CHAPTER VI

_Fairy Tales, Allegories, Parables and Fables_

In this section are included several types of stories which, though different in certain particulars, are clearly related to one another. In general, they are fictitious stories, often of supernatural events, told to teach a moral lesson. To modern ears, this is not an attractive description, but the stories, nevertheless, remain perennial favorites. La Fontaine, the great French writer of fables, says:

“Fables in sooth are not what they appear; Our moralists are mice, and such small deer. We yawn at sermons, but we gladly turn To moral tales, and so amused, we learn.”

From earliest times, fables, parables, and fairy tales have been popular devices for teaching without provoking yawns.

“Mice and such small deer” are characteristic figures in fables, where we usually find animals moved by human motives and speaking and acting like human beings. The longevity of such stories appears when we trace _The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse_ back to the _Satires_ of Horace, and _Chanticleer_ to the _Nun’s Priest’s Tale_ in Chaucer. The moral of the fable is simple and obvious, some bit of indisputable folk wisdom. The style of the typical fable is equally direct and simple. Æsop gives you no setting, no description, and no elaborate characterizations; his stories have survived because of their unmistakable agreement with human experience. Stevenson’s _The Frog and the Tadpole_ consists of nothing more than translating familiar human relationships and words into parallel ones for animals.

The term “parable” has often been limited to those in the New Testament, but the _Encyclopædia Britannica_ says that there is no clear line of demarcation between the fable and the parable except that supernaturally gifted animals are usually confined to the former. The parable is longer than the fable, uses familiar objects and events in a normal way, and may teach a more elaborate lesson. In _A Parable for Philanthropists_, for example, you will observe that the cat, though important, is in no way supernatural, and does not contribute to the conversation. The situation is very simple and familiar, and drives home the moderate moral, “You may waste your time and do more harm than good if you insist upon trying to help those whose circumstances you do not understand.”

The fairy tale is a more widely varied type than either of the others mentioned; it has wide ramifications, and has been loved by people in many times and places. At first glance, it may seem almost futile to include it here, for most fairy tales, folk lore, and mythology have sprung out of the imaginations of primitive peoples, and do not lend themselves readily to sophisticated invention. Nevertheless, the old favorites demand retelling for almost every generation, and we have some lovely modern tales in which the old elements are recombined most effectively. What these elements are, any child can tell you: that in fairy tales all sorts of kinships between people and animals may well be expected, that stepmothers are always cruel, that younger sisters triumph, and that beauty and virtue are vindicated through patience and fortitude. Besides these familiar rules, collections of folk lore or books on mythology will furnish a host of other stock situations and introduce a variety of superhuman characters from the Toomtegoobe of the Scandinavians to the Banshee of the Irish. The fairy tale is often written very simply, but it permits of a more elaborate style, and sometimes illustrates the effectiveness of refrains by the repetition of a formula such as the doves’ warning in _Cinderella_, “There’s blood on the shoe! There’s blood on the shoe!” Vivid descriptions help to create atmosphere, and a graceful and colorful style carries the modern reader into an appreciation of the imaginative material, which might otherwise seem only unreal. In _The King’s Barn_ are to be found one after another of the stock situations and characters of fairy lore, the maiden in distress, the lad subjected to magical tests, the supernatural smithy, and many others, bound into a radiant whole by the serenely picturesque style of the author.

Not all people can appreciate fairy tales, and only those with sensitive and exuberant imaginations will be able to write them, but the selections in this section show something of the charm that may be given them by an artist’s hand.

In beginning, it may be well to remember the following suggestions:

1. Make your style plain and simple in fables, dignified and serious in parables, and as graceful and colorful as you can in fairy tales.

2. Retell some of your childhood favorites without reference to any book, paying particular attention to style.

3. Try expanding proverbs into fables, using familiar animals, and remembering to keep each true to his traditional character.

4. From such a collection as _English and Scottish Popular Ballads_, choose a ballad and turn it into a fairy tale, retaining any suitable refrain.

F. del P.

THE KING’S BARN

ELEANOR FARJEON

There was once, dear maidens, a King in Sussex of whose kingdom and possessions nothing remained but a single Barn and a change of linen. It was no fault of his. He was a very young king when he came into his heritage, and it was already dwindled to these proportions. Once his fathers had owned a beautiful city on the banks of the Adur, and all the lands to the north and the west were theirs, for a matter of several miles indeed, including many strange things that were on them: such as the Wapping Thorp, the Huddle Stone, the Bush Hovel where a Wise Woman lived, and the Guess Gate; likewise those two communities known as the Doves and the Hawking Sopers, whose ways of life were as opposite as the Poles. The Doves were simple men, and religious; but the Hawking Sopers were indeed a wild and rowdy crew, and it is said that the King’s father had hunted and drunk with them until his estates were gambled away and his affairs decayed of neglect, and nothing was left at last but the solitary Barn which marked the northern boundary of his possessions. And here, when his father was dead, our young King sat on a tussock of hay with his golden crown on his head and his golden scepter in his hand, and ate bread and cheese thrice a day, throwing the rind to the rats and the crumbs to the swallows. His name was William, and beyond the rats and the swallows he had no other company than a nag called Pepper, whom he fed daily from the tussock he sat on.

But at the end of a week he said:

“It is a dull life. What should a King do in a Barn?”

So saying, he pulled the last handful of hay from under him, rising up quickly before he had time to fall down, and gave it to his nag; and next he tied up his scepter and crown with his change of linen in a blue handkerchief; and last he fetched a rope and a sack and put them on Pepper for bridle and saddle, and rode out of the Barn leaving the door to swing.

“Let us go south, Pepper,” said he, “for it is warmer to ride into the sun than away from it, and so we shall visit my Father’s lands that might have been mine.”

South they went, with the great Downs ahead of them, and who knew what beyond? And first they came to the Hawking Sopers, who when they saw William approaching tumbled out of their dwelling with a great racket, crying to him to come and drink and play with them.

“Not I,” said he. “For so I should lose my Barn to you, and such as it is it is a shelter, and my only one. But tell me, if you can, what should a King do in a Barn?”

“He should dance in it,” said they, and went laughing and singing back to their cups.

“What sort of advice is this, Pepper?” said the King. “Shall we try elsewhere?”

The nag whinnied with unusual vehemence, and the King, taking this for yea, and not observing that she limped as she went, rode on to the Doves: the gentle gray-gowned Brothers who spent their days in pious works and their nights in meditation. Between the twelve hours of twilight and dawn they were pledged not to utter speech, but the King arriving there at noon they welcomed him with kind words, and offered him a bowl of rice and milk.

He thanked them, and when he had eaten and drunk put to them his riddle.

“What should a King do in a Barn?”

They answered, “He should pray in it.”

“This may be good advice,” said the King. “Pepper should we go further?”

The little nag whinnied till her sides shook, which the King took, as before, to be an affirmative. However, because it was Sunday he remained with the Doves a day and a night, and during such time as their lips were not sealed they urged him to become one of them, and found a new settlement of Brothers in his Barn. He spent his night in reflection, but by morning had come to no decision.

“To what better use could you dedicate it?” asked the Chief Brother, who was known as the Ringdove because he was the leader.

“None that I can think of,” said the King, “but I fear I am not good enough.”

“When you have passed our initiation,” said the Ringdove, “you will be.”

“Is it difficult?” asked William.

“No, it is very easy, and can be accomplished within a month. You have only to ride south till you come to the hills, on the highest of which you will see a Ring of beech-trees. Under the hills lies the little village of Washington, and there you may dwell in comfort through the week. But on each of the four Saturdays of the lunar month you must mount the hill at sunset and keep a vigil among the beeches till sunrise. And you must see that these Saturdays occur on the four quarters of the moon--once when she is in her crescent, once at the half, again at the full, and lastly when she is waning.”

“And is this all?” said William. “It sounds very simple.”

“Not quite all, but the rest is nearly as simple. You have but to observe four rules. First, to tell no living soul of your resolve during the month of initiation. Second, to keep your vigil always between the two great beeches in the middle of the Ring. Third, to issue forth at midnight and immerse your head in the Dewpond which lies on the hilltop to the west, and having done so to return to your watch between the trees. And fourth, to make no utterance on any account whatever from sunset to sunrise.”

“Suppose I should sneeze?” inquired the King anxiously.

“There’s no supposing about it,” said the Ringdove. “Sneezing, seeing that your head will be extremely wet, is practically inevitable. But the rule applies only to such utterance as lies within human control. When the fourth vigil has been successfully accomplished, return to us for a blessing and the gray robe of our Order.”

“But how,” asked the King, “during my vigils shall I know when midnight is due?”

“In the third quarter after eleven a bird sings. At the beginning of its song go forth from the Ring, and at the ending plunge your head into the Pond. For on these nights the bird sings ceaselessly for fifteen minutes, but stops at the very moment of midnight.”

“And is this really all?”

“This is all.”

“How easy it is to become good,” said William cheerfully. “I will begin at once.”

So impatient was he to become a Brother Dove--that he abandoned his idea of visiting the Huddle Stone and the Wapping Thorp (which would have taken him out of his course), and, without even waiting to break his fast, leaped on to Pepper’s back and turned her head southwest towards the hills. And in his eagerness he failed to remark how Pepper stumbled at every second step. Before he had gone a mile he came to the Guess Gate.

Of the Guess Gate, as you may know, all men ask a question in passing through, and in the back-swing of the Gate it creaks an answer. So nothing more natural than that the King, having flung the Gate open, should cry aloud once more:

“Gate, Gate! what should a King do in a Barn?”

“Now at last,” thought he, “I shall be told whether to dance or to pray in it.” And he stood listening eagerly as the Gate hung an instant on its outward journey and then began to creak home.

“He--should--rule--in--it--he--should--rule--in--it--he--should--” squeaked the Guess Gate, and then the latch clicked and it was silent.

This disconcerted William.

“Now I am worse off than ever,” he sighed. “Pray, Pepper, can this advice be bettered?”

As usual when he questioned her, the nag pricked up her ears and whinnied so violently that he nearly fell off her back. Nevertheless, he kept Pepper’s head in a beeline for Chanctonbury, never noticing how very ill she was going, and presently crossed the great High Road beyond which lay the Bush Hovel. The Wise Woman was at home; from afar the King saw her sitting outside the Hovel mending her broom with a withe from the Bush.

“Here if anywhere,” rejoiced William, “I shall learn the truth.”

He dismounted and approached the old woman, cap in hand.

“Wise Woman,” he said respectfully, “you know most things, but do you know this--whether a King should dance or pray or rule in his Barn?”

“He should do all three, young man,” said the Wise Woman.

“But--!” exclaimed William.

“I’m busy,” snapped the Wise Woman. “You men will always be chattering, as though pots need never be stewed nor cobwebs swept.” So saying, she went into the Hovel and slammed the door.

“Pepper,” said the poor King, “I am at my wits’ ends. Go where yours lead you.”

At this Pepper whinnied in a perfect frenzy of delight, and the King had to clasp both arms round her neck to avoid tumbling off.

Now the little nag preferred roads to beelines over copses and ditches, and she turned back and ambled along the highway so very lamely that it became impossible even for her preoccupied rider not to perceive that she had cast all her four shoes.

“Poor beast!” he cried dismayed, “how has this happened, and where? Oh, Pepper, how could you be so careless? I have not a penny in my purse to buy you new shoes, my poor Pepper. Do you not remember where you lost them?”

The little nag licked her master’s hand (for he had dismounted to examine her trouble), and looked at him with great eyes full of affection, and then she flung up her head and whinnied louder than ever. The sound of it was like nothing so much as laughter. Then she went on, hobbling as best she could, and the King walked by her side with his hand on her neck. In this way they came to a small village, and here the nag turned up a by-road and halted outside the blacksmith’s forge. The smith’s Lad stood within, clinking at the anvil, the smuttiest Lad smith ever had.

“Lad!” cried the King.

The Lad looked up from his work and came at once to the door, wiping his hands upon his leather apron.

“Where am I?” asked the King.

“In the village of Washington,” said the Lad.

“What! Under the Ring?” cried the King.

“Yes, sir,” said the Lad.

“A blessing on you!” said the King joyfully, and clapped his hand on the Lad’s shoulder. “Pepper, you have solved the problem and led me to my destiny.”

“Is Pepper your nag’s name?” asked the blacksmith’s Lad.

“It is,” said the King; “her only one.”

“Then she has one more name than she has shoes,” said the Lad. “How came she to lose them?”

“I didn’t notice,” confessed the King.

“You must have been thinking very deeply,” remarked the Lad. “Are you in love?”

“I am not quite twenty-one,” said the King.

“I see. Do you want your nag shod?”

“I do. But I have spent my last penny.”

“Earn another then,” said the Lad.

“I did not even earn the last one,” said the King shamefacedly. “I have never worked in my life.”

“Why, where have you lived?” exclaimed the Lad.

“In a Barn.”

“But one works in a Barn----”

“Stop!” cried the King, putting his fingers in his ears. “One prays in a Barn.”

“Very likely,” said the Lad, looking at him curiously. “Are you going to pray in one?”

“Yes,” said the King. “When is the New Moon?”

“Next Saturday.”

“Hurrah!” cried the King. “That settles it. But what’s to-day?”

“Monday, sir.”

“Alas!” sighed William, wondering how he should make shift to live for five days.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” said the Lad.

“I would tell you my meaning,” said the King, “but am pledged not to.”

Then the Lad said, “Let it pass. I have a proposal to make. My father is dead, and for two years I have worked the forge single-handed. Now I am willing to teach you to shoe your nag with four good shoes and strong, if you will meanwhile blow the bellows for whatever other jobs come to the forge; and if the shoes are not done by dinner-time you shall have a meal thrown in.”

The King looked at the Lad kindly.

“I shall blow your bellows very badly,” he said, “and shoe my nag still worse.”

Said the Lad, “You’ll learn in time.”

“Not before dinner-time, I hope,” said the King, “for I am very hungry.”

“You look hungry,” said the Lad. “It’s a bargain then.”

The King held out his hand, but the Lad suddenly whipped his behind his back. “It’s so dirty, sir,” he said.

“Give it me all the same,” said the King; and they clasped hands.

The rest of that morning the King spent in blowing the bellows, and by dinner-time not so much as the first of Pepper’s hoofs was shod. For a great deal of business came into the forge, and there was no time for a lesson. So the King and the Lad took their meal together, and the King was by this time nearly as black as his master. He would have washed himself, but the Lad said it was no matter, he himself having no time to wash from week’s end to week’s end. In the afternoon they changed places, and the King stood at the anvil and the Lad at the bellows. He was a good teacher, but the King made a poor job of it. By nightfall he had produced shoes resembling all the letters of the alphabet excepting U, and when at last he submitted to the Lad a shoe like nothing so much as a drunken S, his master shrugged and said:

“Zeal is praiseworthy within its limits, but the best of smiths does not attempt to make two shoes at once. Let us sup.”

They supped; and afterwards the Lad showed the King a small bedroom as neat as a new pin.

“I shall sully the sheets,” said William, “and you will excuse me if I fetch the kettle, which is on the boil.”

“As you please,” said the Lad, and took himself off.

In the morning the King came clean to breakfast, but the Lad was as black as he had been.

Tuesday passed as Monday had passed; now William took the bellows, marveling at his youthful master’s deftness, and now the Lad blew, groaning at his pupil’s clumsiness. By nightfall, however, he had achieved a shoe faintly recognizable as such. For a second time the King washed himself and slept again in the little trim chamber, but the Lad in the morning resembled midnight. In this way the week went by, the King’s heart beating a little faster each morning as Saturday approached, and he wondered by what ruse he could explain his absence without creating suspicion or breaking his pledge.

On Saturday morning the Lad said to the King: “This is a half-day. You must make your shoe this morning or not at all. It is my custom at one o’clock to close the forge and go to visit my Great-Aunt. I will be at work again on Monday, till when you must shift for yourself.”

The King could hardly believe his luck in having matters so well settled, and he spent the morning so diligently that by noon he had produced a shoe which, if not that of a master craftsman, was at least adaptable to the purpose for which it had been fashioned.

The Lad examined it and said reluctantly, “It will do,” and proceeded to show the King how to fasten it to Pepper’s hoof.

“Why,” said the King, having the nag’s off forefoot in his hand, “here’s a stone in it. Small wonder she limped.”

“It isn’t a stone,” said the Lad, extracting it, “it is a ruby.”

And he exhibited to the King a ruby of such a glowing red that it was as though the souls of all the grapes of Burgundy had been pressed to create it.

“You are a rich man now,” said the Lad quietly, “and can live as you will.”

But William closed the Lad’s fingers over the stone. “Keep it,” he said, “for you have filled me for a week, and I have paid you with nothing but my breath.”

“As you please,” said the Lad carelessly, and, tossing the stone upon a shelf, locked up the forge. “Now I am going to my Great-Aunt. There’s a cake in the larder.”

So saying, he strolled away, and the King was left to his own devices. These consisted in bathing himself from head to foot till his body was as pure without as he desired his heart to be within; and in donning his fresh suit of linen. He would not break his fast, but waited, trembling and eager, till an hour before sundown, and then at last he set forth to mount the great hill with the sacred crown of trees upon its crest.

When at last he stood upon the boundary of the Ring, his heart sprang for joy in his breast, and his breath nearly failed him with amazement at the beauty of the world which lay outspread for leagues below him.

“Oh, lovely earth!” he cried aloud, “never till now have I known what beauty I lived in. How is it that we cannot see the wonder of our surroundings until we gaze upon them from afar? But if you look so fair from the hilltops, what must you appear from the very sky?” And lost in delight he turned his eyes upward, and was recalled to his senses by the sight of the sinking sun. “Lovely one, how nearly you have betrayed me!” he said, and smiling waved his hand to the dear earth, sealed up his lips, and entered the Ring.

And here between the two midmost beeches he knelt down and buried his face in his hands, and prayed the spirits of that place to make him worthy.

The hours passed, quarter by quarter, and the King stayed motionless like one in a dream. Presently, however, the dream was faintly shaken by a little lirrup of sound, as light as rain dropping from leaves above a pool. Again and again the sweet round notes fell on the meditations of the King, and he remembered with entrancement that this was the tender signal by which he was summoned to the Pond. So, rising silently, he wandered through the trees, and keeping his eyes fixed on the soft dim turf, lest some new beauty should tempt him to speech, he went across the open hill to the Pond. Here he knelt down again, listening to the childlike bird, until at last the young piping ceased with a joyous chuckle. And at that instant, reflected in the Pond, he saw the silver star that watches the invisible young moon, and dipped his head.

Oh, my dear maids! when he lifted it again, all wet and bewildered, he saw upon the opposite border of the Pond, a figure, the white figure of--a woman? a girl? a child? He could not tell, for she lay three parts in the shadowy water with her back towards him, and his gaze and senses swam; but in that faint starlight one bare and lovely arm, as white as the crescent moon, was clear to him, upcurved to her shadowy hair. So she reclined, and so he knelt, both motionless, and his heart trembled (even as it had trembled at the bird’s song) with a wish to go near to her, or at least to whisper to her across the water. Indeed, he was on the point of doing so, when a sudden contraction seized him, his eyes closed in a delicious agony, and he sneezed once vigorously; and in that moment of shattering blackness he recalled his vow, and rising turned his back upon the vision and groped his way again to the shelter of the trees.

Here he remained till dawn in meditation, but as to the nature of his meditations I am, dear maidens, ignorant. Nor do I know in what restless wise he passed his Sunday.

It is enough to know that on Monday when he went into the forge he found the Lad already at work, and if he had been pitch-black at their parting he was no less so at their meeting. He appeared to be out of humor, and for some time regarded his apprentice with dissatisfaction, but only remarked at last:

“You look fatigued.”

“My sleep was broken with dreams,” said the King. “I am sorry if I am late. Let me to my shoeing. Since Saturday ended in success, I suppose I shall now finish the business without more ado.”

He was, however, too hopeful as it appeared, for though he managed to fashion a shoe which was in his eyes the equal of the other, the Lad was captious and would not commend it.

“I should be an ill craftmaster,” said he, “if I let you rest content on what you have already done. I made such a shoe as this on my thirteenth birthday, and my father’s only praise was, ‘You must do better yet.’”

So particular was the young smith that William spent the whole of another week in endeavoring to please him. This might have chafed the King, but that it agreed entirely with his desires to remain in that place, sleeping and eating at no cost to himself, and working so strenuously that his hands grew almost as hard as the metal he worked in; for the Lad now began to entrust him with small jobs of various sorts, although in the matter of the second shoe he refused to be satisfied.

When Saturday came, however, the King contrived a shoe so much superior to any he had yet made that the Lad, examining it, was compelled to say, “It is better than the other.” Then Pepper, who always stood in a noose beside the door awaiting her moment, lifted up her near forefoot of her own accord, and the King took it in his hand.

“How odd!” he exclaimed a moment later. “The nag has a stone in this foot also. It is not strange that she went so ill.”

“It is not a stone,” said the Lad. “It is a pearl.”

And he held out to the King a pearl of such a shining purity that it was as though it had been rounded within the spirit of a saint.

“This makes you a rich man,” said the Lad moodily, “and you can journey whither you please.”

But the King shook his head. “Keep it,” he said, “for you have lodged me for a week, and I have given you only the clumsy service of my hands.”

“Very well,” said the Lad simply, and put the pearl in his pocket. “My Great-Aunt is expecting me. There’s a cake in the larder.”

So saying he walked off, and the King was left alone. As before, he bathed himself and changed his linen, and left the contents of the larder untouched; and an hour before sunset he climbed the hill for the second time, and presently stood panting on the edge of the Ring. And again a pang of wonder that was akin to pain shot through his heart at the loveliness of the world below him.

“Beautiful earth!” he cried once more, “how fair and dear you are become to me in your remoteness. But oh, if you appear so beautiful from this summit, what must you appear from the summit of the clouds?” And he glanced from the earth to the sky, and saw the sun running down his airy hill. “Dear Temptress!” he said, “how cunningly you would snare me from my purpose.” And he kissed his hand to her thrice, sealed up his lips, and entered the Ring.

Between the two tall beeches he knelt down, and drowned the following hours in thought and prayer; till that deep lake of meditation was divided by the sound of singing, as though a shoal of silver fishes swam and leaped upon its surface, putting all quietness to flight, and troubling its waters with a million lovelinesses. For now it was as though the bird’s enchanting song came partly from within and partly from without, and if the fall of its music shattered his dream like falling fish, certain it seemed to him that the fish had first leaped from his own heart, out of whose unsuspected caves darted a shoal of nameless longings. He too leaped up and darted through the trees, and with head bent down, for fear of he knew not what, made his way to the Pond. Here he knelt again, drinking in the tremulous song of the bird, as tremulous as youth and maidenhood, until at last it ceased with a sweet uncompleted cry of longing. And at that instant, in the mirror of the Pond, he saw the uncompleted disc of the half-moon, and dipped his head.

Ah wonder! when he lifted it again, dazzled and dripping, he saw across the Pond a figure rising from the water, the figure, as he could now perceive in the fuller light, of a girl, clear to the waist. Her face was half turned from him, and her hair flowed half to him and half away, but within that cloudy setting gleamed the lines of her lovely neck and one white shoulder and one moonlit breast, whose undercurve appeared to float upon the Pond like the petal of a waterlily. So he knelt on his side and she on hers, both motionless, and his heart leaped (even as it had leaped at the bird’s song) with a longing to kneel beside and ever touch that loveliness; or, if he could not, at least to call to her across the Pond so that she would turn and reveal to him what still was hidden. He was in fact about to do so, when suddenly his senses were overwhelmed with a sweet anguish, darkness fell on him, and from its very core he sneezed twice, violently. This interruption of the previous spell was sufficient to bring him to a realization of his peril, and rising hastily he ran back to the Ring, where he remained till morning. But to what pious thoughts he then committed himself I cannot tell you; neither in what feverish fashion he got through Sunday.

On Monday morning when he arrived at the forge he found the Lad at work before him, and ebony was not blacker than his face. He glanced at the King with some show of temper, but only said:

“You look worn out.”

“I have had bad dreams,” said the King. “Excuse me for being behind my time. I will try to make up for it by wasting no more, and fashioning instantly two shoes as good as that I made on Saturday.”

But though he handled his tools with more dexterity than he had yet exhibited, the Lad petulantly pushed aside the first shoe he made, which to the King appeared to be, if anything, superior to the one he had made on Saturday. The Lad, however, quickly explained himself, saying:

“A master-smith who intends to make his apprentice his equal will not let him rest at the halfway house. I made a shoe like this when I was fourteen, and all my father said was, ‘I have hopes for you.’”

So for yet another week the King’s nose was kept to the grindstone, and it would have irritated most men to find their good work repeatedly condemned; but William was, as you may have observed, singularly sweet-tempered, besides which he desired nothing so much as to remain where he was. And for another five days he slept and ate and worked, until the muscles of his arms began to swell, and he swung the hammer with as much ease as his master, who now left a great part of the work entirely in his hands. Although in the matter of the third shoe he refused to be satisfied.

Nevertheless on Saturday morning the King, making a last effort before the forge was shut, submitted a shoe so far beyond anything he had yet achieved, that the Lad could not but say, “This is a good shoe.” And Pepper, seeing them coming, lifted her off hind-foot to be shod.

“Now as I live!” cried the King. “Another stone! And how she contrived to hobble so far is a miracle.”

“It isn’t a stone,” said the Lad, “it is a diamond.”

And he presented to the King a diamond of such triumphant brilliance that it might have been conceived of the ambitions of the mightiest monarch of the earth.

“You now own surpassing wealth,” said the Lad dejectedly, “and you have no more need to work.”

But William would not even touch the stone. “Keep it,” he said, “for you have befriended me for a week, and I have given you only the strength of my arms.”

“Let it be so,” said the Lad gently, and put the diamond in his belt. “I must not keep my Great-Aunt waiting. There’s a cake in the larder.”

So saying he went his way, and the King went his; which, as you may surmise, was to the bath and his clean clothes. He did not go into the larder, and an hour before sunset made the ascent of the hill, and for the third time stood like a conqueror upon the crest. And as he gazed over the lands below his heart throbbed with a passion for the earth that was half agony and half love, unless indeed it was the whole agony of love.

“Most beautiful earth!” he cried aloud, “only as you recede from me do I realize how necessary it is for me to possess you. How is it that when I possess you I know you not as I know you now? But oh! if you are so wonderful from these great hills, what must you be from the greater hills of the air?” And he looked up, and saw the sun descending in the west. “Sweet earth,” he sighed, “you would hold me when I should be gone, and never remind me that the moment to depart is due.” And he stretched out his arms to her, sealed up his lips, and went into the Ring.

Once more he knelt between the giant beeches, and sank all thoughts in pious contemplation; till suddenly those still waters were convulsed as though with stormy currents, and a wild song beat through his breast, so that he could not believe it was the bird singing from a short distance: it was as though the storm of music broke from his singing heart--yes, from his own heart singing for some unexpressed fulfillment. He was barely conscious of going through the trees, with eyes tight shut against the outer world, but soon he was kneeling at the brink of the Pond, while a surge of joy and pain in the song broke on his spirit like waves upon a shore, or love upon a man and a woman--washed back, towered up, and broke on him again. At last on one full glorious phrase it ceased. And at that instant, deep in the Pond, he saw the full orb of the moon, and dipped his head.

Oh, when he lifted it, startled and illuminated, he saw on the further side of the Pond a woman standing. The moonlight bathed her form from head to foot, her hair was thrown behind her, and she stood facing him, so that in the cold clear light he could see her fully revealed: her strong tender face, her strong soft body, her strong slim legs, her strong and lovely arms. As white as mayblossom she was, and beauty went forth from her like fragrance from the shaken bough. So he knelt on his side and she stood on hers, both motionless, but gazing into each other’s eyes, and his heart broke (even as it had broken at the bird’s song) with a passion to take her in his arms, for it seemed to him that this alone would mend its breaking. Or if he might not do this, at least to send his need of her in a great cry across the Pond. And as his passion grew she slowly lifted her arms and opened them to him as though to bid him enter; and her lips parted, and she cried out, as though she were uttering the cry of his own soul:

“Beloved!”

All the joy and the pain, unfulfilled, of the bird’s song were gathered in that word.

Glorified he leaped up, his whole being answering the cry of hers, but before his lips could translate it he was gripped by a mighty agony, and sneeze after sneeze shook all his senses, so that he was utterly helpless. When he was able to look up again he saw the woman moving towards him round the Pond, and suddenly he clapped his hands over his eyes and fled towards the Ring, as though pursued by demons. Here he passed the remainder of the night, but in what sort of prayers I leave you to imagine; as also amid what ravings he passed his Sunday.

On Monday the Lad was again before him at the forge, and a crow’s wing looked milky beside his face. He did not raise his eyes as the King came in, but said:

“You look very ill.” He said it furiously.

“I have had nightmares,” said the King. “Pardon me if you can. I will get to work and make my final shoe.”

But though he now had little more to learn in his craft, the Lad, when the shoe was made, picked it up in his pincers and flung it to the other end of the forge; yet the King now knew enough to know that few smiths could have made its equal. So he looked surprised; at which the Lad, controlling himself, said:

“When I pass your fourth shoe you will need no more masters--I forged a shoe like that one yonder when I was fifteen, and my father said of it, ‘You will make a smith one day.’”

And on neither Tuesday nor Wednesday nor Thursday nor Friday could the King succeed in pleasing the Lad; the better his shoes the angrier grew his young master that they were not good enough. Yet between these gusts of temper he was gentle and remorseful, and once the King saw tears in his eyes, and another time the Lad came humbly to ask for pardon. Then William laughed and put out his hand, but, as once before, the Lad slipped his behind his back and said:

“It is so dirty, friend.”

And this time he would not let William take it. So the King was forced instead to lay his arm about the Lad’s shoulder, and press it tenderly; but the Lad made no response, and only stood hanging his head until the King removed his arm. All the same, when next the King made a shoe he was full of rage, and stamped on it, and ran out of the forge. Which surprised the King all the more because it was so excellent a shoe. Yet he was secretly glad of its rejection, for he felt it would break his heart to go away from that place; and he could think of no good cause for remaining, once Pepper was shod. So there he stayed, eating, sleeping, and working, while the thews of his back became as strong under the smooth skin as the thews of a beech-tree under the smooth bark; and his craft was such that the Lad at last left the whole of the work of the forge in his charge. For there was nothing he could not do surpassingly well. And this the Lad admitted, save only in the case of the fourth shoe.

But on Saturday, just before closing-time, the King set to and made a shoe so fine that when the Lad saw it he said quietly, “I could not make a better.” Had he not said so he must have lied, or proved that he did not know a masterpiece when he saw it. And he was too good a craftsman for that, besides being honest.

Pepper instantly lifted up her near hind-foot.

“Upon my word!” exclaimed the King, “the world is full of stones, and Pepper has found them all. The wonder is that she did not fall down on the road.”

“This is not a stone,” said the Lad, “it is an opal.”

And he displayed an opal of such marvelous changeability, such milk and fire shot with such shifting rainbows, that it was as though it had had birth of all the moods of all the women of all time.

“This enriches you for life,” said the Lad gloomily, “and now you are free of masters for ever.”

But William thrust his hands into his pockets. “Keep it,” he said, “for this week you have given me love, and I have given you nothing but the sinews of my body.”

The Lad looked at him and said, “I have given you hard words, and fits of temper, and much injustice.”

“Have you?” said William. “I remember only your tenderness and your tears. So keep the opal in love’s name.”

The Lad tried to answer, but could not; and he slipped the opal under his shirt. Then he faltered, “My Great-Aunt--” and still he could not speak. But he made a third effort, and said, “There is a cake in the larder,” and turned on his heel and went away quickly. And the King looked after him till he was out of sight, and then very slowly went to his bath and his fresh linen. But he left the cake where it was.

And he sat by the door of the forge with his face in his hands until the length of his shadow warned him that he must go. And he rose and went for the last time up the hill, but with a sinking heart; and when he stood on the top and gazed upon the beauty of the earth he had left below, in his breast was the ache of loss and longing for one he had loved, and with his eyes he tried to draw that beauty into himself, but the void in him remained unfulfilled. Yet never had her beauty been so great.

“Beloved and lovely earth!” he whispered, “why do you appear most fair and most desirable now that I am about to lose you? Why when I had you did you not hold me by force, and tell me what you were? Only now I discover you from mid-heaven--but oh! in what way should I discover you from heaven itself?” And he looked upward, and lo! a blurred sun shone upon him, swimming to its rest. But the blurring was caused by his own tears in his eyes. “Farewell, dear earth!” said the King. “Since you cannot mount to me, and I may not descend to you.” And he knelt upon the turf and laid his cheek and forehead to it, and then he rose, sealed up his lips, and passed into the Ring.

Between the two tall beeches he sank down, and all sense and thought and consciousness sank with him, as though his being had become a dead forgotten lake, hidden in a lifeless wood; where birds sang not, nor rain fell, nor fishes played, nor currents moved below the stagnant waters. But presently a wind seemed to wail among the trees, and the sound of it traveled over the King’s senses, stirred them, and passed. But only to return again, moan over him, and trail away; and so it kept coming and going till first he heard, then listened to, and at last realized the haunting signal of the bird. And he went forth into the open night, his eyes wide apart but seeing nothing until he stumbled at the Pond and crouched beside it. The bird grew fainter and fainter, and presently the sound, like a ghost at dawn, ceased to exist; and at that instant, under the Pond, he beheld the lessening circle of the moon, and dipped his head.

Alas! when he lifted it, shivering and stunned, he saw the form he longed to see on the other side of the Pond; but not as he had longed to see it, gazing at him with the love and glory of seven nights ago. Now she stood on the turf, half turned from him, and the wave of her hair blew to and fro like a cloud, now revealing her white side, now concealing it. And he looked, but she would not look. So he knelt on his side and she remained on hers, both motionless. And suddenly the impulse to sneeze arose within him, and at that instant she began to move--not towards him, as before, but away from him, downhill.

At that he could bear no more, and quelling the impulse with a mighty effort, he got upon his feet crying, “Beloved, stay! Beloved, stay, beloved!”

And he staggered round the Pond as quickly as his shaking knees would let him; but quicker still she slid away, and when he came where she had been the place was as empty as the sky in its moonless season. He called and ran about and called again; but he got no answer, nor found what he sought. All that night he spent in calling and running to and fro. What he did on Sunday you may know, and I may know, but he did not. On Sunday night he stayed beside the Pond, but whatever his hopes were they received no fulfillment. On Monday night he was there again, and on Tuesday, and on Wednesday; and between the mornings and the nights he went from hill to hill, seeking her hiding-place who came to bathe in the lake. There was not a hill within a day’s march that did not know him, from Duncton to Mount Harry. But on none of them he found the Woman. How he lived is a puzzle. Perhaps upon wild raspberries.

After the sun had set on Chanctonbury on Saturday night, he came exhausted to the Ring again, and stood on that high hill gazing earthward. But there was no light above or below, and he said:

“I have lost all. For the earth is swallowed in blackness, and the Woman has disappeared into space, and I myself have cast away my spiritual initiation. I will sit by the pond till midnight, and if the bird sings then I will still hope, but if it does not I will dip my head in the water and not lift it again.”

So he went and lay down by the Pond in the darkness, and the hours wore away. And as the time of the bird’s song drew near he clasped his hands and prayed. But the bird did not sing; and when he judged that midnight was come, he got upon his knees and prepared to put his head under the water. And as he did so he saw, on the opposite side of the Pond, the feeble light of a lantern. He could not see who held it, because even as he looked the bearer blew out the light; but in that moment it appeared to him that she was as black as the night itself.

So for awhile he knelt upon his side, and she remained on hers, both trembling; but at last the King, dreading to startle her away, rose softly and went round the Pond to where he had seen her.

He said into the night in a shaking voice, “I cannot see you. If you are there, give me your hand.”

And out of the night a shaking voice replied:

“It is so dirty, beloved.”

Then he took her in his arms, and felt how she trembled, and he held her closely to him to still her, whispering:

“You are my Lad.”

“Yes,” she said in a low voice. “But wait.”

And she slipped out of his embrace, and he heard her enter the Pond, and she stayed there as it seemed to him a lifetime; but presently she rose up, and even in that black night the whiteness of her body was visible to him, and she came to him as she was and laid her head on his breast and said:

“I am your Woman.”

(“I want my apple,” said Martin Pippin.

“But is this the end?” cried little Joan.

“Why not?” said Martin. “The lovers are united.”

Joscelyn: Nonsense! Of course it is not the end! You must tell a thousand other things. Why was the Woman a woman on Saturday night and a lad all the rest of the week?

Joyce: What of the four jewels?

Jennifer: Which of the answers to the King’s riddle was the right one?

Jessica: What happened to the cake?

Jane: What was her name?

“Please,” said little Joan, “do not let this be the end, but tell us what they did next.”

“Women will be women,” observed Martin, “and to the end of time prefer unessentials to the essential. But I will endeavor to satisfy you on the points you name.”)

In the morning William said to his beloved:

“Now tell me something of yourself. How come you to be so masterful a smith? Why do you live as a black Lad all the week and turn only into a white Woman on Saturdays? Have you really got a Great-Aunt, and where does she live? How old are you? Why were you so hard to please about the shoeing of Pepper? And why, the better my shoes the worse your temper? Why did you run away from me a week ago? Why did you never tell me who you were? Why have you tormented me for a whole month? What is your name?”

“Trust a man to ask questions!” said his beloved, laughing and blushing. “Is it not enough that I am your beloved?”

“More than enough, yet not nearly enough,” said the King, “for there is nothing of yourself which you must not tell me in time, from the moment when you first stole barley sugar behind your father’s back, down to that in which you first loved me.”

“Then I had best begin at once,” she smiled, “or a lifetime will not be long enough. I am eighteen years old and my name is Viola. I was born in Falmer, and my father was the best smith in all Sussex, and because he had no other child he made me his bellows-boy, and in time, as you know, taught me his trade. But he was, as you also know, a stern master, and it was not until, on my sixteenth birthday, I forged a shoe the equal of your last, that he said ‘I could not make a better.’ And so saying he died. Now I had no other relative in all the world except my Great-Aunt, the Wise Woman of the Bush Hovel, and her I had never seen; but I thought I could not do better in my extremity than go to her for counsel. So, shouldering my father’s tools, I journeyed west until I came to her place, and found her trying to break in a new birch-broom that was still too green and full of sap to be easily mastered; and she was in a very bad temper. ‘Good day, Great-Aunt,’ I said, ‘I am your Great-Niece Viola.’ ‘I have no more use for great nieces,’ she snapped, ‘than for little ones.’ And she continued to tussle with the broomstick and took no further notice of me. Then I went into the Hovel, where a fire burned on the hearth, and I took out my tools and fashioned a bit on the hob; and when it was ready I took it to her and said, ‘This will teach it its manners’; and she put the bit on the broom, which became as docile as a lamb. ‘Great-Niece,’ said she, ‘it appears that I told you a lie this morning. What can I do for you?’ ‘Tell me, if you please, how I am to live now that my father is dead.’ ‘There is no need to tell you,’ said she; ‘you have your living at your fingers’ ends.’ ‘But women cannot be smiths,’ said I. ‘Then become a lad,’ said she, ‘and ply your trade where none knows you; and lest men should suspect you by your face, which fools though they be they might easily do, let it be so sooted from week’s end to week’s end that none can discover what you look like; and if any one remarks on it, put it down to your trade.’ ‘But Great-Aunt,’ I said, ‘I could not bear to go dirty from week’s end to week’s end.’ ‘If you will be so particular,’ she said, ‘take a bath every Saturday night and spend your Sundays with me, as fair as when you were a babe. And before you go to work again on Monday you shall once more conceal your fairness past all men’s penetration.’ ‘But, dear Great-Aunt,’ I pleaded, ‘it may be that the day will come when I might not wish----’”

And here, dear maidens, Viola faltered. And William put his arm about her a little tighter--because it was there already--and said, “What might you not wish, beloved?” And she murmured, “To be concealed past one man’s penetration. And my Great-Aunt said I need not worry. Because though men, she said, were fools, there was one time in every man’s life when he was quick enough to penetrate all obscurities, whether it were a layer of soot or a night without a moon.” And she hid her face on the King’s shoulder, and he tried to kiss her but could not make her look up until he said, “Or even a woman’s waywardness?” Then she looked up of her own accord and kissed him.

“In this way,” she resumed, “it became my custom on each Saturday, after closing the forge, to come here with my woman’s raiment, and wait in a hollow until night had fallen, and make myself clean of this week’s blackness. For I dared not do this by daylight or be seen going forth from the forge in my proper person.”

“But why did you choose to bathe at midnight?” asked the King.

She was silent for a few moments, and then said hurriedly, “I did not choose to bathe at midnight until a month ago.--For the rest,” she resumed, “I was hard to please in the matter of the shoes because I knew that when they were finished you would ride away. And therefore the more you improved the crosser I became. And if I have tormented you for a month it was because you tormented me by refusing to speak when you saw me here, in spite of your hateful vow; and you would not even look at my cake in the larder.”

“Women are strange,” said the King. “How do you know I did not look at the cake?”

“I do know,” she said as hurriedly as before. “And if I would not tell you who I was, it was because I could not bear, on the other hand, to extort from you a love you seemed so reluctant to endure; until indeed it became of its own accord too strong even for the purpose which brought you every week to the Ring. For I knew that purpose, since all dwellers in Washington know why men go up the hill with the new moon.”

“But when my love did become too strong for my vow, and opened my lips at last,” said the King, “why did you run away?”

Viola said, “Had you not run away the week before? And now I have answered all your questions?”

“No,” said the King, “not all. You haven’t told me yet when you first loved me.”

Viola smiled and said, “I first stole barley sugar when my father said ‘This is for the other little girl over the way’; and I first loved you when, seeing you had been too absent-minded to know that Pepper had cast her shoes, I feared you were in love.”

“But that was three minutes after we met!” cried the King.

“Was it as much as that!” said she.

Now after awhile Viola said, “Let us get down to the world again. We cannot stay here for ever.”

“Why not?” said the King. However, they walked to the brow of the hill, and stood together gazing awhile over the sunlit earth that had never been so beautiful to either of them; for their sight was newly-washed with love, and all things were changed.

“Now I know how she looks from heaven,” said the King, “and that is like heaven itself. Let us go; for I think she will still look so at our coming, seeing that we carry heaven with us.”

So they went downhill to the forge, and there Viola said to her lover, “I can stay no longer in this place where all men have known me as a lad; and besides, a woman’s home is where her husband lives.”

“But I live only in a Barn,” said William the King.

“Then I will live there with you,” said Viola, “and from this very night. But first I will shoe Pepper anew, for she is so unequally shod that she might spill us on the road. And that she may be shod worthily of herself and of us, give me what you have tied up in your blue handkerchief.” The King fetched his handkerchief and unknotted it, and gave her his crown and scepter; and she set him at the bellows and made three golden shoes and shod the nag on her two fore-feet and her off hind-foot. But when she looked at the near hind-foot, which the King had shod last of all, she said: “I could not make a better. And therefore, like his father, the Lad shut his smithy, for he is dead.” Then she put the three shoes she had removed into a bag with some other trifles; and while she did so the King took what remained of the gold and made it into two rings. This done, they got on to Pepper’s back, and with her three shoes of gold and one of iron she bore them the way the King had come. When they passed the Bush Hovel they saw the Wise Woman currying her broomstick, and Viola cried:

“Great-Aunt, give us a blessing.”

“Great-Niece,” said the Wise Woman, “how can I give you what you already have? But I will give you this.” And she held out a horseshoe.

“Good gracious,” said the King, “this was once Pepper’s.”

“It was,” said the Wise Woman. “In her merriment at hearing you ask a silly question, she cast it outside my door.” A little further on they came to the Guess Gate, but when the King, dismounting, swung it open, it grated on something in the road. He stooped and lifted--a horseshoe.

“Wonder of wonders!” exclaimed the King. “This also was Pepper’s. What shall we do with it?”

“Hang--it--up--hang--it--up--hang--” creaked the Gate; and clicked home.

In due course they reached the Doves, and at the sound of Pepper’s hoofs the Brothers flocked out to meet them.

“Is all well?” cried the Ringdove, seeing the King only, “And have you returned to us for the final blessing?”

“I have,” replied the King, “for I bring my bride behind me, and now you must make us one.”

The gentle Brothers, rejoicing at the sight of their happiness and their beauty, led them in; and there they were wedded. The Doves offered them to eat, but the King was impatient to reach his Barn by nightfall; so they got again on Pepper’s back, and as they were about to leave the Ringdove said:

“I have something of yours which is in itself a thing of no moment; yet, because it is of good augury, take it with you.”

And he gave the King Pepper’s third shoe.

“Thank you,” said the King, “I will hang it over my Barn door.”

Now he urged Pepper to her full speed, and they went at a gallop past the Hawking Sopers, who, hearing the clatter, came running into the road.

“Stay, gallopers, stay!” they cried, “and make merry with us.”

“We cannot,” called the King, “for we are newly married.”

“Good luck to you then!” shouted the Sopers, and with huzzas and laughter flung something after them. Viola stretched out her hand and caught it in mid-air, and it was a horseshoe.

“The tale is complete,” she laughed, “and now you know where Pepper picked up her stones.”

Soon after the King said, “Here is my Barn.” And he sprang down and lifted his bride from the nag’s back and brought her in.

“It is a poor place,” he said gently, “but it is all I have. What can I do for you in such a home?”

“I will tell you,” said Viola, and putting her hand into her left pocket, she drew out the ruby winking with the wine of mirth. “You can dance in it.” And suddenly they caught each other by the hands and went capering and laughing round the Barn like children.

“Hurrah!” cried William, “now I know what a King should do in a Barn?”

“But he should do more than dance in it,” said Viola; and putting her hand into her right pocket she gave him the pearl, as pure as a prayer; “beloved, he should pray in it too.”

And William looked at her and knelt, and she knelt by him, and in silence they prayed the same prayer, side by side.

Then William rose and said simply, “Now I know.”

But she knelt still, and took from her girdle the diamond, as bright as power, and she put it in his hand, saying very low, “Oh, my dear King! but he should also rule in it.” And she kissed his hand. But the King lifted her very quickly so that she stood equal with his heart, and embracing her he said, with tears in his eyes:

“And you, beloved! what will a Queen do in a Barn?”

“The same as a King,” she whispered, and drew from her bosom the opal, as lovely and as variable as the human spirit. “With the other three stones you may, if you will, buy back your father’s kingdom. But this, which contains all qualities in one, let us keep for ever, for our children and theirs, that they may know there is nothing a King and a Queen may not do in a Barn, or a man and a woman anywhere. But the best thing they can do is to work in it.”

Then, going out, she came back with the bag which she had slung on Pepper’s back, and took from it her father’s tools.

“In three weeks you learned all I learned in three years,” said she. “When I shod Pepper this morning I did my last job as a smith; for now I shall have other work to do. But you, whether you choose to get your father’s lands again or no, I pray to work in the trade I have given you, for I have made you the very king of smiths, and all men should do the thing they can do best. So take the hammer and nail up the horseshoes over the door while I get supper; for you look as hungry as I feel.”

“But there’s nothing to eat,” said the King ruefully.

However, he went outside, and over the door he hung as many shoes as there are nails in one--the four Pepper had cast on the road, and the three he had first made her. As he drove the last nail home Viola called:

“Supper is ready.”

And the King went into the Barn and saw a Wedding Cake.

By permission, from _Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard_ by Eleanor Farjeon. Copyright 1922 by Frederick A. Stokes Company.

THE HAPPY PRINCE

OSCAR WILDE

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.

He was very much admired indeed. “He is as beautiful as a weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful,” he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.

“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.”

“I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,” muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.

“He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.

“How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you have never seen one.”

“Ah! but we have, in our dreams,” answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.

One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.

“Shall I love you?” said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.

“It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other Swallows; “she has no money, and far too many relations”; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away.

After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his ladylove. “She has no conversation,” he said, “and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.” And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. “I admit that she is domestic,” he continued, “but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.”

“Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.

“You have been trifling with me,” he cried, “I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!” and he flew away.

All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. “Where shall I put up?” he said; “I hope the town has made preparations.”

Then he saw the statue on the tall column.

“I will put up there,” he cried; “it is a fine position with plenty of fresh air.” So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.

“I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. “What a curious thing!” he cried; “there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.”

Then another drop fell.

“What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?” he said; “I must look for a good chimney-pot,” and he determined to fly away.

But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw--Ah! what did he see?

The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.

“Who are you?” he said.

“I am the Happy Prince.”

“Why are you weeping then?” asked the Swallow; “you have quite drenched me.”

“When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.”

“What! is he not solid gold?” said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.

“Far away,” continued the statue in a low musical voice, “far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen’s maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.”

“I am waited for in Egypt,” said the Swallow. “My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.”

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.”

“I don’t think I like boys,” answered the Swallow. “Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller’s sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.”

But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. “It is very cold here,” he said; “but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.”

“Thank you, little Swallow,” said the Prince. So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince’s sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.

He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. “How wonderful the stars are,” he said to her, “and how wonderful is the power of love!”

“I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,” she answered; “I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.”

He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman’s thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy’s forehead with his wings. “How cool I feel,” said the boy, “I must be getting better”; and he sank into a delicious slumber.

Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. “It is curious,” he remarked, “but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.”

“That is because you have done a good action,” said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.

When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. “What a remarkable phenomenon,” said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. “A swallow in winter!” And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.

“To-night I go to Egypt,” said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, “What a distinguished stranger!” so he enjoyed himself very much.

When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.

“Have you any commissions for Egypt?” he cried; “I am just starting.”

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay with me one night longer?”

“I am waited for in Egypt,” answered the Swallow. “To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water’s edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.”

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.”

“I will wait with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. “Shall I take him another ruby?”

“Alas! I have no ruby now,” said the Prince; “my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.”

“Dear Prince,” said the Swallow, “I cannot do that”; and he began to weep.

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

So the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye, and flew away to the student’s garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird’s wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.

“I am beginning to be appreciated,” he cried; “this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,” and he looked quite happy.

The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. “Heave a-hoy!” they shouted as each chest came up. “I am going to Egypt,” cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.

“I am come to bid you good-bye,” he cried.

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay with me one night longer?”

“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 and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. 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 bring 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; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hand; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.

“Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. 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; the living always think that gold can make them happy.”

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

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, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.

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 when the baker was not looking, 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-bye, 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 you must 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 the House of 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 right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.

Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. 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 Councillors, 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, and he is golden no longer,” said the Mayor; “in fact, he is little better than a beggar!”

“Little better than a beggar,” said the Town Councillors.

“And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!” continued the Mayor. “We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.” And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.

So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. “As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,” said the Art Professor at the University.

Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. “We must have another statue, of course,” he said, “and it shall be a statue of myself.”

“Of myself,” said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.

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

“You have rightly chosen,” said God, “for 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, _A House of Pomegranates, The Happy Prince and Other Tales_.

TRUTH

OLIVE SCHREINER

“‘In certain valleys there was a hunter. Day by day he went to hunt for wild-fowl in the woods; and it chanced that once he stood on the shores of a large lake. While he stood waiting in the rushes, for the coming of the birds, a great shadow fell on him, and in the water he saw a reflection. He looked up to the sky; but the thing was gone. Then a burning desire came over him to see once again that reflection in the water, and all day he watched and waited; but night came, and it had not returned. Then he went home with his empty bag, moody and silent. His comrades came questioning about him to know the reason, but he answered them nothing; he sat alone and brooded. Then his friend came to him, and to him he spoke.

“‘I have seen today,’ he said ‘that which I never saw before--a vast white bird, with silver wings out-stretched, sailing in the everlasting blue. And now it is as though a great fire burned within my breast. It was but a sheen, a shimmer, a reflection in the water; but now I desire nothing more on earth than to hold her.’”

“His friend laughed.

“‘It was but a beam playing in the water, or the shadow of your own head. To-morrow you will forget her,’ he said.

“But to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow the hunter walked alone. He sought in the forest and in the woods, by the lakes and among the rushes, but he could not find her. He shot no more wild-fowl; what were they to him?

“‘What ails him?’ said his comrades.

“‘He is mad,’ said one.

“‘No; but he is worse,’ said another; ‘he would see that which none of us have seen, and make himself a wonder.’

“‘Come, let us forswear his company,’ said all.

“So the hunter walked alone.

“One night, as he wandered in the shade, very heartsore and weeping, an old man stood before him, grander and taller than the sons of men.

“‘Who are you?’ asked the hunter.

“‘I am Wisdom,’ answered the old man; ‘but some men called me Knowledge. All my life I have grown in these valleys; but no man sees me till he has sorrowed much. The eyes must be washed with tears that are to behold me; and, according as a man has suffered, I speak.’

“And the hunter cried, ‘Oh, you who have lived here so long, tell me, what is that great wild bird I have seen sailing in the blue? They would have me believe she is a dream; the shadow of my own head.’

“The old man smiled.

“‘Her name is Truth. He who has once seen her never rests again. Till death he desires her.’

“And the hunter cried, ‘Oh, tell me where I may find her.’

“But the man said, ‘You have not suffered enough,’ and went.

“Then the hunter took from his breast the Shuttle of Imagination, and wound on it the thread of his Wishes; and all night he sat and wove a net.

“In the morning he spread the golden net open on the ground, and into it he threw a few grains of Credulity, which his father had left him, and which he kept in his breast-pocket. They were like white puff-balls, and when you trod on them a brown dust flew out. Then he sat by to see what would happen. The first that came into the net was a snow-white bird, with dove’s eyes, and he sang a beautiful song, ‘A human-God! a human-God! a human-God!’ it sang. The second that came was black and mystical, with dark, lovely eyes, that looked into the depths of your soul, and he sang only this, ‘Immortality!’

“And the hunter took them both in his arms, for he said, ‘They are surely of the beautiful Family of Truth.’

“Then came another, green and gold, who sang in a shrill voice, like one crying in the market-place, ‘Reward after Death! Reward after Death!’

“And he said, ‘You are not so fair; but you are fair too,’ and he took it.

“And others came, brightly colored, singing pleasant songs, till all the grains were finished. And the hunter gathered all his birds together, and built a strong iron cage called a new creed, and put all his birds in it.

“Then the people came about, dancing and singing.

“‘Oh, happy hunter!’ they cried. ‘Oh, wonderful man! Oh, delightful birds! Oh, lovely songs!’

“No one asked where the birds had come from, nor how they had been caught; but they danced and sang before them, and the hunter too was glad, for he said, ‘Surely Truth is among them. In time she will moult her feathers, and I shall see her snow-white form.’

“But the time passed, and the people sang and danced; but the hunter’s heart grew heavy. He crept alone, as of old, to weep; the terrible desire had awakened again in his breast. One day, as he sat alone weeping, it chanced that Wisdom met him. He told the old man what he had done.

“And Wisdom smiled sadly.

“‘Many men,’ he said, ‘have spread that net for Truth; but they have never found her. On the grains of Credulity she will not feed; in the net of Wishes her feet cannot be held; in the air of these valleys she will not breathe. The birds you have caught are of the brood of Lies. Lovely and beautiful, but still lies; Truth knows them not.’

“And the hunter cried out in bitterness,----

“‘And must I then sit still, to be devoured of this great burning?’

“And the old man said: ‘Listen, and in that you have suffered much and wept much, I will tell you what I know. He who sets out to search for Truth must leave these valleys of Superstition forever, taking with him not one shred that has belonged to them. Alone he must wander down into the land of Absolute Negation and Denial; he must abide there; he must resist temptation; when the light breaks he must arise and follow it into the country of Dry Sunshine. The mountains of Stern Reality will rise before him; he must climb them; beyond them lies Truth.’

“‘And he will hold her fast! He will hold her in his hands!’ the hunter cried.

“Wisdom shook his head.

“‘He will never see her, never hold her. The time is not yet.’

“‘Then there is no hope?’ cried the hunter.

“‘There is this,’ said Wisdom. ‘Some men have climbed on those mountains; circle above circle of bare rock they have scaled; and wandering there in those high regions some have chanced to pick up on the ground, one white, silver feather dropped from the wing of Truth. And it shall come to pass,’ said the old man, raising himself prophetically and pointing with his finger to the sky, ‘it shall come to pass, that, when enough of those silver feathers shall have been gathered by the hands of men, and shall have been woven into a cord, and the cord into a net, that in _that_ net Truth may be captured. _Nothing but Truth can hold Truth.’_

“The hunter arose. ‘I will go,’ he said.

“But Wisdom detained him.

“‘Mark you well--who leaves these valleys never returns to them. Though he should weep tears of blood seven days and nights upon the confines, he can never put his foot across them. Left,--they, are left forever. Upon the road which you would travel, there is no reward offered. Who goes, goes freely, for the great love that is in him. The work is his reward.’

“‘I go,’ said the hunter; ‘but upon the mountains, tell me, which path shall I take?’

“‘I am the child of The-Accumulated-Knowledge-of Ages,’ said the man; ‘I can walk only where many men have trodden. On those mountains few feet have passed; each man strikes out a path for himself. He goes at his own peril; my voice he hears no more. I may follow after him, but I cannot go before him.’

“Then Knowledge vanished.

“And the hunter turned. He went to his cage, and with his hands broke down the bars, and jagged iron tore his flesh. It is sometimes easier to build than to break.

“One by one he took his plumed birds, and let them fly. But, when he came to his dark-plumed bird, he held it, and looked into its beautiful eyes, and the bird uttered its low deep cry,--‘Immortality!’

“And he said quickly, ‘I cannot part with it. It is not heavy; it eats no food. I will hide it in my breast; I will take it with me.’ And he buried it there, and covered it over with his cloak.

“But the thing he had hidden grew heavier, heavier, heavier,--till it lay on his breast like lead. He could not move with it. He could not leave those valleys with it. Then again he took it out, and looked at it.

“‘Oh, my beautiful, my heart’s own!’ he cried, ‘may I not keep you?’

“He opened his hands sadly.

“‘Go,’ he said. ‘It may happen that in Truth’s song one note is like to yours; but I shall never hear it.’

“Sadly he opened his hand, and the bird flew from him forever.

“Then from the Shuttle of Imagination he took the thread of his Wishes and threw it on the ground, and the empty shuttle he put into his breast; for the thread was made in those valleys, but the shuttle came from an unknown country. He turned to go; but now the people came about him, howling.

“‘Fool, hound, demented lunatic!’ they cried. ‘How dared you break your cage and let the birds fly?’

“The hunter spoke; but they would not hear him.

“‘Truth! who is she? Can you eat her? Can you drink her? Who has ever seen her? Your birds were real; all could hear them sing. Oh, fool, vile reptile, atheist!’ they cried, ‘you pollute the air.’

“‘Come, let us take up stones and stone him!’ cried some.

“‘What affair is it of ours?’ said others. ‘Let the idiot go!’ and went away. But the rest gathered up stones and mud, and threw at him. At last, when he was bruised and cut, the hunter crept away into the woods. And it was evening about him.”

At every word the stranger spoke the fellow’s eyes flashed back on him,--yes, and yes, and yes. The stranger smiled. It was almost worth the trouble of exerting oneself, even on a lazy afternoon, to win those passionate flashes, more thirsty and desiring than the love-glances of a woman.

“He wandered on and on,” said the stranger, “and the shade grew deeper. He was on the borders now of the land where it is always night. Then he stepped into it, and there was no light there. With his hands he groped; but each branch, as he touched it, broke off, and the earth was covered with cinders. At every step his foot sank in, and a fine cloud of impalpable ashes flew up into his face; and it was dark. So he sat down upon a stone, and buried his face in his hands, to wait in that land of Negation and Denial till the light came.

“And it was night in his heart also.

“Then from the marshes to his right and left cold mists arose, and closed about him. A fine imperceptible rain fell in the dark, and great drops gathered on his hair and clothes. His heart beat slowly, and a numbness crept through all his limbs. Then, looking up, two merry whisp lights came dancing. He lifted his head to look at them. Nearer, nearer, they came. So warm, so bright, they danced like stars of fire. They stood before him at last. From the centre of the radiating flame in one looked out a woman’s face, laughing, dimpled, with streaming yellow hair. In the centre of the other were merry laughing ripples, like the bubbles on a glass of wine. They danced before him.

“‘Who are you,’ asked the hunter, ‘who alone come to me in my solitude and darkness?’

“‘We are the twins Sensuality!’ they cried. ‘Our father’s name is Human-Nature, and our mother’s name is Excess. We are as old as the hills and rivers,--as old as the first man; but we never die,’ they laughed.

“‘Oh, let me wrap my arms about you!’ cried the first; ‘they are soft and warm. Your heart is frozen now, but I will make it beat. Oh, come to me!’

“‘I will pour my hot life into you,’ said the second; ‘your brain is numb, and your limbs are dead now, but they shall live with a fierce free fire. Oh, let me pour it in!’

“‘Oh, follow us!’ they cried, ‘and live with us. Nobler hearts than yours have sat here in this darkness to wait; and they have come to us and we to them, and they have never left us,--never. All else is a delusion; but we are real, we are real. Truth is a shadow; the valleys of Superstition are a farce; the earth is of ashes, the trees all rotten; but we--feel us--we live! You cannot doubt us. Feel us, how warm we are! Oh, come to us! come to us!’

“Nearer and nearer round his head they hovered, and the cold drops melted on his forehead. The bright light shot into his eyes, dazzling him, and the frozen blood began to run. And he said,----

“‘Yes; why should I die here in this awful darkness? They are warm, they melt my frozen blood!’ and he stretched out his hands to take them.

“Then in a moment there arose before him the image of the thing he had loved, and his hand dropped to his side.

“‘Oh, come to us!’ they cried.

“But he buried his face.

“‘You dazzle my eyes,’ he cried, ‘you make my heart warm; but you cannot give me what I desire. I will wait here,--wait till I die. Go!’

“He covered his face with his hands, and would not listen; and when he looked up again they were two twinkling stars, that vanished in the distance.

“And the long, long night rolled on.

“All who leave the valley of Superstition pass through that dark land; but some go through it in a few days, some linger there for months, some for years, and some die there.

The boy had crept closer; his hot breath almost touched the stranger’s hand; a mystic wonder filled his eyes.

“At last for the hunter a faint light played along the horizon, and he rose to follow it; and he reached that light at last, and stepped into the broad sunshine. Then before him rose the almighty mountains of Dry-facts and Realities. The clear sunshine played on them, and the tops were lost in the clouds. At the foot many paths ran up. An exultant cry burst from the hunter. He chose the straightest, and began to climb; and the rocks and ridges resounded with his song. They had exaggerated; after all, it was not so high, nor was the road so steep! A few days, a few weeks, a few months at most, and then the top! Not one feather only would he pick up; he would gather all that other men had found,--weave the net,--capture Truth,--hold her fast,--touch her with his hands,--clasp her!

“He laughed in the merry sunshine, and sang loud. Victory was very near. Nevertheless after a while the path grew steeper. He needed all his breath for climbing, and the singing died away. On the right and left rose huge rocks, devoid of lichen or moss, and in the lava-like earth chasms yawned. Here and there he saw a sheen of white bones. Now too the path began to grow less and less marked; then it became a mere trace, with a foot-mark here and there; then it ceased altogether. He sang no more, but struck forth a path for himself, until he reached a mighty wall of rock, smooth and without break, stretching as far as the eye could see. ‘I will rear a stair against it; and, once this wall climbed, I shall be almost there,’ he said bravely; and worked. With his Shuttle of Imagination he dug out stones; but half of them would not fit, and half a month’s work would roll down because those below were ill-chosen. But the hunter worked on, saying always to himself, ‘Once this wall climbed, I shall be almost there. This great work ended!’

“At last he came out upon the top, and he looked about him. Far below rolled the white mist over the valleys of Superstition, and above him towered the mountains. They had seemed low before; they were of an immeasurable height now, from crown to foundation surrounded by walls of rock, that rose tier above tier in mighty circles. Upon them played the eternal sunshine. He uttered a wild cry. He bowed himself on to the earth, and when he rose his face was white. In absolute silence he walked on. He was very silent now. In those high regions the rarefied air is hard to breathe by those born in the valleys; every breath he drew hurt him, and the blood oozed out from the tips of his fingers. Before the next wall of rock he began to work. The height of this seemed infinite, and he said nothing. The sound of his tool rang night and day upon the iron rocks into which he cut steps. Years passed over him, yet he worked on; but the wall towered up always above him to heaven. Sometimes he prayed that a little moss or lichen might spring up on those bare walls to be a companion to him; but it never came.” The stranger watched the boy’s face.

“And the years rolled on; he counted them by the steps he had cut--a few for a year--only a few. He sang no more; he said no more, ‘I will do this or that’--he only worked. And at night when the twilight settled down, there looked out at him from the holes and crevices in the rocks strange wild faces.

“‘Stop your work, you lonely man, and speak to us,’ they cried.

“‘My salvation is in work. If I should stop but for one moment, you would creep down upon me,’ he replied. And they put out their long necks farther.

“‘Look down into the crevices at your feet,’ they said. ‘See what lies there,--white bones! As brave and strong a man as you climbed to these rocks. And he looked up. He saw there was no use in striving; he would never hold Truth, never see her, never find her. So he lay down here, for he was very tired. He went to sleep forever. He put himself to sleep. Sleep is very tranquil. You are not lonely when you are asleep, neither do your hands ache, nor your heart.’ And the hunter laughed between his teeth.

“‘Have I torn from my heart all that was dearest; have I wandered alone in the land of night; have I resisted temptation; have I dwelt where the voice of my kind is never heard, and labored alone, to lie down and be food for you, ye harpies?’

“He laughed fiercely; and the echoes of Despair slunk away, for the laugh of a brave, strong heart is as a death-blow to them.

“Nevertheless they crept out again, and looked at him.

“‘Do you know that your hair is white?’ they said, ‘that your hands begin to tremble like a child’s. Do you see that the point of your Shuttle is gone? It is cracked already. If you should ever climb this stair,’ they said, ‘it will be your last. You will never climb another.’

“And he answered, ‘I know it!’ and worked on.

“The old, thin hands cut the stones ill and jaggedly, for the fingers were stiff and bent. The beauty and the strength of the man was gone.

“At last an old, wizened, shrunken face looked out above the rocks. It saw the eternal mountains rise with walls to the white clouds; but its work was done.

“The old hunter folded his tired hands, and lay down by the precipice where he had worked away his life. It was the sleeping time at last. Below him over the valleys rolled the thick white mist. Once it broke; and through the gap the dying eyes looked down on the trees and fields of their childhood. From afar seemed born to him the cry of his own wild birds, and he heard the noise of people singing as they danced. And he thought he heard among them the voices of his old comrades; and he saw far off the sunlight shine on his early home. And great tears gathered in the hunter’s eyes.

“‘Ah! they who die there do not die alone,’ he cried.

“Then the mists rolled together again, and he turned his eyes away.

“‘I have sought,’ he said, ‘for long years I have labored; but I have not found her. I have not rested, I have not ripened, and I have not seen her; now my strength is gone. Where I lie down worn out, other men will stand, young and fresh. By the steps that I have cut they will climb; by the stairs that I have built they will mount. They will never know the name of the man who made them. At the clumsy work they will laugh; when the stones roll, they will curse me. But they will mount, and on _my_ work; they will climb, and by _my_ stair. They will find her, and through me. And no man liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.’

“The tears rolled from beneath the shrivelled eyelids. If Truth had appeared above him in the clouds now, he could not have seen her; the mist of death was in his eyes.

“‘My soul hears their glad step coming,’ he said; ‘and they shall mount! they shall mount!’ He raised his shrivelled hand to his eyes.

“Then slowly from the white sky above, through the still air, came something falling, falling, falling. Softly it fluttered down, and dropped on to the breast of the dying man. He felt it with his hands. It was a feather. He died holding it.”

Olive Schreiner, _The Story of an African Farm_.

A PARABLE FOR PHILANTHROPISTS

Christopher and I were motoring through the Adirondacks; and, on the morning in question, were traversing an unusually long stretch of unbroken wilderness. For ten or fifteen miles we had passed not a cottage, not a camp, not even a trail. Nothing but forest on both sides of the road--wild, tangled forest, beautiful, fragrant, and infinitely lonely. Its silence had fallen upon us. We felt as if we had escaped forever from the troubled haunts of men, and could never again be confronted with human problems. We drove slowly, with only a half apprehensive eye on the gray sky, which threatened rain.

I was just thinking that it was strange we saw so little evidence of the wild animal life with which the woods must abound, when suddenly, like an answer to my mental challenge, there came a little stir in the bushes ahead of us. A tiny, discreet stir. No suggestion of a bear or a deer. Perhaps a hedgehog, however. As we passed, I looked closely and, to my astonishment, saw, not a hedgehog, not even a rabbit or a squirrel, but--of all things, in that uninhabited wilderness--a shrinking, small gray kitten. I could hardly have been more surprised by the appearance of a woodchuck on Fifth Avenue.

Christopher saw it as soon as I did, and he slid into neutral and stopped the car. An indignant and disdainful look crept about his mouth. I knew what he was thinking. We live in a summer-resorted valley ourselves,--and we have had incredulously disgusting experience with people who abandon pet cats when they close their cottages. But not out in the wilderness like this, at the mercy of all kinds of dangers, and so little and helpless, its mother’s milk scarcely dry on its mouth. I was so angry that I could not speak, as I got out of the car and went back along the road.

“I don’t know what in the world we’ll do with it,” said Christopher.

The point was well taken. We were planning to spend the night in a hotel. Neither of us hesitated, however. Our duty seemed clear.

“I suppose we can leave it at some camp or farmhouse,” I suggested.

“And pay them for taking care of it!” Christopher added, ironically.

The kitten remained just where we had discovered it until we were near enough to look it in the eye. It had evidently been a pet. Its fur was sleek and its face wore the open, candid expression peculiar to well-bred cats. It seemed glad to see us. Steadfastly it returned our gaze, and its pink mouth opened in a plaintive meow.

“Kitty!” I murmured. I’m fond of cats, and this one quite went to my heart. “Pick her up for me, Christopher. I’ll hold her while you drive.”

So Christopher went to pick her up, and for the next hour and a half he continued to repeat the motion.

Who could have believed it would be so hard to make connections with a pet kitten? She was not afraid of us. On the contrary, the minute we let her alone, she came stealing back to the side of the road where she could see us and call to us. But she simply could not make up her mind to let us rescue her.

First Christopher tried, with a confident method which left him staring rather foolishly at his unexpectedly empty hand. Then I tried.

“That’s not the way. Evidently, she’s been out here long enough to get frightened. Poor little thing! We must coax her into confidence.”

So Christopher sat down on a rock and lighted a cigarette while, slowly, slowly, discoursing, “Poor kitty! nice kitty!” in my most mellifluous accents. I crossed the road and approached the spot where the kitten crouched. It took me at least ten minutes, and, in the end, she slipped from beneath my very fingers. My discomfiture was worse than Christopher’s, for the retreating ball of fur turned and spat at me.

“Hard luck!” said Christopher, sympathetically, if also a little critically, “when you so nearly had her. I’ll try again next; but we’d better sit still for a while till she gets over her scare.”

As we sat waiting, it became evident that it really was going to rain. In fact, already a fine mist was in the air.

“Those bushes will soon be nice and wet,” remarked Christopher.

“Well,” I replied, much subdued, “she’s near the edge now. Go and get her, and get it over with.”

Three minutes later, after a slow approach followed by a plunge on Christopher’s part, the kitten was in the heart of the forest.

“Oh, I say!” cried Christopher. “This is hopeless. We might stay here all day and all night and all another day. Don’t you think we’d better conclude that we’ve done our best? After all, there are plenty of mice and grass-hoppers in the woods.”

I recognized this as sound, sensible masculine advice, and I longed to accept it. The prospect of spending indefinite hours dodging about tangled bushes in the rain was not exhilarating. Moreover, the next inn was leagues ahead, and we were hungry. But the sentiment of my sex was too much for me.

“I’m afraid I could never look Shem in the face again,” I murmured.

Shem is our yellow cat at home.

Christopher was admirable. He always is, but on this occasion he outdid himself. He said nothing further, but took off his hat and coat, turned up his trousers, and went to work. For nearly an hour he pursued that kitten, trying every method he could think of or I could suggest. He stalked and coaxed, he waited and plunged, he withdrew, he circumvented and headed off. The rain fell steadily, and the bushes more than fulfilled their promise of wetness. I was very unhappy. After all, I care more about Christopher than about kittens. But something of the kitten’s perversity had infected me. As she could not bring herself to be caught, so I could not bring myself to abandon her.

“Well,” said Christopher finally (he spoke carefully; for the last half hour when he had said anything at all, he had said it carefully), “I’m going to make one more effort, and then----”

It was a thorough effort. He made a wide détour about the kitten’s position, entering a part of the forest which he had not penetrated before, and was about to close in on the maddening outcast, when, to my perplexity, he suddenly desisted from the whole undertaking and returned to the road, shaking the rain from his hair and turning down his trousers with as dark an air of disgust as I have ever seen. I wanted to ask, “What in the world is the matter?” but I thought I’d better not.

He told me, however, presently. The situation was one which just had to be shared. “There’s a trail over there,” he said concisely, “leading to an occupied camp. We’ve spent the morning trying to kidnap that kitten.”

Perhaps there is nothing more to be said. Certainly Christopher and I said nothing for many miles. I was too humbly chastened, and he was too--well, let us call it considerate. But we did some thinking; and, after a most opportunely good dinner at an unexpected wayside inn, I was relieved to hear Christopher begin to meditate aloud.

“It wasn’t crying at all,” he reflected. “It was just saying, as its mother had taught it, ‘Welcome to our mountain home.’ How embarrassed it must have been!”

“And frightened,” I added. “No wonder I thought it looked scared. Several times we nearly had it.”

“Well,” Christopher concluded, with a grave glance at me, “philanthropy’s a ticklish business.”

By kind permission of _The Atlantic Monthly_.

THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG

“Be ashamed of yourself,” said the frog. “When I was a tadpole, I had no tail.”

“Just what I thought!” said the tadpole. “You never were a tadpole.”

Robert Louis Stevenson. _Fables._ By permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons, the authorized publishers.

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF FAIRY TALES, ALLEGORIES, PARABLES, AND FABLES

The editors have found the additional selections very useful in teaching these forms of narrative:

Andersen, Hans Christian. _Fairy Tales._

Æsop. _Fables._

Frazer, Lady. _Leaves from the Golden Bough._ The Macmillan Company.

La Fontaine. _Fables._

Schreiner, Olive. _Dreams._

Stephens, James. _Irish Fairy Tales._ The Macmillan Company.

Stevenson, Robert Louis. _Fables_, particularly _The Cart Horse and Saddle Horse_ and _The Sinking Ship_. Charles Scribner’s Sons.