE MOUSE AND THE SAUSAGE
Once upon a time a little mouse and a little sausage, who loved each other like sisters, decided to live together. They planned it so that every day one would go to walk in the fields, or to buy things in the town, and the other would stay at home to keep the house.
One day, when the little sausage had prepared cabbage for dinner, the little mouse, who had come back from town with a good appetite, enjoyed it so heartily that she exclaimed: “How delicious the cabbage is to-day, my dear!”
“Ah!” answered the little sausage, “that is because I popped myself into the pot while it was cooking.”
On the next day, when it was her turn to prepare the meals, the little mouse said to herself: “Now I will do as much for my friend as she did for me; we shall have lentils for dinner, and I will jump into the pot while they are boiling.” So she did, without stopping to think that a simple sausage can do some things not to be attempted by even the wisest mouse.
When the sausage came home, she found the house lonely and silent. She called again and again, “My little mouse! Mouse of my heart!” but no one answered. Then she went to look at the lentils boiling on the stove, and, alas! found within the pot her good little friend, who had perished for love of her. Poor mousie had stayed too long at her cookery, and when she tried to climb out of the pot, she had no longer the strength to do so.
The little sausage could never be consoled! That is why to-day, when you put one in the pan or on the gridiron, you will hear her weep and sigh, “M-my p-poor m-mouse! Ah, m-my p-poor m-mouse!”
—FRENCH FOLK TALE
THE STORY OF THE LITTLE BOY AND THE LITTLE DOG
There was a little boy and there was a little dog. The two lived together and loved each other, and where one went the other followed.
Now, all of a sudden, the little boy and his nurse moved away to another city, far, far off. This puzzled the little boy so much that for once he forgot the little dog. When he remembered him, it was the middle of the night. But, for all that, he got up and waked his nurse to ask her where the little dog could be. The nurse rubbed her sleepy eyes and said,
“Sleep now, my lamb, and wait till day, Thy little dog is on the way.”
Then she closed her eyes and straightway fell fast asleep, and so there was nothing for the little boy to do but to fall asleep, too.
At break of day the little boy was at the window watching for the little dog. But alas! no little dog came. When the little boy asked his nurse what could be keeping the little dog, she said,
“Be patient, my lamb, ’tis but peep of day, Thy little dog is on the way.”
Well, the morning and the noon passed, and no little dog came. The little boy grieved so that he could neither eat nor play. At last when evening began to darken, and still no little dog came, and still the little boy watched at the window, the nurse put on her bonnet and shawl and went out to find the little lost dog.
It wasn’t long before she was back with a dog that looked something like the dear lost one, but much thinner and quieter. When the little boy said so to his nurse, she said,
“Yes, poor doggie! But he came a long way, Without bite or sup, a night and a day; Give him, my lamb, a bowl of warm milk, And soon you’ll see him as sleek as silk.”
The little boy ran and gave him the milk. When the little dog had lapped up the milk, he felt so much better that he licked the little boy’s face, and the two frisked about the room.
But the little boy noticed that the little dog did not caper so merrily as he used to do. Indeed, the poor creature soon became quiet and sad again. And, although the little boy made his own legs go as fast as a windmill, he could not coax the little dog to run a race with him. He saw, too, that the little dog found it very hard to curl himself up on the hearthrug for a nap. And the next day the little dog was so wretched that he refused to eat.
“Poor, poor doggie, what ails you, whatever ails you?” cried the little boy. “You’ll die if you do not eat.” He lifted the dog tenderly into his lap, when—what should he feel on the stomach but a seam! “Nurse,” he cried, “come quickly; something is stitched so tight around the poor dog’s body he cannot eat nor breathe.”
The nurse ran in with the scissors in her hand. And lo!
With a nip and a snip, and snip and a nip, And a very loud pip!
out came the little boy’s own little dog.
“Now I see through it all,” cried the nurse. And what she saw was what had really happened.
While the little dog was on his way to the little boy, a dog-seller snatched him up and carried him into a shop. There he tried to change him into a French poodle by sewing him into a skin-tight black jacket with curly trimming. But by great good luck it was down the street past this very shop the nurse walked and spied the little dog peeping out to see how he might escape.
“Oh, I’ll never forget thee again,” cried the little boy. And he didn’t. The two lived happy together ever after, and where one went the other followed.
—ANGELA M. KEYES
THE STORY OF THE TWO CAKES WHO LOVED EACH OTHER IN SILENCE
On the shop counter lay two gingerbread cakes. One was the shape of a man with a hat, the other of a maiden without a bonnet. Both their faces were on the side that was turned up, for they were to be looked at on that side, and not on the other. On the left the man wore a bitter almond—that was his heart. The maiden was honey-cake all over.
As they were only samples, they stayed on the counter a long time. And, at last, they fell in love with each other. But neither told the other, as should have been done, if anything was to come of it.
“He is a man and must speak first,” thought she. But she was happy, for she knew he loved her.
His thoughts were far more extravagant; that is the way with men. He dreamed that he was a real street boy, and that he had four pennies of his own, and that he bought the sweet maiden and ate her up.
So they lay on the counter for weeks and weeks, and grew dry and hard.
But the thoughts of the maiden became ever more gentle and maidenly. “It is enough for me that I have lived on the same table with him,” she said, and—crack! she broke in two.
“If she had only known of my love,” thought he, “she would have kept together a little longer.”
* * * * *
“And that is their story, and here they are, both of them,” said the baker, for it was he who was telling the story. “They are remarkable for their curious history, and for their silent love, which never came to anything. There they are for you.” So saying, he gave the man, who was yet whole, to Joanna, and the broken maiden to Knud.
But the children were so impressed with the story that they could only look at them, they could not eat them up just yet.
—HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
HOW THE ROOSTER BUILT A HOUSE OF HIS OWN
One spring day a young rooster set out on his two stout legs to build a house of his own. On he went, a long, long way, and a long, long way farther, and a long, long way farther than that.
Then he lifted up his voice and flapped his wings and crowed,
“Cock-a-doodle-doo. I want a dame, I do.”
At this out from somewhere stepped a bonny, wee white hen and fared along beside him.
On went the young rooster and the bonny, wee white hen a long, long way, and a long, long way farther, and a long, long way farther than that.
Then the young rooster lifted up his voice, flapped his wings, and crowed,
“Cock-a-doodle-doo, There’s room for a friend or two.”
At this out from somewhere stepped a bearded goat, and a brindled cow, and a long-tailed horse, and a whiskered cat, and fared along beside him.
On went the young rooster, and the bonny, wee white hen, and the bearded goat, and the brindled cow, and the long-tailed horse, and the whiskered cat, a long, long way, and a long, long way farther, and a long, long way farther than that.
Then the young rooster lifted up his voice, flapped his wings, and crowed,
“Cock-a-doodle-doo, My friends, will this place do?”
The bearded goat climbed up to browse on a rocky hill near by, and said it would. The brindled cow cropped the grass beside a running stream, and said it would. The long-tailed horse took a mouthful from a clump of wild oats, and said it would. The whiskered cat spied a field mouse scurrying into her hole, and said it would. The bonny, wee white hen had not spoken. The rooster looked about for her, so did the bearded goat, and the brindled cow, and the long-tailed horse, and the whiskered cat, but she was nowhere to be seen.
The young rooster lifted up his voice, flapped his wings, and crowed,
“Cock-a-doodle-doo, Dame Hen, now where are you?” “Cut-cut-cut-cut-cadah-cut, Cut-cut-cut-cut-cadah-cut!”
cried the bonny, wee white hen, running out to tell him of an egg she had laid in the long soft hay.
“Well done,” cried Father Rooster, looking very proud of her; “our peeping chicks will soon be out of the shell.”
So then they all knew the place would do, and they set about building the house of their own. The long-tailed horse cut down a tree for wood with his strong teeth, the bearded goat rubbed the edges smooth with his horns, the brindled cow carried the beams on her broad back and stood them up in place with her forelegs, the whiskered cat sprang up and down the beams and nailed them together, the young rooster gave the orders to everyone, and when the house was done the bonny, wee white hen swept it clean as a new pin.
Then they all moved in. And there they lived in this house of their own for a year and a day, and a year and a day, and a great many more, as happy as bees in clover.
And the young rooster was cock of the walk.
—ANGELA M. KEYES
THUMBELINA
(_Arranged as a continued story_)
HOW SHE CAME TO THE WOMAN
Once a woman wished she had a very little child, but she did not know where to get one. So she went to an old witch and said, “I wish I had a very little child. Can you tell me where I might get one?”
“Oh, that I can easily,” said the old witch. “Here is a barleycorn for you. It is not the kind that grows in everyone’s field and the chickens eat. Put it into a flower pot, and you shall see what you shall see.”
“Thank you,” said the woman, and she gave the witch twelve shillings, for that was the price of the barleycorn.
Well, the woman planted the barleycorn. And immediately there grew up a great handsome flower. It was like a tulip, but the petals were tightly closed as if it were still a bud.
“What a beautiful flower,” cried the woman, and she kissed its yellow and red leaves. “Pop,” the flower opened. It was a real tulip, but in the middle, there upon the green velvet stamens sat a tiny maiden, lovely as a fairy, and only half a thumb’s height. So her mother called her Thumbelina.
* * * * *
And that is how she got her.
THUMBELINA
HOW SHE IS CARRIED OFF BY THE TOAD
One night as Thumbelina lay sleeping in her pretty walnut-shell cradle, there came creeping through the open window an old Toad. He hopped straight down the table where Thumbelina lay.
“Ah, she would make a lovely wife for my son,” said he. So he picked up the cradle with Thumbelina in it, and hopped through the window and down the garden to the brook. Here he lived with his son.
“What do you say to her for your bride, my son?” said he.
“Croak! croak! brek-kek-kek!” was all the son could say.
“Hush! Don’t speak so loudly, or she will awake,” whispered the old Toad. “She might run away from us, for she is as light as swan’s down. We will put her out in the brook on one of the broad lily leaves; that will be just like an island to her, and she won’t be able to get away. Then we’ll go and get the best room in the marsh in order, where you are to live and keep house together.”
So they swam out with her, and when they came to a broad lily leaf lifted her out of the cradle very gently without waking her, and swam back with it, because they intended to place it in the bridal room.
Well, when Thumbelina woke and saw where she was she began to cry bitterly, for there was water on every side of the great leaf and she could not get to land at all. The little fishes swimming below stuck their heads out of the water to see what was the matter. And when they saw Thumbelina they thought her so pretty that they drew in their heads and put them together under the water, and nibbled away at the stem until the leaf was free. Then away sailed Thumbelina, far off from the ridiculous toad and his son who could only say, “Croak, croak, brek-kek-kek.”
THUMBELINA
HOW SHE GOT TO LAND
Thumbelina sailed by many cities, and the little birds who sat in the bushes saw her, and said, “What a lovely little girl!” A white butterfly fluttered round her and at last alighted on the leaf with her. Thumbelina was glad of his company; she took her girdle and tied one end of it around the butterfly and the other to the leaf. On she went, faster than ever now.
Soon there came a big May-bug flying toward her. When he saw her he thought her so pretty he clasped his claws round her waist, and flew with her up into a tree.
Mercy! how frightened poor little Thumbelina was! But the May-bug did her no harm. He seated himself with her upon the biggest green leaf of the tree, gave her the sweet part of the flowers to eat, and told her she was lovely, although she did not look a bit like a May-bug.
When the other May-bugs who lived in the tree heard of it, they all came to pay a visit. They looked at Thumbelina, and one said, “Why, she hasn’t more than two legs; how very odd that is!”
“And she hasn’t any feelers!” cried another.
“How squeezed she is at the waist—fie! How ugly she is!” said all the lady May-bugs.
So at last the May-bug who had carried her off thought so, too, although she was really very pretty; and he flew down with her from the tree and set her on a daisy and left her there.
But, anyway, she was on land again; that was something.
THUMBELINA
HOW SHE GOES TO LIVE WITH THE FIELD-MOUSE
The whole summer through Thumbelina lived quite alone in the great wood. She wove herself a bed out of blades of grass, and hung it up under a shamrock to be sheltered from the rain. She scooped the honey out of the flowers for food, and she drank the dew that stood every morning on the leaves. So summer and autumn passed.
Now came the winter, the long cold winter. All the sweet birds who used to sing to her flew away. The trees and flowers lost their leaves. The great shamrock she lived under shriveled up, and left her shivering. She tried to wrap herself in a dry leaf, but that tore in the middle. Soon it began to snow. Every snowflake that fell on her was like a whole shovelful thrown on us, for we are tall and she was only an inch high. Poor little Thumbelina! she was nearly frozen!
She wandered out of the wood into a withered cornfield. The corn had gone long ago; nothing but dry stubble stood up out of the frozen ground. But it was like a great forest for Thumbelina to be lost in. How she trembled with the cold!
After some time she came to a field-mouse’s home. It was in a little hole under the corn stubble, warm and cosy. There was a kitchen in it and a pantry filled with corn. Little Thumbelina stood at the door just like a poor beggar girl and begged for a little bit of barleycorn. “I haven’t eaten a crumb in two days,” she cried pitifully.
“You poor little creature,” said the kind field-mouse, “come into my warm kitchen and eat as much as you wish.” And when Thumbelina came in, the field-mouse liked her so well that she said, “If you wish you may stay with me all winter, but you must keep my room clean and neat, and tell me little stories, for I am very fond of them.”
So Thumbelina did, and had a very good time of it.
THUMBELINA
HOW SHE MEETS THE MOLE
One day when Thumbelina had tidied the house and made it look as neat as a new pin, she sat down to chat with the field-mouse.
“My dear,” said the field-mouse, “we shall soon have a visit from my neighbor, the mole. He comes to see me once a week. Do you know, he would make you a good husband. He is rich. He lives in a much larger house than mine, and wears beautiful black velvet fur. When he comes you must tell him the prettiest stories you know.”
And, sure enough, the mole came to see them, dressed in his black velvet fur. Thumbelina did not care for him at all. He talked about nothing but himself. He told how rich he was and how large his rooms were, twenty times larger than the field-mouse’s, and he said he didn’t like the sun and flowers, just because he had never seen them.
“How can you talk so!” cried Thumbelina, indignantly.
“Sing us one of your sweet songs, Thumbelina, my dear,” said the field-mouse.
So Thumbelina had to sing. She sang, “Ladybug, fly away.” She sang it so sweetly that the mole fell in love with her. But he did not tell her so yet. As for her, she was glad when his visit was over.
THUMBELINA
HOW SHE TAKES CARE OF THE SWALLOW
Well, the mole had dug a long passage through the earth from his house to the field-mouse’s, and he told Thumbelina and the field-mouse they might walk in the passage whenever they chose.
“Don’t be afraid of the dead bird lying there,” said he; “come with me and I’ll show you where it is.” He led the way with a bit of rotted wood in his mouth to light up the long dark passage. When he came to the place, he thrust his broad nose through the ceiling to make a hole so that the daylight might shine down. And there in the middle of the floor lay a dead swallow, with his beautiful wings pressed close against his sides and his feet and head drawn in under the feathers. The poor thing looked as if he had died of cold.
Thumbelina was very sorry for him, but the mole gave the bird a push with his crooked legs and said, “Now he can’t pipe any more. I’m glad I was not born a bird, and that none of my children can ever be birds. A bird can do nothing but say ‘tweet tweet’ in summer and starve in winter.”
“Yes, indeed,” cried the field-mouse, “you may well say you are better off to be a mole. You are clever, you can build and make underground passages where you may keep snug and warm in the winter. Of what use is all this ‘tweet tweet’ to a bird when the frost comes?”
But Thumbelina did not agree with them at all. When they turned their backs on the bird she bent down, gently moved the feathers aside, and kissed him on the closed eyes.
“Perhaps,” she thought, “it was this very bird that sang so sweetly to me in the wood. He did far more for me than the mole does. How much pleasure he gave me, the dear, beautiful bird!”
The mole now closed up the hole and escorted the ladies home.
But that night Thumbelina could not sleep for thinking of the dead bird. So she got out of her bed and wove a soft blanket of hay. She carried this out into the dark passage and spread it over the poor bird. As she did so she laid her hand on the bird’s heart. It was beating! He was not dead at all! only numb with cold.
When he grew warm through and through he opened his eyes and looked at Thumbelina. At first she trembled, she was so frightened, for the bird was very large to her, who was only an inch in height. But she was too kind to run away from him.
“Thank you, pretty child,” said the sick swallow in a weak voice. “Now that I am warm I shall get strong again and be able to fly on my way.”
“Oh, stay where you are,” said Thumbelina, “it is so cold outside. It snows and freezes. Stay in your warm bed and I will nurse you.”
She brought the swallow water in the petal of a flower. When he had drunk he told her all about himself. He had set out for the south, the warm countries, with the other swallows; but as he flew he caught one of his wings in a thorn bush and tore it. After this he could not fly so fast as the others, so the winter overtook him and he could not stand the cold. It benumbed him so that he fell to the ground. He could remember nothing more after this, until he opened his eyes and found Thumbelina at his side.
The whole winter Thumbelina nursed the swallow. And when the spring came and the sun was warm, she opened the hole in the ceiling and let the sunshine pour in on him.