Part 3

You may be sure that Teddy and Tilly were in a dreadful fright on hearing this, as they did not want to be boiled; but, in spite of all their cries, Dunderhead took them up to the great hall of his castle, and set them down on the table.

They were so fat and juicy that the Giant cried tears of joy at the prospect of having a good supper, and as his tears gushed out in a great torrent, Gillydrop, who had been waiting for this, plunged into the torrent to get his clothes cleaned again. Much to his dismay, however, the more he washed in the hot tears, the redder grew his clothes, until he was just the colour of the scarlet bean blossom.

“You told me a story,” said Gillydrop to the giant when he saw how red he was getting.

“I know I did,” said Dunderhead, drying his eyes, for he had now wept enough, and was growing hungry; “but if I hadn’t told you a story, I wouldn’t have got any supper. You’ll never be green again, so don’t trouble your head. I’m going to get some wood to cook these nice fat children.”

On hearing this, Teddy and Tilly roared like bulls, and Gillydrop roared too, for he was afraid he would never be able to go back to Faeryland in his red clothes; but the giant only laughed at them, and went out to light a fire under his big kettle.

Gillydrop was naturally very cross with the giant for having deceived him, and determined to punish him for having done so. Bringing the two children to Dunderhead for his supper could not be the kindly deed he had to do, or else he would have turned green again; so Gillydrop made up his mind to take Teddy and Tilly back to earth, and thus leave Dunderhead without his supper. While he was thus making up his mind, seated at one end of the table, the two children, seated at the other end, were crying bitterly at the plight in which they now found themselves, for it certainly is not a nice thing to be boiled for an ogre’s supper.

“Poor mother!” wailed Tilly, weeping; “she’ll miss us so much.”

“I don’t know if she will,” replied Teddy dolefully; “we’ve always been so naughty, I daresay she’ll be glad we’ve gone.”

“Oh no, she won’t,” said Tilly, nodding her head; “she loves us too much for that; but if we could get back I’d be so good.”

“And so would I,” cried Teddy; and then they both wept again, while Gillydrop, seeing their tears, wept also out of sheer sympathy.

“Perhaps the giant will only eat one of us,” said Tilly after a pause; “so while one of us is boiling, the other must run away and go back to comfort mother.”

“Who will be boiled?” asked Teddy sadly. “Will you, Tilly?”

“I don’t like being boiled,” answered Tilly, with a shudder. “I’m sure it isn’t nice.”

“Well, I don’t like being boiled either,” observed Teddy. “Suppose we draw lots who is to run away.”

“Yes, that would be fair,” said Tilly, drying her eyes; “and the one who wins must go back to cheer mother.”

Gillydrop was quite sorry now that he had brought them for Dunderhead’s supper, when he heard how they regretted their mother; so he made up his mind to save them.

“You shall neither of you be boiled,” he said, walking up to them across the table, which was like a large plain. “I will take you back to your mother.”

“But how?” asked Teddy and Tilly, both together. “We cannot go back across the sea alone.”

“Oh yes, you can,” replied the Red Elf. “I brought you here, and can send you back; that is, if I only had a leaf.”

“Here is one,” cried Tilly eagerly, pulling a faded leaf out of her pocket. “I picked it up in the wood to-day, it had such pretty red and yellow colours.”

“Oh, that will do for a boat,” said Gillydrop joyfully.

“But it’s so small,” objected Teddy.

“I’ll make it large enough,” said the elf. “You’ll see.”

“But how can we go on without sails or oars?” said Tilly timidly.

“You don’t need any,” rejoined Gillydrop, laughing; “you know every tree has power to draw back its own leaves. The boat we came in was a leaf, and, as soon as it was launched on the air, it went straight back to the tree in the Country of the Giants upon which it had grown; and as this leaf comes from a tree on earth, it will go straight back to its tree.”

“Then we can get home,” cried Tilly, clapping her hands, “for the tree isn’t far from mother’s cottage.”

“Mind, you are never to be naughty again,” said Gillydrop solemnly.

“Oh, no, no!” cried both children.

“And be very, very good to your mother.”

“Yes, yes! We’ll be very good.”

“Then go down to the beach by the path,” said Gillydrop, spreading his wings. “I’ll fly down and get the boat ready; be quick, or the giant will return.”

Then he flew away through the open window, and Teddy scrambled down the steep path, followed by Tilly, both of them in a great fright lest the giant should catch sight of them and pop them into his big kettle. When they reached the beach, they found Gillydrop had launched the leaf, which had now been transformed into a beautiful red and yellow coloured boat.

“Good-bye,” said Gillydrop, as soon as they were comfortably seated in the boat. “I’m sorry I brought you here, but it will do you no harm, as it will teach you to be good. Mind you don’t quarrel in the boat—if you do, the leaf will vanish, and you’ll sink for ever in the black waves.”

“Oh, we’ll be very, very good,” promised both the children eagerly, and then Gillydrop gave the boat a push, so that it moved rapidly away from the land, leaving him seated on the beach, a lonely little red figure.

Teddy and Tilly were rather afraid at finding themselves alone in the darkness, but they kissed one another, and fell asleep, while the leaf-boat sailed rapidly over the Sea of Darkness towards its parent tree. When the children awoke, they found themselves lying on the ground under the tree, and there above them was their red and yellow boat, hanging, a red and yellow leaf, on a high bough.

“Now we’ll go home,” cried Tilly, jumping up; “now we’ll go home to mother.”

“And be very good,” said Teddy, also rising.

“Yes; very, very good,” replied Tilly. And then, taking one another’s hands, they ran home to their cottage through the dark forest.

Dame Alice, who thought they had lost themselves in the wood, was very glad to see them, and, after she had kissed them, gave them a good supper of bread and milk, which they enjoyed very much, for you see they were very hungry with the long journey.

They told Dame Alice all their adventures, and she was very glad they had gone to the Giants’ Country, for she guessed, like the wise mother she was, that this was the lesson the faeries had foretold.

Ever afterwards, Teddy and Tilly were good children; there never were two such good children, because they thought, if they were not good, they would be taken back to the Giants’ Country and boiled for an ogre’s supper. But after a time they liked to do good actions because they found it pleasant, and Dame Alice was so pleased with their behaviour that she made a rhyme about them, which soon passed into a proverb:

“The magic power of a faery Cures a child when quite contrary.”

III.

HOW THE RED ELF RETURNED TO FAERYLAND.

WHEN Gillydrop saw the magic boat disappear into the darkness of the sea, he thought that, now he had done one kindly deed, his clothes would change from red to green, and he would be able to return to his dear Faeryland. But nothing of the sort occurred, and the poor elf began to cry again, thinking he was lost for ever, but this time his tears were not red, which was a good sign, although he did not know it.

Very soon he heard Dunderhead roaring for the loss of his supper, so, drying his eyes, he flew back again to the hall of the castle, to see what the giant was doing. He found a great fire was lighted, over which was suspended a great kettle filled with water, which was now boiling hot. Dunderhead was searching everywhere for the children, and when he saw Gillydrop he shook his great fist at him.

“Where’s my supper, you red rag?” he roared fiercely.

“Your supper has gone back to earth,” replied Gillydrop angrily, for no one likes to be called a red rag. “You told me a story, so I thought I’d punish you.”

“Oh, did you?” bellowed Dunderhead, in a rage. “Then I’ll punish you also for spoiling my supper.” And before Gillydrop could fly away, he caught him in his great hand and popped him into the boiling water.

Oh, it was terribly hot, and Gillydrop thought it was all over with him; but, being a Faery, he could not be killed, as the foolish giant might have known. He sank down, down, right to the bottom of the great kettle, and then arose once more to the top. As soon as he found his head above water, he sprang out of the kettle and flew away high above the head of Dunderhead, who could only shake his fist at him.

To his delight and surprise, Gillydrop found his clothes had all changed from red to green, and instead of being dressed in crimson, his suit was now of a beautiful emerald colour. He was so delighted that he flew down on to the floor of the hall, and began to dance and sing, while the giant joined in as he tried to catch him; so that they had quite a duet.

_Gillydrop._ Now I’m gay instead of sad, For I’m good instead of bad: Dreadful lessons I have had. _Giant._ I will catch and beat you!

_Gillydrop._ Tho’ a naughty elf I’ve been, Now my clothes are nice and clean: I dance once more a faery green. _Giant._ I will catch and eat you!

But you see he could not do that, because Gillydrop was too quick for him, and flew round the hall, laughing at Dunderhead, who roared with anger. Then the elf flew out on to the terrace which overlooked the Sea of Darkness, followed by the giant. Gillydrop flew down on to the beach to escape the ogre, and Dunderhead tried to follow; but, as he could not fly, he fell right into the Sea of Darkness. Dear me! what a terrible splash he made! The waves arose as high as the castle walls, but then they settled down again over Dunderhead, who was suffocated in the black billows. He was the very last of the giants, and now his bones lie white and gleaming in the depths of the Sea of Darkness, where nobody will ever find them—nor do I think any one would trouble to look for them.

As for Gillydrop, now that Dunderhead was dead, he flew away across the dreary plain towards Faeryland, and soon arrived at the borders of the sullen grey sea which still rolled under the pale light of the moon. Gillydrop was not a bit afraid now, because his clothes were green once more, and he had performed one kindly deed; so he sat down on the seashore and sang this song:

“When from Faeryland I fled, All my nice clothes turned to red; Now in emerald suit I stand— Take me back to Faeryland.”

And as he sang the grey ocean faded away, and in its place he saw the green trees of the faery forest, waving their branches in the silver moonlight. Only a bright sparkling stream now flowed between Gillydrop and Faeryland; so, spreading his silver and blue wings, he flew across the water, singing gaily:

“Thanks, dear Oberon. At last All my naughtiness is past; Home I come without a stain, And will never roam again.”

So at last Gillydrop got back to Faeryland after all his trials, and ever afterwards was one of the most contented elves ever known. You may be sure he never wanted to see the Country of the Giants again, and whatever King Oberon said he did willingly, because he knew it must be right.

He was quite a hero among the faeries, and had the honour of telling all his adventures to King Oberon himself, which he did so nicely that the King gave him a title, and ever afterwards he was called “Sir Gillydrop the Fearless.”

SHADOWLAND

IT was Christmas Eve, and the snow, falling heavily over a great city, was trying to hide with its beautiful white robe all the black, ugly houses and the narrow, muddy streets. The gas lamps stood up proudly, each on its tall post, and cast their yellow light on the crowds of people hurrying along with their arms filled with many lovely presents for good children.

“They are poor things,” said the gas lamps scornfully. “If we did not shed our light upon them, they would be lost in the streets.”

“Ah, but the people you despise made you,” cried the church bells, which were calling the people to prayer. “They made you—they made you, and gave you your beautiful yellow crowns.”

But the street lamps said nothing, because they could not deny what the church bells said, and instead of acknowledging that they owed all their beauty to the people they despised, remained obstinately silent.

Near one of these lamp-posts, at the end of a street, stood a ragged boy, who shivered dreadfully in his old clothes, and stamped about to keep himself warm. The boy’s name was Tom, and he was a crossing-sweeper, as could be seen by his well-worn broom. He was very cold and very hungry, for he had not earned a copper all day, and the gaily-dressed army of people swept selfishly past him, thinking only of their Christmas dinners and warm homes.

The snowflakes fell from the leaden-coloured sky like great white angels, to tell the earth that Christ would be born again on that night, but Tom did not have any such ideas, as he was quite ignorant of angels, and even of the birth of the child-Christ. He only looked upon the snow as a cold and cruel thing, which made him shiver with pain, and was a great trouble to brush away from his crossing.

And overhead the mellow bells clashed out their glad tidings in the bitterly chill air, while below, in the warm, well-lighted churches, the organ rolled out its hymns of praise, and the worshippers said to one another, “Christ is born again.”

But poor Tom!

Ah, how cold and hungry he was, standing in the bright glare of the lamp, with his rags drawn closely round him for protection against the falling snow. The throng of people grew thinner and thinner, the gaily-decorated shops put up their shutters, the lights died out in the painted windows of the churches, the bells were silent, and only poor Tom remained in the deserted, lonely streets, with the falling snowflakes changing him to a white statue.

He was thinking about going to his garret, when a gentleman, wrapped in furs, passed along quickly, and just as he came near Tom, dropped his purse, but, not perceiving his loss, walked on rapidly through the driving snow. Tom’s first idea was to pick the purse up and restore it to its owner, whom Tom knew very well by sight, for he was a poet, who daily passed by Tom’s crossing. Then Tom paused for a moment as he thought of all the beautiful things the money in that purse would buy; while he hesitated, the poet disappeared in the darkness of the night, so Tom was left alone with the purse at his feet.

There it lay, a black object on the pure white snow, and as Tom picked it up, he felt that it was filled with money. Oh, how many things of use to him could that money buy—bread and meat and a cup of warm coffee—which would do him good. Tom slipped it into his pocket, and thought he would buy something to eat; but just at that moment he seemed to hear a whisper in the air,—

“Thou shalt not steal.”

With a start of terror Tom looked around, thinking a policeman had spoken, and would take him off to prison for stealing the purse, but no policeman was in sight. He saw nothing but the whirling flakes and his ragged shadow cast blackly on the white snow by the light of the lamp. It could not have been the shadow speaking, as Tom thought, for he knew that shadows never speak; but, ah! he did not know the many wonderful things there are in this wonderful world of ours.

Whoever had made the remark touched Tom’s heart, for he remembered how his poor mother had blessed him when she died, and told him to be an honest boy. It certainly would not be honest to steal money out of the purse, but Tom was so cold and hungry that he half thought he would do so. He took out the purse again and looked at its contents—four shining sovereigns and some silver. Then he put it back in his pocket, and trudged home with his broom under his arm.

Home!—ah, what a dreary, cheerless home it was!—nothing but a garret on the top of an old house—a bare garret, with no table or chairs, but only the sacks upon which Tom slept at night.

He closed the door, and then lighted a little bit of candle he had picked up in the streets with one of the matches from a box given him by a ragged match-seller.

Tom placed the candle on the floor, and, kneeling down, opened the purse to look at the money once more. Oh, how tempted he was to take one of those shillings and buy some food and wood—it would be a merry Christmas for him then! Other people were enjoying their Christmas, and why should he not do the same? The great poet who had dropped the purse had plenty of money, and would never miss this small sum; so Tom, desperate with hunger, took a shilling, and, hiding the purse under his bed, was about to blow out the candle before creeping down-stairs to buy some food, when he heard a soft voice whisper,—

“Don’t go, Tom.”

He turned round, and there was the shadow cast by the reflection of the candle-light on the wall. It was a very black shadow, much blacker than Tom had ever seen before, and as he looked it grew blacker and blacker on the wall, then seemed to grow out of it until it left the wall altogether, and stood by itself in the centre of the floor, a waving, black shadow of a ragged boy. Curiously enough, however, Tom could not see its face, but only the outline of its whole figure, yet it stood there shaking with every flicker of the candle, and Tom could feel that its eyes were looking right into him.

“Don’t go, Tom,” said the shadow, in a voice so like his own that he started. “If you go, you will be lost for ever.”

“Lost?” said Tom, with a laugh; “why, I couldn’t lose myself. I know every street in the city.”

“I don’t mean really lost,” replied the shadow; “but it will be your first step on the downward path.”

“Who are you?” asked Tom, rather afraid of the shadow, but keeping a bold front.

“I am your shadow,” it replied, sighing. “I follow you wherever you go, but only appear when there is light about you. If you had not lighted that candle I would not have appeared, nor could I have spoken.”

“Was it you who spoke at the lamp-post?” said Tom doubtfully.

“Yes, it was I,” answered the shadow. “I wanted to save you then, as I do now, from committing a crime. Sit down, Tom, and let us talk.”

Tom sat down, and the shadow sat down also. Then for the first time he caught a passing glimpse of its face, just like his own, only the eyes were sad—oh, so sad and mournful!

“Thou shalt not steal,” said the shadow solemnly.

“I don’t want to steal,” replied Tom sulkily; “but I’m cold and hungry. This shilling would buy me fire and food. I don’t call that stealing.”

“Yes, but it is stealing,” answered the shadow, wringing its hands; “and you know it is. If you steal you will be put in prison, and then I shall have to go also. Think of that, Tom, think of that.”

Tom did not say a word, but sat on the floor looking at the bright shilling in his hand which could procure him so many comforts. The shadow saw how eager he was to take the shilling, and, with a sigh, began to talk again.

“Think of your mother, Tom,” it said softly. “She was the wife of a gentleman—your father; but he lost all his money, and when he died she could get no one to help her. Do you remember how she died herself in this very place, and how she implored you with her last breath to be an honest boy?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Tom huskily; “but she did not know how cold and hungry I would be.”

“Yes she did—she did,” urged the shadow. “She also had felt cold and hunger, but she never complained. She never stole, and now she has her reward, because she is a bright angel.”

“I don’t know what an angel is,” said Tom crossly; “but if she’s all right, why doesn’t she help me?”

“She does help you, Tom,” said the shadow; “and it was because she saw you were tempted to steal to-night that she asked me to help you. She cannot speak as I do, because she is not a shadow.”

“Well, help me if you’re able,” said Tom defiantly; “but I don’t believe you can.”

The candle on the floor had burnt very low, and as Tom said the last words his shadow bent nearer and nearer, until he again saw those mournful eyes, which sent a shiver through his whole body. It stretched out its arms, and Tom felt them close round him like soft, clinging mist; the candle flared up for a moment, and then went out, leaving Tom in darkness altogether. But he did not feel a bit afraid, for the soft arms of the shadow were round him, and he felt that it was carrying him through the air.

They journeyed for miles and miles, but Tom knew not which direction they were taking until a soft light seemed to spread all around, and Tom felt that he was in the midst of a large crowd, although he saw no one near him. Then he felt his bare feet touch some soft, cloudy ground, that felt like a sponge; the shadowy arms unclasped themselves, and he heard a voice, soft as the whispering of winds in summer, sigh,—

“This is the Kingdom of Shadows.”

Then Tom’s eyes became accustomed to the subdued twilight, and he saw on every side a number of shadows hurrying hither and thither. He seemed to be in the centre of a wide plain, over which hung a pale white mist, through which glimmered the soft light. The shadows were all gliding about this plain; some thin, some fat, some tall, others short; they all appeared to have business to do, and each appeared to be intent only on his own concerns. Tom’s own shadow kept close to him, and whispered constantly in his ear of strange doings.

“These are the shadows of the past and of the future,” it sighed; “all the shadows of human beings and their doings are here; see, there is a funeral.”

And a funeral it was which came gliding over the smooth, white plain; the great black hearse, the dark horses with nodding plumes, and then a long train of mourners; all this came out of the mist at one end, glided slowly over the plain, and vanished in the veil of mist at the other. Then a bridal procession appeared; afterwards a great army, clashing cymbals and blowing trumpets from whence no sound of music proceeded; then the coronation triumph of a king, and later on a confused multitude of men, women, and children, all hurrying onward with eager rapidity. But they all came out of the mist and went into the mist, only appearing on the white plain for a few minutes, like the shadows of a magic lantern.

“The stage of the world,” whispered Tom’s shadow. “Birth, death, and marriage, triumphs and festivities, joys and sorrows, all pass from mist to mist, and none know whence they come or whither they go.”

“But what has this got to do with me?” asked Tom, who was feeling rather bewildered.

“You are a man,” said his shadow reproachfully, “and must take an interest in all that men do; but come, and I will show you what will happen if you steal the purse.”

They glided over the plain towards the distant curtain of mist, but how they travelled over the immense distance so rapidly Tom did not know, for in a moment it seemed to him that he had come many miles, and found himself suddenly before a grey, misty veil, with his own shadow beside him, and many other shadows around.

As he stood there, a whisper like the murmur of the sea on a pebbly beach sounded in his ears, and he seemed to guess, rather than hear, what the shadows said.