Part 3

They at once set off together for the bridge which crossed the river near by. “One, two, three,” cried the boy, and flung Kunigunde far over the railing. The little girl looked after her, pressed her cork-stopper doll to her heart, and said lovingly, “I don’t want any doll except you.”

Kunigunde had considered it a last happiness that she was not to be buried alive, but drowned, for this seemed to her a quicker and painless end. “Now all will be over. These good-for-nothing human beings were not worthy to possess so noble a creature as I,” she thought, as she fell into the water and sank nearly to the bottom.

But all was not over. She did not drown, but was borne to the surface again and floated gently down the stream. She opened her eyes and, in spite of the hole in her head, in spite of her broken limbs, in spite of her beggary, her courage revived. Then she suddenly felt sharp teeth seize her. A large water rat caught her by one foot and dragged her to its nest, which was on the shore, close beside the water. In it was a litter of young rats, who wanted to play with the doll drifting in the river. They all came out of the hole and swarmed around the doll which their mother had brought. The thought darted through Kunigunde’s broken head, “I would not play with a servant’s child, and now I must serve these vermin for a toy!” This thought gave her such anguish that she grew unconscious and died.

Death came at the right time to spare her the worst suffering. The young rats wanted to drag her into their hole, the entrance was too small, and when the horrible animals had pulled her to and fro a long time in vain, they grew angry and began to tear her to pieces with their teeth. They ate all the parts of her which were made of kid and filled with bran, and the china portions found their last resting place on the bottom of the river.

This was the sorrowful end of the proud Kunigunde. Aennchen’s three modest dolls, on the contrary, fared well with their friend. They stayed with her until Aennchen became a tall, beautiful young lady, and when she married and had a little girl herself, she gave her her three faithful playmates, that they might afford the child as much pleasure as they had the mother.

THE GRATEFUL SPARROWS

Once upon a time a little girl, who loved all animals and plants, lived in a house in town with a small garden in front of it. Her older brother was a wild, mischievous lad, like most boys. He liked to catch flies and pull off their wings and legs, put pins through beetles, or tie yarn, wrapped with bits of paper, to their legs, and let them fly away with the burden. When his sister was there, she would not allow such naughty tricks. Although she was the smaller of the two, he was obliged to do what she wanted or she would not speak to him, and the boy could not stand that. She would not let any animal be hurt. Her brother was not even permitted to tread upon the ugly, hairy caterpillars, though they ate the leaves off her bushes and flowers. He had to put them in a piece of paper and carry them into the street.

“But they will die out there just the same,” the brother said.

“We need not take care of them,” his sister answered; “their parents must do that, or they themselves. But we ought not to kill them.”

In the front garden stood four trees, in whose branches many sparrows had built their nests. They could not be called pleasant neighbors. They soiled the fence along the street, and the door, and the ground under the trees, so that the maid-servant had hard work to keep the entrance clean, and she scolded about the dirty sparrows, and often threatened to beat down their nests with her broom stick. In the warm season of the year, they woke very early, long before sunrise, and made a deafening noise for an hour or more. There was such a hopping and fluttering, and flying to and fro, such greeting and quarrelling, chattering and scolding, that it seemed like a school of children at recess. The father of the little girl and boy, who was a light sleeper, was regularly roused by the noise made by the birds, and grew so angry over it that he talked of buying a rifle and killing all the sparrows without mercy. In the spring, when the grass and the flower-beds were sowed, they ate the seeds out of the earth, so that there was the greatest trouble in protecting the seed by scarecrows and threads woven around short wooden pegs stuck into the ground. Everybody had some grievance against the sparrows, and the poor birds had not a single friend in the house except the little girl, who pleaded for them whenever her father and the maid-servant wanted to vent their anger upon them.

She did not rest satisfied with defending the sparrows against the just indignation of the members of the household. She showed them other favors. In the summer they fared well. Then they could find food everywhere. They only needed to fly out into the street, or a market-place, to fill their little stomachs with the nicest things. But the winter was a hard time for them. Then they sometimes suffered such bitter want that they came to the windows and pecked on the panes with their beaks, begging piteously for a few crumbs. Ever since the little girl had been large enough to understand what the birds wanted, when they crowded around the windows in this way, she always fed them. During the cold season, she swept the snow off the window-sill and scattered bread crumbs and seeds, on holidays even bits of apple, raisins, and sugar, then she closed the windows and pressed her little nose against the panes, to see how her feathered guests liked the meal. In time they grew used to thinking that the sill outside the little girl’s room was their ever ready table, and did not hesitate to remind their friend by pecking impatiently on the panes, if she delayed giving them their breakfast.

Her brother thought this was very saucy. “The impudent sparrows,” he said, “to act as if we owed them something.”

“We do owe them something,” answered the little sister, “for we are rich and they are poor; we are strong and they are weak; we are big and they are little.”

Her brother was not to be convinced. “They are good for nothing,” he muttered.

“It’s fun to watch their merry play,” said his sister. “Besides, who can tell whether they may not be good for something?”

She continued her kindness to her little protégés. She put bread crumbs, soaked in milk, into the beak of a young sparrow which had left the nest rather too early and stayed crouching in a corner of the window-sill, because he could not fly away, and made a soft bed for him with cotton-wool in a box, so that he would be comfortable until his mother came and took the half-fledged runaway home. Another time the house cat was watching on the wall under the window-sill, and, when the sparrows came to be fed, she made a great leap and caught one of the birds by the wing. The others scattered with cries of fright, the captured sparrow peeped piteously in the cat’s mouth, and thought its last hour had come. But the little girl had seen the whole from the window, hastily seized a ruler which lay near, and gave the cat such a blow on the paw, that she had to open her mouth to mew with pain. The sparrow took advantage of it to fly away, and the cat, punished and ashamed, could do nothing except steal off limping on one forefoot.

A third time a naughty boy in the street was throwing stones at the birds’ nests in the trees behind the fence. The little girl ran down at once, and reproached him for his bad behavior. But when he would not listen to her, only mocked at her and went on throwing them, she screamed so loudly for help that the maid-servant came out of the kitchen, and even a policeman from the street, and drove the naughty boy away.

As the little girl attended to the sparrows every day, watched them on the window-sill, and listened while they chattered, jested, and quarrelled with one another, she gradually learned to understand their language. This is not so difficult as people suppose, because the sparrows have only a few words, and they talk about very simple things, which most grown-up persons have forgotten, but which a child knows very well. The little girl could listen for hours while one mother sparrow told tales about another, praised all her own children, made fun of the wise old sparrows, and talked of the dainties they had stolen from the fruit women in the market-place. She even tried to talk the sparrow language herself, that she might share their conversation, and ask all sorts of things; but she could not make the high tones of their twittering and peeping, so she was obliged to be satisfied with listening.

One day the whole family went to a fair, which was held in a meadow outside of the city. There were a great many booths and side-shows, and an enormous crowd of people, who pressed around the jugglers, clowns, and merry-go-rounds. A dealer in a strange, perhaps Oriental costume was loudly offering lozenges for sale. They were beautifully colored and looked tempting enough, so the little girl begged for some, for she was fond of sweets. Her mother did not want to buy them; she did not like the dealer’s crafty brown face. “Who knows what the stuff is?” she said. But the father answered, “You are over-anxious,” and bought a lozenge for his little daughter, and one for his son, too, that he might not be jealous.

The little girl was just putting the lozenge into her mouth, when a sparrow suddenly darted down upon her, straight at her hand, so that she was startled and dropped the candy. The bird caught it skilfully in the air, and flew away with it. The little girl looked after it with her mouth wide open, hardly knowing how it had been done. But her brother laughed, saying: “Now you see! That’s the way with your dear sparrows. Shameless thieves and nothing else.” But the little girl would hear nothing against her protégés, and declared it was her own fault—she had awkwardly dropped the lozenge out of her hand. She asked for another, but it was impossible to reach the dealer, the crowd was so great that they could not get through it. She looked ready to cry, and her brother good-naturedly offered her his own lozenge. She took it, but just as she was lifting it to her lips, a sparrow again darted at her hand and pecked her forefinger so hard with its beak that she uttered a cry of pain and opened her hand. The bird seized the lozenge and vanished with it before the little girl and her relatives had recovered from their astonishment.

The father was expressing his surprise at the extraordinary boldness of city sparrows, when suddenly there was a great shouting and running to and fro in the crowd. They asked what had happened, and, after some time, learned that many children who had eaten the brown-skinned dealer’s lozenges had been taken ill. The candy was colored with poisonous things, and those who had eaten it were writhing in pain and in danger of their lives. The crowd wanted to kill the rascally dealer, but he took to flight. People pursued him with loud shouts, there was a great tumult, and the little girl’s parents had the utmost trouble in escaping with their children from the confusion. They hurried on along the road, to find a free space where there were no more booths and the throng was less dense; but the little girl could not keep step with her father; she had to run, and, stumbling over a stone, fell on the ground. Her mother sprang forward to lift her up, when, behind the child lying in the road and her parents, cries of terror were heard, and they saw a frightened horse come dashing toward them at full gallop. The next instant the foaming animal must have trampled upon the group. It seemed as if nothing could save them. At the last moment, when the hot breath of the frantic creature was already fanning the face of the terrified father, a sparrow flew suddenly straight at the horse’s right eye with so much force that the animal neighed loudly with pain, reared high in the air, and made such a spring aside, that it lost its balance, rolled in the ditch, and was caught by the people who came running up.

The little girl, in spite of her fright, had seen very well what the sparrow had done, and said, “So the sparrows are good for something.” But the others were so benumbed in every limb by fear that they did not answer. All the pleasure of the fair had been destroyed by the excitement, and they decided to go home. Unless they went a very long way round, they were obliged to return past the booths, and enter the crowd. The little girl stopped an instant to look at a big picture of wild beasts, giraffes, and elephants, which hung in front of a show where animals were exhibited, and when she looked around, she discovered that she had been separated from her family by the throng. She was very much frightened, and tried to run forward to overtake them. But the crowd stood like a wall before her on every side, and she could not pass. She pushed against the people among whom she was wedged, the rough men pushed back, and the little girl began to cry bitterly, partly because she was hurt, partly because it frightened her to be all alone, among so many strangers. Then a hand clasped hers and drew her quickly and skilfully out of the throng in front of the animal show, where she was penned. She looked up and saw through her tears an old dame with a brown face and rough gray hair, who resembled the rascally lozenge seller, and said in a harsh voice and foreign accent: “Come, little one, come with me quick. Don’t be afraid!”

“Where?” asked the little girl, timidly, trying to stop.

“Come, come,” repeated the old woman, who looked like a witch. “Away from here. Out of the crowd. Then I will take you home. To your parents.”

When the little girl heard of her parents, she followed willingly. Yet it seemed to her that the old woman was not leading her toward the city, but in the opposite direction.

“We don’t live there,” she said, “but on the other side!”

“I know, I know,” replied the old woman. “We are going to my cart. It’s too far for you to walk home.”

In a few minutes they reached a cart, which stood by the side of the road. It was a queer old vehicle, with a faded cover made of darned linen, drawn by two little nags, which were so thin that their bones seemed to be coming through their skins. The little girl would not get in, so the brown witch seized her quickly round the waist, lifted her like a light bundle, flung her into the cart, and jumped in after her. The little girl called for help, but the cart was filled with men and women, and little half-naked brown children, who all began to scream louder still, so that her voice was not heard at all. At the same time the old witch urged up the half-starved horses, and the rattling cart rolled off in the midst of a cloud of dust with astonishing speed.

The little girl had fallen into the power of a band of gypsies, who wanted to carry her away. When she began to cry bitterly, the old witch said to her: “Keep still. No harm will befall you. You will fare well with us. You shall have nice things to eat, and a gown with gold spangles. You shall learn to dance and tell fortunes, and always have plenty of fun. So be quiet.”

The little girl did not know what to do. Drawing back into the farthest corner of the cart, she wept silently, thinking of her parents and her brother, who were now searching for her so anxiously.

The gypsy band must have done a good business at the fair. Men and women were drinking from big bottles of wine, singing, laughing, and talking in a strange language. They soon stopped in a wood, where they lighted a fire and prepared a camp for the night. They cooked in large kettles an ample meal, and wanted to give the little girl some of it, too; but, though she was very hungry, she refused with disgust.

After the wild, brown vagabonds had finished their supper, they all lay down to sleep, some around the fire, others under the cart, the women and children in it. The little girl was obliged to get in, too, and lie beside the other children; but she kept awake, and when she saw that all were in a sound slumber, she rose softly, climbed down from the cart, slipped out of the circle of snoring gypsies, and began to run as fast as her little legs would carry her, until she was so far from the gypsy camp that she could no longer see the light of their camp-fire. Then she stopped for breath and found herself in the midst of a dark wood, where she did not know which way to turn. She dared not call out, so she sat down in the thick moss at the foot of a tall tree and began to cry piteously.

Suddenly she heard a small voice at her side, twittering in the well-known sparrow language: “Don’t cry, friend. Come. Follow me.”

“Who are you?” asked the little girl, also in the sparrow language, which she tried to speak as plainly as possible.

“Oh, how stupid you human beings are!” was the merry answer. “Don’t you know me? I am your neighbor, and you feed me every day.”

“Indeed!” cried the little girl, joyously, putting out her hand to her feathered friend.

But the sparrow fluttered quickly away. “Don’t touch me,” it chirped; “we don’t like that. But now let us go home. I’ll fly very slowly. Keep your eyes on me.”

The bird fluttered in front, just at the height of her head, and the little girl followed trustfully. There were a few stumbles and falls in the darkness, a few bumps and bruises, but, after half an hour’s walk, she came out of the woods into the high-road, and then it was easy to move forward. Near the city she met a policeman, who was very much astonished to find a little girl alone on the road so late at night, and questioned her. She told him the whole story, her name, and where she lived, and the worthy man took her by the hand and led her home.

Her parents, who had been searching for her in vain for hours, and notified the police without finding any trace of their missing child, had not gone to bed, and were sitting in despair around the table, vainly trying to comfort each other. When, long after midnight, the policeman rang and brought back their little daughter, there was such rejoicing that the whole neighborhood was roused. The sparrow which had guided the girl back was perched on the window-sill, gazing through the panes into the room, flapping its wings and twittering at the joy of the parents, who could not stop kissing their recovered child, although she was very tired and only wanted to go to bed.

The father was very grateful to the sparrows for having saved his little daughter’s life three times in one day. The next morning he made a regular feast for them. On every window-sill in the whole house he spread cakes and raisins, fruit and honey, and the sparrows came and banqueted, and invited their friends and relatives from far and near. There was a great fluttering and chirping, twittering and screaming, but nobody complained of it. And, from that time, food was always scattered for the house sparrows and strangers, too, and human beings and sparrows remained the best of friends to the end of their lives.

THE SIX LITTLE GLOW-WORMS

During the June nights the meadow at the edge of the forest was as merry as a peasant wedding or a country fair. The nightingales sang, the crickets chirped, the plover drummed, the night wind whistled, old May and young June bugs lay in their taverns in the grass, the bushes, and the foliage of the trees, and drank dew till they were full, and even the sober ladybugs, which usually lead no gay lives, were persuaded to share the lively meetings of the idlers. As soon as it grew dark, the six little glow-worms that lived in the meadow crept out of their tiny room in the earth and lighted their lanterns, so that the place was brightly illuminated by their shining, bluish white light. So, when the revellers broke up at as late an hour as possible, thanks to their living lamps, they found their way as easily and safely as if it had been noonday, without striking against roots and stones, or falling into moleburrows. Then, standing in front of the glow-worms, they cheered them with their hoarse throats, and sang this little verse:—

“Little worm, that kindly lights The reveller’s steps in the dark nights, As to his home he gropes his way, Our thanks we pay! Our thanks we pay!”

The little glow-worms said nothing, only let their light shine softly. They were indulgent to the harmless gayety of the revellers, and enjoyed the merry life which surrounded them during the short festival season of the year.

Not far from the meadow, where there were such gay doings, stood an old castle with a lofty tower. Here lived an aristocratic owl family, with a numerous colony of bats for servants. The mistress of the house, an owl of mature years, was a very learned lady, who had one son, whom she urged to study. But the young gentleman was an idler and sluggard, who would rather wander about than learn. Whenever he could, he stole away from his books and slipped out of the tower, to rob nests, catch birds, or, with the young noblemen from the owl-eyries in the neighborhood, join in hunting hares and marmots.

This troubled his mother greatly, and she remonstrated earnestly with him.

“The examination is close at hand, and you are not preparing yourself. Do you mean to disgrace me by failing?”

The young owl obstinately remained silent and looked sulky.

“Answer me, you unmannerly scapegrace!” cried the owl, angrily. “What am I to do with you? All your ancestors are lights of learning and members of the academy. You alone wish to remain an idle, ignorant blockhead. Are not you ashamed of yourself?”

“It isn’t my fault,” replied the owl nobleman, defiantly.

“Not your fault?” asked the owl in astonishment. “Whose fault is it, then?”

“Why, Mamma,” cried the youth, boldly, “do have some consideration. When am I really to study? During the day, as a member of a respectable owl family, I must sleep, and at night it is so dark in this confounded lumber room that I can’t see a line. I’m near-sighted already. If I must strain my eyes over my books in this pitch-black darkness, I shall be blind entirely.”

“What nonsense are you talking?” replied the owl, sternly. “We have lived here a hundred years and more, and no one ever complained of our home before. They all found it comfortable. On moonlight nights, it is almost too light and, when the moon doesn’t shine, you have our roof cat, by whose eyes you can read easily.”

The youth remained obstinate. “Pardon me, Mamma,” he said defiantly. “There are so few clear moonlight nights that they don’t count, and our cat’s eyes may have been enough for our ancestors, but in our days of electricity it is no light at all. Besides, we have so much more to learn now than you did in old times. So either give me some decent light, or don’t complain if I cannot prepare for my examinations.”

And, without waiting for his mother’s answer, the rude youth vanished through the tower window, to amuse himself with his companions in the usual way and let study alone.

The owl called the oldest of her bats, and said anxiously: “There is no living with the young people any longer. Hasn’t my good-for-nothing son taken it into his head that it isn’t light enough here, and therefore he cannot study?”

“Foolish talk, Mrs. Professor,” squeaked the bat.

“I know that just as well as you do,” answered the owl; “but I must not let him have the excuse for his idling. What shall we do to get a better light for the lazy fellow?”

“Our roof cat—” began the bat.

“Isn’t enough,” interrupted the owl. “Between ourselves: it really is a dim light, and I wonder whether our eyes are not constantly growing worse because, up to this time, we have been satisfied with our cat’s light. We must find something else.”