Part 4

Just as they reached their mother a bright light appeared in the room, and suddenly a beautiful fairy stood before them.

“Do not touch Isabella!” she said to the stepmother. “She is not in the least to blame for your children’s misfortune. Their cruel fate is their own fault. When I met Isabella at the well and asked her for a drink of water, she gave it to me gladly and willingly, but when I met your daughters and asked them for a drink they treated me proudly and unkindly.”

“You!” exclaimed the stepmother, looking upon the radiant creature with her shining fairy robes about her. “Met you, and would not give you a drink of water!”

The fairy smiled. “Ah, yes; it was I, but I did not look then as I now do. I was the ragged old woman at the well.”

“If they had known it was you--” said the stepmother.

“If they had known it was I,” the fairy said, “how could I have judged whether they were kind of heart, and polite to old people, and helpful to people in need?”

“When I met Isabella,” the fairy went on, “I looked just as when I met your daughters, and she was very polite and kind to me, and gave me a drink, holding the pail while I drank, even though she was very tired. Because only polite and kind words came from her mouth, I gave her a good fairy gift, and because only impolite and unkind words came from the mouths of your daughters, I gave them another kind of gift.”

“Oh, please take back the one you gave them,” pleaded the mother.

“Do you mean Isabella’s gift, too?” asked the fairy.

“Oh, no,” the mother said. “Let her have her gift--but please, please take away the awful gift of my daughters!”

“Let me see,” said the fairy, “what Isabella says about that. Shall I take back the gift of your stepsisters, my dear?”

“Oh, please, please do!” cried Isabella. “I am so sorry that they are unhappy.”

“Very well, then,” said the fairy. “For Isabella’s sake, I shall take their gifts back, but only on one condition--that they promise to be kind and polite from now on.”

“Oh, we promise! We promise!” cried both stepsisters at once.

“Unless you keep your promise,” said the fairy, “the snakes and toads will come from your mouths again.” And the fairy disappeared as suddenly as she had come.

But the snakes and toads did not come again, for the stepsisters and their mother were very kind to every one ever after, and Isabella lived a happy life from that day.

* * * * *

“They just had to keep their promise, didn’t they?” commented Mary Frances. “I am glad they did, for I do not like people to break promises.”

“Neither do I,” agreed the Story Lady; “and that reminds me of one of our favorite stories--Coralie and the Magic Necklace.”

“Oh,” said Mary Frances, “but I like a story with magic in it.”

“Very well,” said the Story Lady, “I will tell you the story.”

XIII

THE MAGIC NECKLACE

ONCE there was a girl whose name was Coralie. She was a very pretty girl, and very clever. She was so bright in her lessons at school that all she needed to do was to read them over once, and she knew them.

She lived in a pretty home, and was a great pet. Her parents loved her dearly, and although they were not well off, they gave Coralie everything she wished for that they could afford. So, you see, she had all the comforts of life, if not the luxuries.

You would think she would have been a very happy child, wouldn’t you? Well, she would have been if she had not had one very dreadful fault. Sometimes she told only half the truth; sometimes she told only quarter the truth; sometimes she stretched the truth so far that she broke it.

Her parents did everything they could to cure her of her dreadful fault, but everything failed. Even being in her room for a whole day with only bread and butter and milk did not help her. At last they became almost desperate.

One evening, after Coralie had gone to bed, her father said, “There is only one thing left, I suppose. We must take Coralie to the magician, Merlin.”

“Yes,” replied her mother with a sigh, “it is the only thing I can think of. You need not go, dear husband, for it will mean the loss of several days’ work. I will take her myself. We can start to-morrow morning.”

So in the morning, her mother and Coralie set out on their journey.

Now, the enchanter, Merlin, knew untruthful people even a long way off. He could tell them by their odor. So as Coralie and her mother drew near his palace, which was built of frosted glass, he threw some incense on the fire to keep himself from becoming ill.

At length, Coralie’s mother rang the door bell, and Merlin himself came to the door. “Good afternoon,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” replied Coralie’s mother; “we have come a long distance to see you, sir, because----”

Merlin raised his hand. “I know all about the reason,” he said. “You have come to see me because you cannot make your daughter tell the truth. She is one of the most untruthful children that ever lived. I know, because her lies often make me ill. When I smelled her coming, I had to burn incense;” and he frowned terribly.

You can imagine how this frightened Coralie. She hid behind her mother. Her mother seemed frightened, too.

“Oh, sir,” she begged, “please deal as gently with her as you can. We love her so dearly. We are so grieved that we cannot cure her our own selves.”

“Do not fear,” answered the magician. “I am not going to hurt her. All that I wish to do is to make her a present.”

So he invited them into the palace, and led the way to his workroom. All the woodwork in the room was light green. The windows were studded with red and blue and green jewels, and they threw rainbow colors on the floor.

Merlin went to a golden table, and, opening a drawer, took out a beautiful amethyst necklace, with a diamond clasp. He threw the necklace around Coralie’s neck.

“That is all,” he said to her mother. “You may go. I am going to lend my magic necklace of truth to Coralie. I shall come for it in one year.” Then he turned to Coralie, and said, “Do not take it off. If you do, great harm may come to you. Good-by,” and he clapped his hands twice.

Two slaves appeared, and after bowing before Merlin, showed Coralie and her mother to the door.

Coralie, of course, was delighted with the necklace. All her life long she had wished for jewelry, but her parents could not afford to get her anything but the pretty seal ring which she wore. As to getting such a necklace as Merlin had given her, it would have taken everything they owned in the world to so much as buy the diamond clasp.

When she went back to school, the girls all gathered about her and began to admire the necklace.

“Isn’t it beautiful!” they exclaimed. “What a lucky girl! Your people must have fallen heirs to a fortune!”

“Isn’t it pretty!” said Coralie, lifting the sparkling string for them to see better. “Yes, my father and mother gave it to me. You see, I have been ill, and they were so glad when I got well that they gave me this for a present.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried the girls.

And no wonder they did, for all the sparkle left the necklace, and it looked dull and old and scratched.

“What is the matter?” asked Coralie. “Don’t you think my parents could give it to me? They bought it, and paid an immense sum for it.”

At that falsehood, the necklace turned from the light purple amethyst color to a dull gray agate, and the diamond clasp to a mud-color shade. Then Coralie saw what had happened, and she was frightened.

“No,” she said, “they did not give it to me. We went to the magician, Merlin, and he lent it to me.”

At these truthful words, the necklace became as beautiful as ever. But the children began to laugh.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Coralie. “You needn’t make fun. Merlin was very glad to see us. When he saw us in the distance he sent his carriage to meet us. It was drawn by two fawn-colored horses, and the coachman wore livery. There was a great feast spread for us, and each of us had a servant in back of our chairs. We had golden plates to eat from, and----”

Suddenly Coralie stopped speaking, for the children were laughing at her harder than ever. She looked down at her necklace. No wonder they laughed. It was dull again in color, and had grown so long it rested upon the ground.

“Ho, ho, Coralie!” cried one. “Come, now! You are stretching the truth! Set us right!”

“Well,” confessed Coralie, “Merlin didn’t send any one to meet us. We walked, and we were in his palace only a little while.”

At these words, the necklace shrank to its right size, and resumed its own beautiful color.

“But now, Coralie,” cried the children, “but now tell us truly where you got the necklace. Did the magician give it to you?”

“Yes,” said Coralie, “he just handed it to me without saying a word. I think he----”

She did not finish the sentence, for the necklace had suddenly grown so tight that it was choking her, and she was gasping for breath.

“Come, come, Coralie!” cried one of the girls. “You are keeping back part of the truth! Tell the truth! What happened?”

“He said I was one of the most untruthful persons in the world,” admitted Coralie; and the necklace became itself again.

And so things kept on. Every time Coralie tried to say one untruthful thing, the necklace behaved in some queer, frightful way. Even the children became sorry for her, for she began to look worried all the time.

“If I were you, I’d take the necklace back,” one of the girls told her. “It gives you no happiness at all.”

“Indeed it doesn’t,” said Coralie, “I wish I----”

“Why don’t you take it back?” the girl asked.

Now, Coralie did not wish to tell her, and kept still, for she was wondering what she could possibly say; but the necklace began to act wildly. The stones began to dance up and down so hard that they hurt her.

“Merlin told me I must not take it off,” she said. “If I should do so, great harm would come to me. He is coming for it when I’ve worn it for a year.”

And the necklace shone just a little more brightly than before, and the diamond clasp sparkled so that it would have dazzled your eyes to look at it.

And after that Coralie began to lose the worried look, for the telling of the truth was beginning to be a habit with her. The necklace very seldom had to remind her, for every day it grew easier for her to tell the truth.

And when Merlin came for his necklace, he brought her a far more beautiful gift than the necklace, but it was one that she could not wear showily. It was a necklace of pearls, pearls of great price which she wore just over her heart. You see, Merlin needed his magic necklace for another child who did not tell the truth.

Nobody knows where the magic necklace is to-day; but if I were a child in the habit of telling falsehoods, I should not feel quite sure that it would not be found again.

* * * * *

“Will it?” asked Mary Frances, as the Story Lady finished the story.

“It may be,” said the Story King. “I have an idea where it is. Why? Do you know any children who do not speak the truth?”

“I--I am sorry to say that I do,” Mary Frances said. “I do not know many, though. I know two who do not always tell the truth; and I know one child who isn’t kind to her pet cat. I wish I knew a story to tell her when I go home.”

“All right, perhaps you would like to hear the story of Linda.”

“Please tell it to me?” she asked.

So the Story Lady told the story of “The Cat and the Carrots.”

XIV

THE CAT AND THE CARROTS

LINDA was a little girl who rarely thought of any one but herself. She would take the warmest place by the fire and the largest piece of cake on the dish, or the finest apple or pear; and she would take away the toys from the other children, and did not care for anything as long as she was amused herself.

Her mother was very sorry to see that Linda was selfish, and used to talk very seriously to her about it, and to tell her that no one would love her if she did not mend her ways.

But Linda did not care, and she did not believe what her mother said.

“You will always love me, Mother,” said she.

“Perhaps so,” said her mother; “but then you are my own little girl, and it is my duty to take care of you. Besides, I shall be very sorry for you, because you will be very unhappy. But no one else will care for you. Every one will dislike you because you are selfish--every one in the world.”

Linda did not say anything, but the words “every one in the world” came into her head many times during the day, and at night they came into her dreams, and she fancied she saw the words written in letters of fire, from which the flames shot up in all directions, and she was saying half aloud, “The bed will be on fire,” when a voice said--

“But you are not in bed, you are in the farmyard.”

Then she looked round, and saw that she was near the barn, and that there was a ladder not far off, and a great barrel close by. Also there was a heap of carrots, which Linda began to toss about, and to snap in two, and to pull the leaves off; and at last she was throwing them all into the duck-pond, when a voice suddenly said, “Stop!”

Linda looked round, but no one was to be seen.

“Stop!” said the voice again.

Then Linda looked down, and seated upon a stone she saw a carrot whose green top-knot of leaves she had broken off. Two little legs and two little arms had sprouted out, and it had eyes and a mouth, but no nose.

“Have you no feelings?” said the carrot. “Is it not enough to be taken from my home in the earth, without being knocked about and flung into a duck-pond? How would you like it?”

“I’m not a carrot,” said Linda.

“You don’t care for any one but yourself,” replied the carrot, growing redder and redder; “no one likes you, not even carrots, and you will find that some day people will pay you back for being so selfish. I am going to begin at once. Come carrots, carrots, carrots!” he shouted.

“In and out Whirl about; Pinch and beat her; Let her know Selfishness will bring her woe; Come at once and greet her.”

Then suddenly all the carrots that were lying about sprang up, and those that were in the duck-pond sprang out of it. They were joined by those in the gardens near, and they came trooping along like an army. They could walk as well in the air as on the ground; and they whirled around Linda and pulled her hair and pinched her arms, till she cried aloud for mercy.

“Ho! ho! ho! only see What it is our foe to be,”

shouted the carrots, as they twirled up and down and round and round.

The air was full of carrots, and the ground was covered by them, and Linda made up her mind that if she ever got clear of them she would never meddle with a carrot again as long as she lived. She kept off their blows as long as she could, but at last she was too tired to do so any longer, and she sank down to the ground crying, “Oh, please leave off! please leave off!”

“We now have done, But we’ve had some fun,”

said the carrot who had first spoken to her.

“Carrots, depart,” said he, waving his hand.

The last carrot had said “Good-by,” but Linda had not spoken.

She waited till she thought he had gone, and then she looked up. The carrot certainly was not there, but a large cat was sitting beside her.

“Topsy, poor Topsy!” said Linda.

But Topsy put up her back, and her eyes looked very fierce.

“Poor Topsy, indeed!” said the cat, angrily; “don’t think to coax me, you never think of me in the house, you pull my whiskers and my tail, and you never give me a bit of meat, or anything nice that you are eating; and this morning, though I sat on the chair beside you, longing for a little new milk, you drank it all up--you did not leave me a drop. You are the most selfish little girl I know, and I don’t like you, so I am going to scratch you.”

“Oh dear! oh dear!” said Linda, “please don’t. The carrots have punished me till I am quite sore.”

“Cats, cats, one and all, Tabby, tortoise-shell, come when I call, Gray and yellow, black and white Cats and kittens, come hither to-night.”

called the cat loudly.

Ah! all the cats and kittens in the world must have come. So many! And they all thronged round her, and sat upon her shoulders, and clung round her arms.

“All the cats in the world hate you,” said Topsy.

“We do! we do! we do!” mewed the cats. “She never cares what becomes of poor cats and kittens.”

Then the cats tumbled over each other, and tumbled over Linda, and crowded round her and upon her, until she was sitting under a heap of cats, with only her face peeping out, and Topsy was crouching in front, looking fiercely at her.

“Now that you cannot stir,” said Topsy, “I am going to scratch you.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” shrieked Linda, and she gave such a start that all the cats fell down upon the ground; and at that moment she opened her eyes, and found herself in her bed, with her mother standing beside her.

“What is the matter?” asked her mother, for she had heard Linda scream.

“Oh! oh! oh!” sobbed Linda, “I have had such a horrid dream.”

“Well, it was only a dream. You are awake now, and I am with you.”

“Every one in the world hates me, even the cats and the carrots,” sobbed Linda, and bit by bit she told her mother all her dream.

“It was such a horrid dream, and I was so frightened,” said Linda, “I can’t think why it came.”

“I will tell you,” said her mother; “it came out of your own heart. You had been thinking of the words I said to you, that every one would dislike you but myself. I am glad that you have had this dream, for it shows me that my words have sunk into my little girl’s heart, and I hope now that she will try to improve.”

“I will try,” said Linda.

And she did try, and whenever she was inclined to do any selfish act she thought of her wonderful dream, and said to herself, “I should not wish all the world to be like the cats and the carrots.”

* * * * *

“That’s a good story,” said Mary Frances to the Queen. “I shall try to remember it.”

“It is a good story,” replied the Queen, smiling; “but we have still better, as you shall hear.”

Here a page boy who sat on a stool at the foot of the Story Lady began to fidget, as if to ask a question.

“Well, what is it, Roland?” asked the Story Lady.

“If you please, can’t we have a story about a boy?” answered Roland.

“Yes,” said the Story Lady; “you shall have two stories--one about a tiger, and the other about a page boy who killed a dragon.”

XV

THE BRAHMIN, THE TIGER, AND THE JACKAL

ONCE upon a time a Brahmin, who was walking along the road, came upon an iron cage in which some men had shut up a great Tiger.

As the Brahmin passed by, the Tiger called out:

“O brother Brahmin, brother Brahmin, have pity on me, and let me out for only one minute! I am so thirsty I shall die unless I can have a drink of water.”

“I am afraid,” said the Brahmin, “that if I let you out you will eat me.”

“No, indeed,” said the Tiger. “As soon as I have had some water, I will go back to my cage.”

Then the Brahmin was sorry for the thirsty beast, and opened the cage door. Instantly the Tiger jumped out, and cried, “I will eat you first and drink the water afterwards.”

“Do not be in such a hurry,” said the Brahmin. “Let us ask the opinions of six, and, if they all say it is fair for you to kill me, then I am willing to die.”

“Very well,” said the Tiger, “we will ask the first six living things we meet.”

So they walked on till they came to a Banyan-tree, and the Brahmin said, “Banyan-tree, Banyan-tree, hear and judge.”

“Let me hear,” said the Banyan-tree.

“This Tiger,” said the Brahmin, “begged me to let him out of his cage to drink a little water and he promised not to hurt me. Now that he is free, he wishes to eat me. Is it fair that he should do so?”

Then the Banyan-tree said: “Men come to rest in my cool shade. When they have rested, they break my branches and scatter my leaves. They are a cruel race. Let the Tiger eat the man.”

“Tiger, Tiger,” said the Brahmin, “do not eat me yet. You said that you would hear the judgment of six.”

“Very well,” said the Tiger, and they went on their way. Soon they met a Camel.

“Camel, Camel,” cried the Brahmin, “hear and judge.”

“Let me hear,” said the Camel.

Then the Brahmin told his story.

“When I was young and strong and could work, my master took good care of me,” said the Camel; “but now that I am old, he starves me and beats me without mercy. Men are a cruel race. Let the Tiger eat the man.”

The Tiger would have killed the Brahmin then and there, but he said:

“Tiger, Tiger, do not eat me yet. You said that you would hear the judgment of six.”

“Very well,” said the Tiger, and they went on their way. Soon they saw an Ox lying near the road.

“Brother Ox, brother Ox,” cried the Brahmin, “hear and judge.”

“Let me hear,” said the Ox, and the Brahmin told his story.

“When I was young,” said the Ox, “my master was kind to me. Now that I am too old to work he has left me here to die. Men are a cruel race. Let the Tiger eat the man.”

They next saw an Eagle flying through the air, and the Brahmin cried:

“O Eagle, great Eagle, hear and judge.”

“Let me hear,” said the Eagle.

The Brahmin told his story, and the Eagle said:

“Whenever men see me, they try to shoot me; they climb the rocks to my nest and steal away my little ones. Men are a cruel race. Let the Tiger eat the man.”

Then the Tiger began to roar, but the Brahmin said, “Wait! we have yet two to ask.”

Soon they saw an Alligator, and the Brahmin told his story. But the Alligator said:

“Whenever I put my nose out of the water, men torment me. They are a cruel race. Let the Tiger eat the man.”

The Brahmin was now in despair, but the Tiger was willing to keep his word. And the sixth judge was a Jackal. Now the Jackal is a miserable little beast whom no one likes, but he listened to the Brahmin’s story.

“You must show me just where it was and how it happened,” said the Jackal.

So they all went back to the cage.

“I was here,” said the Brahmin, standing in the road.

“And I was in the cage,” said the Tiger.

“Which way were you looking?” said the Jackal; “and show me the side of the cage where you stood.”

“I was on this side,” said the Tiger, jumping into the cage.

“Oh, yes, I see,” said the Jackal. “And was the cage door shut?”

“Shut and bolted,” said the Brahmin.

“Then shut and bolt it,” said the Jackal.

When the Brahmin had done this, the Jackal said: “O wicked and ungrateful Tiger, you would have killed the good Brahmin who opened your cage door. Your cruelty shall be punished, for no one will ever let you out again. Go your way, friend Brahmin, and go in peace.”

* * * * *

“Good for the jackal!” said Roland, clapping his hands. “Now for the dragon!”

So the Story Lady went right on.

XVI

THE RED DRAGON

THERE lived in a marsh near a certain village, a red dragon which terrorized all the people round about; so the king of the country offered a great reward to any one who would kill the frightful beast.

A great many knights of the king’s army went out one after the other to slay it, and each came back with a wonderful tale of how he had fought with the dragon; and, after wounding it, had given up the fight only for fear of being slain by the monster.

“Never mind; you will have better success next time,” the kind king would say to each defeated knight. Then he would give him a valuable gift as a reward for his brave effort.

There was among the king’s pages a little boy who was a great butterfly hunter. The king’s librarian paid him a gold piece for every new butterfly he found.