Part 7

“It is winter,” answered the Swallow, “and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud. My companions are building a nest. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.”

“In the square below,” said the Happy Prince, “there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not take home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.”

“I will stay with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, “but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.”

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command you.”

So he plucked out the Prince’s other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. “What a lovely bit of glass!” cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.

Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. “You are blind now,” he said, “so I will stay with you always.”

“No, little Swallow,” said the poor Prince, “you must go away to Egypt.”

“I will stay with you always,” said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince’s feet.

All the next day he sat on the Prince’s shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; and of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything.

“Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you tell me of marvelous things, but fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.”

So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another’s arms to try and keep themselves warm. “How hungry we are!” they said. “You must not lie here,” shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.

Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.

“I am covered with fine gold,” said the Prince, “you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor.”

Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and gray. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he took to the poor. “We have bread now!” they cried. And the children’s faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street.

Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses.

The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince; he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker’s door, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.

But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince’s shoulder once more. “Good-by, dear Prince!” he murmured. “Will you let me kiss your hand?”

“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”

“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. “I am going to Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”

And he kissed the happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.

At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped in two. It certainly was a hard frost.

Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councilors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue. “Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!” he said.

“How shabby indeed!” cried the Town Councilors, who always agreed with the Mayor, and they went up to look at it.

“The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone,” said the Mayor; “in fact, he is little better than a beggar!”

So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince and sent it to be melted in a furnace.

“What a strange thing!” said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. “This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.” So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.

“Bring me the two precious things in the city,” said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel took Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.

“You have chosen rightly,” said God; “in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.”

—OSCAR WILDE

THE DWARF ROOTS’ STORY OF THE PUMPKIN SEED

Did you ever hear the story of the Pumpkin Seed that made a feast of his insides, and found his outsides changed most surprisingly, and went down a pig’s throat and was happy? Ever since it happened the Dwarf Roots, who live below the ground, tell it to the pumpkin seeds. They say they heard it from the wind one day when the farmer’s spade laid the ground open and let the wind in. And the wind says he heard the farm children’s grandmother tell it. And she says she heard it from her grandmother. So you see it is an old story, and time you heard it. Then

Throw the nuts in And let us straight begin.

Before the Dwarf Roots tell the story they stroke their beards that have grown fast into the ground, like hairy threads, and cry out, “Once upon a, twice upon a, thrice upon a time;” and all the little pumpkin seeds lying low in the ground know a story is coming and swell with joy. After that the Dwarf Roots tell the story as ’twas told to me. So

Throw the nuts in And turn the first about. And let’s not stop again Until the tale is out.

Here’s the tale.

Early in the spring, when things with legs all walk abroad and garden folks are born, a little Pumpkin Seed stuck his head above ground. He arrived with his cap on, as pumpkin seeds do, but as soon as possible he shook it off, and looked about him to find out what to do next. And who should he see come trotting down the garden path toward him but a little sniffing, squealing pig, poking his snout into everything and gobbling it up!

Now, how he came to know it the little Pumpkin Seed never could tell, but all of a sudden he sang out:

“I’m for your betters, Not you, piggy wig, When juicy I’ve grown And round and big; Then I’ll change into something Which winks and blinks And with boys and girls Plays high jinks; But when I’m out, Snip, snap, snout, You may have me, It’s your turn to shout.”

The little pig was so astonished that he stood straight up on his hind legs and curled his tail in a tight knot, for all the world as if he were a performing pig in a circus. When he was firm on his legs again, he was just going to open his mouth, when he saw the farmer coming down the path, so he ran squealing from the garden. Some Dwarf Roots who tell the story say he was going to gobble up the little Pumpkin, and others say he was going to answer in pig’s rhyme:

“When it’s time to shout, With my sniffy snout I’ll smell you out.”

However that may be, the next time he came trotting that way he poked his snout into a wire netting the farmer had put around the kitchen garden to keep him out, so that was the last the little Pumpkin Seed saw of him for many a long day.

But the Pumpkin Seed knew now what he should do. He stood up straight in the sunlight and soft rain, and grew and grew and covered himself with blossoms, and then let them all drop off except one. And out of that he made a little pumpy pumpkin, and by harvest time he had that so fat and round and yellow and juicy that the Dwarf Roots’ mouths water when they tell of it.

The farmer gathered the Pumpkin in a great basket, and his wife scooped out the splendid insides of it and made of them deep rich pies for the Thanksgiving feast that the farmer’s family eat together in thankfulness to God for health and plenty. Everyone comes to the feast: grandfather and grandmother and uncles and aunts and all the children, first cousins and second cousins and third cousins and fourth cousins and fifth cousins, down to the littlest babies that can do nothing, when they’re not feeding and sleeping, but gurgle and crow at their fingers and toes. To be sure, when the grown-ups bite into the deep rich pumpkin pie they can do nothing either but gurgle and smack their lips.

So it was that the inside of the Pumpkin did its part and made a feast and came to glory.

But what of the outside? You shall hear. It happened that very night.

The outside fell into the hands of a boy who could work surprising changes in things. He worked one in the outside of the Pumpkin. Some Dwarf Roots say he turned it into a Jack-o’-lantern, and some say into a goblin. Anyway, there it was that night, stuck in the farmer’s hitching-post and changed most surprisingly. It had a head that glowed like fire in the darkness, and big round eyes that winked and blinked every time the wind blew, and a mouth that grinned from ear to ear when the big boys and girls made the little ones run past it. The little ones would steal up softly, and just when they were near the fiery head the big ones would cry out, “Look out, little uns, the goblin’ll get cher”; and the little ones would dash past, laughing and shrieking.

So it was that the outside of the Pumpkin did its part and played high jinks with the children. Great fun it was; and it kept up until the farmer called out, “Time for bed, boys and girls.”

Just as he said this the wind put the fire out of the Pumpkin’s head and blew him off the hitching post. And the next thing he knew he was going down a pig’s throat, the very piggy wig he met so long ago.

Snip, snap, snout, This tale’s out: The pig has him now, And it’s his turn to shout.

—ANGELA M. KEYES

A HORSE’S STORY

Here is a story told by Black Beauty, as pretty a little horse as ever wore a white star on his forehead.

* * * * *

One day late in the autumn my master had a long journey to go on business. I was put to the dog-cart, and John, the coachman, drove. There had been a great deal of rain, and now the wind was very high and blew the dry leaves across the road in a shower. We went along merrily till we came to the toll-bar and the low wooden bridge. The river banks were rather high, and the bridge, instead of rising, went across just level, so that in the middle, if the river was full, the water would be nearly up to the woodwork and planks. But as there were good, substantial rails on each side, people did not mind it.

The man at the gate said the river was rising fast, and he feared it would be a bad night. Many of the meadows were under water, and in one low part of the road the water was halfway up to my knees. The bottom was good, however, and master drove gently, so it was no matter.

When we got to the town I had, of course, a good feed, but as the master’s business engaged him a long time, we did not start for home till rather late in the afternoon. The wind was then much higher, and I heard the master say to John we had never been out in such a storm. And so I thought, as we went along the skirts of a wood, where the great branches were swaying about like twigs, and the rushing sound was terrible.

“I wish we were well out of this wood,” said my master.

“Yes, sir,” said John, “it would be rather awkward if one of these branches came down on us.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there was a groan, and a crack, and a splitting sound. And crashing down amongst the older trees came an oak, torn up by the roots. It fell across the road just before us. I will never say I was not frightened, for I was. I stopped still, and I believe I trembled. Of course I did not turn round or run away; I was not brought up to that. John jumped out and in a moment was at my head.

“That came very near,” said my master. “What’s to be done now?”

“Well, sir, we can’t drive over that tree, nor yet get round it. There’s nothing for us but to go back to the four cross-ways, and that will be a good six miles before we get round to the wooden bridge again. It will make us late, but the horse is fresh.”

So back we went and round by the cross roads. By the time we got to the bridge it was very nearly dark. We could just see that the water was over the middle of it. As this sometimes happened when there were floods, master did not stop. We were going along at a good pace, but the moment my feet touched the first part of the bridge, I felt sure there was something wrong. I dared not go forward, and I made a dead stop. “Go on, Beauty,” said my master, and he gave me a touch with the whip, but I dared not stir. He gave me a sharp cut. I jumped, but I dared not go forward.

“There’s something wrong, sir,” said John, and he sprang out of the dog-cart, and came to my head and looked all about. He tried to lead me forward. “Come on, Beauty; what’s the matter?” Of course, I could not tell him, but I knew very well that the bridge was not safe.

Just then the man at the toll-gate on the other side ran out of the house, tossing a torch about violently.

“Hoy, hoy, hoy! halloo! stop!” he cried.

“What’s the matter?” shouted my master.

“The bridge is broken in the middle, and part of it is carried away; if you come on you’ll be into the river.”

“Thank God!” said my master. “You Beauty!” said John, and took the bridle and gently turned me round to the right-hand road by the river side. The sun had set some time. The wind seemed to have lulled off after that furious blast which tore up the tree. It grew darker and darker, stiller and stiller. I trotted quietly along, the wheels hardly making a sound on the soft road. For a good while neither master nor John spoke, and then master began in a serious voice. I could not understand much of what they said, but I found they thought that if I had gone on as the master wanted me, horse, chaise, master, and man would have fallen into the river. Master said, God had given men reason, by which they could find out things for themselves; but he had given animals instinct, which did not depend on reason, and which was much more prompt and perfect in its way, and by which they had often saved the lives of men.

At last we came to the park gates, and found the gardener looking out for us. He said that mistress had been much alarmed ever since dark, fearing some accident had happened, and that she had sent James off on Justice, the roan cob, towards the wooden bridge to make inquiry after us.

We saw a light at the hall door and at the upper windows, and as we came up, mistress ran out, saying to master, “Are you really safe, my dear? Oh! I have been so anxious, fancying all sorts of things. Have you had no accident?”

“No, but if your Black Beauty had not been wiser than we were, we should all have been carried down the river at the wooden bridge.” I heard no more, as they went into the house, and John took me to the stable. Oh, what a good supper he gave me that night, a good bran mash and some crushed beans with my oats, and such a thick bed of straw! and I was glad of it, for I was tired.

—ANNA SEWELL

A BEWITCHED DONKEY

There was once a little donkey who lived with a little old woman and her tabby cat and her rooster and his hens and their chicks in a little cottage out in the country. Every morning, after cropping the dewy grass, the little donkey used to poke his head in at the cottage window, as much as to say, “It’s time we were off,” and the little old woman used to say, “I’ll be with you in two shakes of Tabby’s tail.” Presently out she would bring two baskets of fresh-laid eggs from the hens and hang them across the donkey’s back, and off to market they’d go. Tabby would stop washing her face to wave her paw at them, and the little old woman would wave her hand back, and the little donkey would turn and wave his head. They were as happy and loving as any people that ever lived together, and the donkey was the man of the family.

But one morning something got into the donkey. He seemed to be bewitched. You shall hear.

When he had cropped the dewy grass as usual, he poked his head in at the cottage window, as much as to say, “It’s time we were off,” and the little old woman said, “I’ll be with you in two shakes of Tabby’s tail.” But the minute she came to the door with the two baskets of fresh-laid eggs from the hens, up went the little donkey’s heels, and away he ran with such a kick and a run and a run and a kick that the little old woman couldn’t keep up with him were she never so quick. All at once she was so surprised at him that she stood stock still. Immediately stock still stood the little donkey and laughed at her till his fat little sides shook, “Hee haw, hee haw, hee haw.” This was too much for the little old woman. “Can it be that my own little donkey is laughing at his little old woman?” she said. And one basket of eggs dropped smash on the ground and she began to cry.

At this out came Tabby, and up came running all the hens and their little chicks and the lordly rooster, and they all rubbed against the little old woman’s skirts, and Tabby miowed, “Our little old woman, do not cry,” and the hens cackled it, and the little chicks peeped it, and the rooster crowed it. And then they all said it together, each in his own way.

“But the man of the family has run away from us and he laughs at it,” said the little old woman; “whatever shall we do!”

“Let us give him another chance,” said the big white hen with the kind face. “Begin all over again and see what happens.”

So the rooster led the way back to the yard, and the hens followed him and the little chicks followed them. At the same time Tabby led the way back to the cottage and the little old woman followed her. When the little old woman was inside she began packing the one basket of eggs into the two baskets. Well, sure enough, the little donkey did his part, too. He ran back and began cropping the dewy grass, and then he poked his head in at the cottage window as much as to say, “It’s time we were off,” and the little old woman in high glee called out, “I’ll be with you in two shakes of Tabby’s tail.”

But the minute she came to the door with the two baskets of fresh-laid eggs from the hens, up went the little donkey’s heels, and away he ran with such a kick and a run and a run and a kick that the little old woman couldn’t keep up with him were she never so quick. And as before, all at once she was so surprised at him that she stood stock still. Immediately stock still stood the little donkey and laughed at her till his fat little sides shook, “Hee haw, hee haw, hee haw.” And, as before, this was too much for the little old woman. “Can it be that my own little donkey is laughing at his little old woman?” she said. And one basket of eggs dropped smash on the ground and she began to cry.

At this out came Tabby, and up came running all the hens and their little chicks and the lordly rooster, and they all rubbed against the little old woman’s skirts, and Tabby miowed, “Our little old woman, do not cry,” and the hens cackled it, and the little chicks peeped it, and the rooster crowed it. And then they all said it together, each in his own way.

So it was of no use.

But at last the little old woman thought of a plan, such an easy thing, too, and sure to be what a little old woman would think of sooner or later to keep the man of the family. Instead of staying in the cottage, when they went back to try it over a third time, she went out by a back door and crept around the side of the house. When the donkey poked his head in at the window she ran out, caught him by the heels, shoved him in, jumped in after him, and held him. The lordly rooster and the hen and the little chicks were watching, and they ran in and shut both doors fast. And then they all waited and listened, and presently the donkey began to explain himself.

The moonlight the night before was so strong, he said, that it woke him up. As he opened his eyes he heard little voices, as sweet as silver bells, singing,

“O lovely moon, queen of the night, Beautiful moon, glorious and bright, Hail, all hail!”

He looked out of his shed into the moonlight, and there on the green he saw the most exquisite fairies, with wings shining with all the colors of the rainbow, hand in hand with big-eyed tiny elves with bumpy heads and little legs. They were all dancing in a ring and looking up at the moon. And the moon was gazing down at them.

Now he knew very well that the fairy folk do not like to be spied on; he had often heard the little old woman tell it to her gossip, Tabby, the cat. And she had warned him to stay in his stall and not go prying on the night folk. And he said he was truly sorry now that he did it, but at the time he thought it would be fun. So he stole up around a stack of hay near where they were dancing in honor of the moon, and all at once he gave such a bray that the fairies fell to the ground in little swoons, and the elves jumped so high into the air that for a whole second he lost sight of them.

But the moonlight showed _them_ where he was. Quick as a wink they whipped little horns out of their belts and blew together three times. Up came hobbling from the shadows an old witch. She saw the donkey at once, and pointing her long finger at his heels cried,

“Kick him, heels, Until he feels Ashamed to spy At fairy reels, He-he-he! He must kick And run away, And fill the air With donkey bray, Until he eats A wisp of hay Given by bat Or by cat.”

Well, Tabby was off to a stable before one shake of her own tail, and presently back she came with the wisp of hay. The little old woman gave it to the little donkey and held her breath to see what would happen, and so did Tabby and the lordly rooster and the hens and the little chicks. No sooner had the donkey swallowed it than he left off kicking and trying to run away!

So now, of course, everything came right. The lordly rooster led his wives and children back to the henyard, and the little old woman and the little donkey set off to market with the eggs that had not been smashed. Tabby stopped washing her face to wave her paw at them, and the little old woman waved her hand back, and the little donkey turned and waved his head.

And ever after they were as loving and happy as any people that ever lived together, and the donkey was the man of the family.

—ANGELA M. KEYES

THE STRAW, THE COAL, AND THE BEAN

(_Tell with stick-figure blackboard illustrations._)

In a village there lived an old woman who one day gathered some beans from her garden to cook. She had a good fire on the hearth, but, to make it burn more quickly, she threw on a handful of straw. As she threw the beans into the pot to boil, one of them fell on the floor unseen by the old woman, not far from a wisp of straw. Suddenly a glowing coal bounced out of the fire, and fell close to them. They both started away, and exclaimed, “Dear friend, don’t come near me till you are cooler. Whatever brings you out here?”

“Oh,” replied the coal, “the heat luckily made me so strong that I was able to bounce from the fire. Had I not done so, my death would have been certain, and I should have been burnt to ashes by this time.”