Part 9

“Here lyes Tom Thumb, King Arthur’s knight, Who died by a cruel spider’s bite. He was well known in Arthur’s court, Where he afforded gallant sport; He rode at tilt and tournament, And on a mouse a-hunting went. Alive he filled the court with mirth; His death to sorrow soon gave birth. Wipe, wipe your eyes, and shake your head And cry,—‘Alas! Tom Thumb is dead!’”

—ENGLISH FOLK TALE

THE TWO BROTHERS

Once upon a time there were two brothers. Each had ten loaves of bread and nothing else. So they said, “Let us go and seek our fortune.” And they went.

When they had gone a little way they were hungry. One brother said to the other, “Come, let us eat thy bread first, then we shall eat mine.” So they did and went on their way. When they had gone farther they were hungry again. The first brother said again to the other, “Come, let us eat thy bread, then we shall eat mine.” They did and went on their way. And when they had gone farther they finished the ten loaves. Then the first brother, who had yet kept _his_ loaves, said to the other, “Now thou mayst go thy way, and I shall go mine. Thou hast no loaves left, and I will not let thee eat my bread.” And the heartless fellow turned his back and left his brother to go on alone without a morsel of food.

Well, the brother went on and on and on, more and more feebly, for want of food, till he came to a mill in a dark forest. He said to the miller, “I can go no farther; pray let me stay here to-night.”

Now the miller was a truer brother to him than his own had been, and he answered, “Brother, I would not turn thee away if it were safe. But wild beasts come into this wood at night, perhaps into this very mill. I myself do not wait to see.”

“I feel no fear,” said the poor boy; “the beasts will not harm me.” So while the miller went off home he crept into the hopper of the mill.

At midnight from some place or other a big bear, a wolf, and a jackal came into the mill, and went leaping and bounding about as if they were having a dance. When they had done the bear said, “Come, let us each tell something he has seen or heard. I’ll begin.

“I know a hill where there is a great heap of money. It glitters when the sun shines. If anyone should go there on a sunny day, he would find his fortune.”

“I know a town,” said the wolf, “where there is no water. Every mouthful has to be brought from a great distance. Now, in the center of that very town, hidden under a stone, where no one can see it, is beautiful pure water. Whoever finds the stone will make a fortune.”

“What I can tell is best of all,” said the jackal. “I know of a king who has only one daughter, and she lies weak and pale now three long years. If only someone would bathe her in beech leaves she would grow strong and rosy. Whoever cures her will make his fortune.”

At the last word day began to dawn. The bear, the wolf, and the jackal left the mill and disappeared into the wood.

The boy had heard it all. Full of thanks he came out of the hopper. “Perhaps,” said he to himself, “I may be the one to find the money, take away the stone, and cure the king’s daughter. If so, my fortune is sure.”

He set forward with a stout heart just as the sun rose. Soon its beams fell on a hill to the right and something glittered in its rays. And here he found the great heap of money, a fortune in itself. Farther on he came to the town where the people had no water. In the center of it there was the stone. He rolled it away, and behold! streams of clear water gushed forth. The people ran to get pitchers and filled them to overflowing. And they gave him a great sum of gold and silver. After this he set out for the kingdom of which the jackal had spoken. When he arrived he asked the king, “What wilt thou give me if I cure thy daughter?”

“If thou canst do this,” said the king, “thy fortune is made, for I will give thee my daughter as thy wife.”

The youth gathered the beech leaves, the princess bathed in them, and was cured. In great joy the king married the maiden to the youth. So now his fortune was made.

The news of this reached the ears of the selfish brother. He came to his brother and asked how it had all happened. When he heard he said, “I also will go and stay at that mill a night or two.” His brother warned him of the danger. But he would not listen. He reached the mill, crept into the hopper, and waited.

As before, at midnight, from some place or other, the bear, the wolf, and the jackal came into the mill, and went leaping and bounding about as if they were having a dance. And when they had done the bear said, “Come, let us each tell something he has seen or heard. I’ll begin.

“Next day after I told you my story the money was all taken away.”

The wolf said, “And the stone was rolled away and the water found.”

“And the king’s daughter was cured,” added the jackal.

“Then perhaps someone was listening when we talked here,” growled the bear.

“Perhaps someone is here now,” howled the wolf and the jackal.

“Let us go and look,” shrieked the three.

They looked up and down and round about and in all the corners. At last they poked their noses into the hopper. And that was the end of the greedy brother.

But he who had married the king’s daughter lived happy ever after and when the king died ruled well and wisely.

—FOLK TALE.

THE WOOING

One morning bright and early a young cock from the next farm stepped into the barnyard where lived a certain young chick.

“Good day, Father Rooster,” said he.

“Many thanks, young sir,” said Father Rooster.

“I’ve come a-wooing. May I have your fair daughter Peep for my bride?”

“Ask Mother Hen, Brother Bantam, Sister Cluck, and fair Peep herself; and then we’ll see,” said Father Rooster.

“Where is Mother Hen?”

“She is sitting in the hay hatching her eggs.”

So away went young cock With a fly and a leap, So anxious was he To marry fair Peep.

“Good day, Mother Hen,” said he.

“Many thanks, young sir,” said Mother Hen.

“I’ve come a-wooing. May I have your fair daughter Peep for my bride?”

“Ask Father Rooster, Brother Bantam, Sister Cluck, and fair Peep herself; then we’ll see,” said Mother Hen.

“Where is Brother Bantam?”

“He’s on the gate-post learning to crow.”

So away went young cock With a fly and a leap, So anxious was he To marry fair Peep.

“Good day, Brother Bantam,” said he.

“Many thanks,” said the other.

“I’ve come a-wooing. May I have your fair sister Peep for my bride?”

“Ask Father Rooster, Mother Hen, Sister Cluck, and fair Peep herself; then we’ll see,” said Brother Bantam.

“Where is Sister Cluck?”

“She’s with fair Peep.”

“And where is fair Peep?”

“She’s with Sister Cluck.”

Well, away went young cock With a fly and a leap, So anxious was he To marry fair Peep.

And when he came to two very close together, he said to one, “Good day, Sister Cluck.”

And one answered, “Many thanks, young sir.”

“I’ve come a-wooing. May I have your fair sister Peep for my bride?”

“Ask Father Rooster, Mother Hen, Brother Bantam, and fair Peep herself; then we’ll see,” said Sister Cluck.

“Fair Peep, wilt thou be my bride?” said he. And all the family came up to hear her answer and it wasn’t _no_, so it must have been _yes_.

“What hast thou to keep house on?” said Mother Hen to her daughter.

And Brother Bantam answered for her, “A sweet voice;” and Sister Cluck added, “A sweet temper.”

“With these to begin,” Said Mother Hen, “There’ll be no din.”

“What is thy trade, young Master Cock?” asked Father Rooster; “art thou a tailor?”

“Something else for _my_ talents.”

“A blacksmith?”

“It suits me not.”

“Perhaps thou art a watchmaker.”

“No, but I’m a time-keeper; I tell people when it is time to rise and go about their work. Is it not a useful trade?”

“That it is.

“Gladly we give thee fair Peep, To love and to keep Safe in thy heart, Till death do thee part.”

“Then come, thou, sweet wife, My love and my life, Step out by my side, My bonny wee bride.”

As they took their way home They stepped on a tin, And the tin it bended, So my story’s ended.

—ANGELA M. KEYES

JACK-THE-GIANT-KILLER

When good King Arthur ruled the land, there lived near Land’s End in England, in a place called Cornwall, a farmer who had an only son named Jack. Jack was wide awake and ready of wit, so that nobody and nothing could worst him.

In those days the Mount of Cornwall was kept by a huge giant named Cormoran. He was so fierce and frightful to look at that he was the terror of all the neighboring towns and villages. He lived in a cave in the side of the mount, and whenever he wanted food he waded over to the mainland and took whatever came in his way. At his coming everybody ran away, and then of course he seized the cattle, making nothing of carrying off half-a-dozen oxen on his back at a time, and as for sheep and hogs he tied them around his waist as if they were tallow dips. He had done this for many years, and all Cornwall was in despair.

One day Jack happened to be in the town-hall when the magistrates were sitting in council to think what was best to do.

“What reward,” he asked, “will be given to the man who kills Cormoran?”

“He may take the treasure the giant has stored in his cave,” they said.

Quoth Jack, “Let me have a try at it.”

So he got a horn and shovel and pickaxe. And in the dark of a winter’s evening he went over to the mount and fell to work. Before morning he had dug a pit twenty-two feet deep and nearly as broad, and covered it with sticks and straw. Then he strewed a little earth over it so that it looked like plain ground. He then placed himself on the farther side of the pit, and just at the break of day put his horn to his mouth and blew, Tan-tiv-y, Tan-tiv-y!

The noise roused the giant. He rushed out of his cave, crying, “You villain, have you come here to disturb my rest? You shall pay dearly for this. I will take you whole and broil you for breakfast.” He had no sooner said this than he tumbled into the pit and made the very foundations of the mount shake.

“Oh, Giant,” quoth Jack, “where are you? Has the earth swallowed you up? What do you think now of broiling me for breakfast? Will no other food do than sweet Jack?” Then he gave a most mighty knock with his pickaxe on the very crown of the giant’s big head, and killed him on the spot.

Jack then filled up the pit with earth, and went to the cave and took the treasure. When the magistrates heard of Jack’s success, they made a law and wrote it on their books that henceforth he should be called

Jack-the-Giant-Killer,

and they presented him with a sword and belt, and on the belt they wrote these words,

“Here’s the right valiant Cornish man Who slew the giant Cormoran.”

—ENGLISH FOLK TALE

THE PIXIES’ THANKS

Once upon a time, and a long time ago, and a long, long time before that, a little old woman had a garden. And in this garden she planted a beautiful bed of tulips. The slim green stalks of them stood in the earth, tall and straight. And every other row of lovely cups they held was red and every other was yellow. At twilight the little old woman patted down the last of them, and went in to boil the kettle for her tea.

Now, as soon as she was gone there came peeping and tripping from the field near by a crowd of pixies. They ran between the rows, and skipped from one flower to the next, and put their slender fingers down into the cups, and clapped their fairy palms together and cried, “How lovely!” But the little old woman drinking her tea before the fire didn’t hear a word.

Well, night came, and the pixies’ teeny weeny bits of elfin babies grew sleepy. They must have bawled, though of course big ears like yours and mine couldn’t have heard them, for all of a sudden all the little pixies scampered home, crying,

“Coming, My teeny one, Coming, My weeny one, Watch glowworm Bright, My speck of delight!”

And then the cleverest little pixie mother among them thought of something. “Let’s lay them in those lovely cradles,” said she; “they’ll be as safe as a bug in a rose while we are greeting the queen.” She at once picked up her baby and ran back with it to the garden. And so did the others with theirs. They laid the tiny babies in the tulip cups and sang them to rest. The tulips rocked to and fro in the wind and made music for the lullaby. The little old woman washing her teacup caught a note of the music and singing, and stopped her clatter to listen, it was so sweet.

As soon as the elfin babies were fast asleep, the pixies tripped lightly off on the very tiptop tips of their toes. The silver Moon was rising, and they were just in time to form a ring on the green and dance in her honor. They circled nine times and then looked up at her, and she beamed down on them and they bowed low. Then she passed on through the heavens to make way for the day.

It was now the dawn of morning. The pixies ran back to the tulip cradles in the little old woman’s garden, crying,

“Weeny Sleepy head, Leave Dewy bed, Time To get up From Soft tulip Cup.”

The little old woman awoke in the nick of time to hear them kissing and caressing the elfin babies as they carried them home. In a bound she was out of bed and at the window, but they had vanished.

For all that she knew they had been there. She could tell it by the tulips. The slim green stalks of them stood in the earth, as they had when she planted them, tall and straight. And every other row of lovely cups they held was red and every other was yellow. Yet there was a wonderful change. It wasn’t only the shining drops of dew on them. No, it was something more wonderful—it was fairy fragrance. Every tulip smelled as sweet as a rose. This was the pixies’ thanks to the little old woman.

News of these rare tulips went far and wide, and people came from here, there, and everywhere to buy them. So for the rest of her days the little old woman had plenty of money for many a cup of tea, and a pinch of snuff into the bargain.

—ANGELA M. KEYES

THE CAT AND THE PARROT

Once there was a cat and once there was a parrot. They agreed to invite each other to dinner, turn and turn about. The cat should ask the parrot to-day, and the parrot should ask the cat to-morrow.

Well, it was the cat’s turn first. The cat went to market and bought nothing but a pennyworth of rice. The parrot could make no dinner on this meager fare. And what is more, the cat was so ill-mannered that he actually made the parrot cook the food himself. Of course the parrot was too well-bred to complain.

Next day came the parrot’s turn. He went to market and bought a leg of meat and a whole fish, head and tail and all, and about thirty pounds of flour, and a tub of butter, and great bunches of luscious grapes. And before his guest came he cooked the food. He made heaps and heaps of brown, crisp spice cakes, thick with currants, oh, enough to fill a washerwoman’s basket.

Well, the cat came, and the parrot set the whole meal before him, keeping only two cakes for himself. The cat ate the meat till he licked the plate, and he picked the fish till the bones were clean, and he sucked the grapes till the skins were dry, and then he began on the cakes; and he ate the whole basketful. Then he looked up at the parrot and said, “Have you any more?”

“Take my two cakes,” said the parrot. And the cat took them. Then he looked up at the parrot and said, “Have you any more?”

This was too much for the parrot. Bristling his feathers, he said sharply, “There’s nothing left but me.” And the cat looked him over, licked his chops, and—gullup, gulloo—down went the parrot, bones, beak, and feathers.

Now an old woman had seen it all, and she was so shocked she picked up a stone, and cried, “You unnatural cat, how could you eat your friend the parrot? Scat! away with you, before I hit you with this stone.”

“Old woman,” said the cat, “I’ve eaten a basketful of cakes, I’ve eaten my friend the parrot, and shall I blush to eat an old hag like you? No, surely not.” And—gullup, gulloo—down went the old woman with the stone in her hand.

Then the cat walked along the road till he met a man beating a donkey to make him go. “Cat,” cried the man, “get out of the way, or my donkey may kick you.”

“Man,” said the cat, “I’ve eaten a basketful of cakes, I’ve eaten my friend the parrot, I’ve eaten an old woman, and shall I blush to eat a miserable donkey driver? No, surely not.” And—gullup, gulloo—down went the man and his donkey.

After this the cat walked on again till he met a wedding procession. At the head came the king with his newly made bride, and behind him marched a company of soldiers, and behind them tramped ever and ever so many elephants, two and two, and two and two, and two and two, and a great many more.

“Cat,” said the happy king, kindly, “turn out of the road a little, or my elephants may trample you to death.”

“King,” said the cat, “you don’t know me. I’ve eaten a basketful of cakes, I’ve eaten my friend the parrot, I’ve eaten a miserable man and his donkey, and shall I blush to eat a beggarly king? No, surely not.” And—gullup, gulloo—down went the king, down went the queen, down went the soldiers, bayonets and all, down went the elephants, two and two and two and two.

After this the cat walked on more slowly, for he was somewhat heavy. On the way two landcrabs went scuttling across the road. “Run away, run away, Pussycat,” they squeaked, “or we might nip you.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the cat, shaking his fat sides. “Ho, ho, ho!” he roared, showing his teeth; “you don’t know me. I’ve eaten a basketful of cakes, I’ve eaten my friend the parrot, I’ve eaten a miserable man and his donkey, I’ve eaten a king and his bride, I’ve eaten a company of soldiers, I’ve eaten a herd of elephants, two and two, and shall I blush to eat two silly little landcrabs? Nay, not so.” And he pounced upon the landcrabs, gullup, gulloo, gulloo, gullup, in two swallows they were inside the cat.

But—when their eyes were used to the darkness, the landcrabs made out the king sitting with his head in his hands, very unhappy. Across his knee lay the newly made bride in a dead faint. Near them the company of soldiers were trying to form fours. Behind these the elephants were trumpeting, the donkey was braying, the parrot was whetting his beak on his own claws, and the old woman was scolding the cat roundly. In a corner they made out a great pile of cakes.

The landcrabs said, “His sides are soft: let’s get out.” Nip, nip, they went, nip, nip, nip. And out they scuttled. Then out walked the king with his bride on his arm, out marched the soldiers, out tramped the elephants, two and two, out went the man and his donkey without any beating, out hobbled the old woman, and out flew the parrot.

And the cat had to spend a night and a day sewing up his sides.

—EASTERN FOLK TALE

LAMPBLACK

A poor black paint lay very unhappy in its tube. It had tumbled out of an artist’s color-box and had lain unnoticed for a year. “I am only Lampblack,” he said to himself. “The master never looks at me: he says I am heavy, dull, lusterless, useless. I wish I could cake and dry up and die, as poor Flakewhite did.”

But Lampblack could not die; he could only lie in his tin tube and pine, like a silly, sorrowful thing as he was, in company with some broken bits of charcoal and a rusty palette-knife. The master never touched him; month after month passed by, and he was never thought of; the other paints had all their turn of fair fortune, and went out into the world to great halls and mighty palaces, transfigured and rejoicing in a thousand beautiful shapes and services. But Lampblack was always passed over as dull and coarse. Indeed he knew himself to be so, poor fellow, and this made it all the worse. “You are only a deposit!” said the other colors to him; and he felt that it was disgraceful to be a deposit, though he was not quite sure what it meant.

“If only I were happy like the others!” thought poor, sooty Lampblack, sorrowful in his corner. “There is Bistre, now, he is not so very much better-looking than I am, and yet they can do nothing without him, whether it is a girl’s face or a wimple in a river!”

The others were all so happy in this beautiful bright studio, where the open casements were hung with green myrtle, and where the silence was filled with the singing of nightingales. Cobalt, with a touch or two, became the loveliness of summer skies at morning; the Lakes and Carmines bloomed in a thousand exquisite flowers and fancies; the Chromes and Ochres (mere dull earths) were allowed to spread themselves in sheets of gold that took the shine of the sun into the darkest places; Umber, a somber and gloomy thing, could lurk in a child’s curls and laugh in a child’s smiles; whilst all the families of the Vermilions, the Blues, the Greens, lived in a perpetual glory of sunset or sunrise, of ocean waves or autumn woods, of kingly pageant or of martial pomp.

It was very hard. Poor Lampblack felt as if his very heart would break, above all when he thought of pretty little Rose Madder, whom he loved dearly, and who never would even look at him, she was so proud, because she was always placed in nothing less than rosy clouds, or the hearts of roses, or something as fair and spiritual.

“I am only a wretched deposit!” sighed Lampblack, and the rusty palette-knife grumbled back, “My own life has been ruined in cleaning dirty brushes!”

“But at least you were of use once; but I never am,—never!” said Lampblack. And indeed he had been there so long that the spiders had spun their silver fleeces all about him, and he was growing as gray as an old bottle does in a dark cellar.

At that moment the door of the studio opened, and there came a flood of light, and the step of a man was heard; the hearts of all the colors jumped for joy. It was their magician, who out of mere common clays and ground ores could raise them at a touch into splendors immortal.

Only the heart of poor dusty Lampblack did not beat a throb the more, because he was always left alone and never was thought worthy of even a glance. But he could not believe his senses when the master crossed the floor to the dark corner where he lay under the spiders’ webs. Lampblack felt sick and faint with rapture. Had his turn come at last?

The master took him up. “You will do for this work,” he said; and Lampblack was borne trembling to an easel. The colors, for once neglected, crowded together to watch, looking in their bright tin tubes like rows of little soldiers in armor.

“It is dull Old Deposit,” they murmured to one another, and felt contemptuous, but curious, as scornful people often will be.

“I am going to be glorious and great,” thought Lampblack, and his heart swelled high; for nevermore would they be able to hurl the name of Deposit at him, a name which hurt all the more because he did not know what it meant.

“You will do for this work,” said the master, and let Lampblack out of his metal prison-house into the light and touched him with the brush that was the wand of magic.

“What am I going to be?” wondered Lampblack, as he felt himself taken on to a large piece of deal board, so large that he felt he must be going to make at the least the outline of an athlete or the shadows of a tempest.

He could not tell what he was becoming; but he was happy enough and grand enough only to be used. He began to dream a thousand things of all the scenes he would be in, and all the hues that he would wear, and all the praise that he would hear when he went out into that wonderful world where his master was so much admired.

But he was harshly roused from his secret dreams; all the colors were laughing and tittering round him till the little tin helmets they wore shook with their merriment.