Part 12

"And now, gentle lady," said the bat, who had flown after them, keeping his distance modestly, "I pray you to perform for me another kindly action. Close your eyes, and sprinkle me with this powder, at the same time touching my head with the witch-defying plants. Then, kindle a fire with these fagots of wood left here by your gardener, and cast me into the hottest portion of it."

Blondina shrank from the task, but, finding the bat as determined as he was calm and dignified, obeyed him without another word of protest. Aided by the now alert and cheerful prime minister, she kindled a fire upon the hearth of the little summer-house; and when it blazed high, and hot coals fell into the centre, she followed the bat's directions to the letter. Immediately there was a loud explosion; the hideous bat skin split asunder and shrivelled up, revealing a beautiful young prince, who stepped unsinged from the ring of flame, and bent his knee before the Queen Blondina. She recognized in him a playmate of her childhood, Prince Florizel, son of a neighboring monarch, who years before had disappeared from his father's court, and had been mourned as dead by his sorrowing relatives. To enchant him, in punishment for his scorn of her, had been one of the first acts of Vixetta's acquired magic; and to accomplish it, the wretched girl had bargained away her entire life to the service of the Evil One.

Blondina greeted Florizel with the utmost pleasure and assured him of her willingness to fulfil the pledge she had made to the dreaded bat-lover. They returned to the palace, and on being observed by the attendants, who, believing them to be ghosts, ran terrified away, had some difficulty in persuading people that they were alive and in the flesh. Then, what joy reigned over the palace. Quickly the news spread through the city and kingdom. The indignant people flocked around the apartments of Vixetta, who was still asleep after her orgies of the previous night, and, summoning her to come forth, declared that she should instantly be put to death in the presence of her victims. The miserable sorceress fell upon her knees, and begged for her life. Again the generous Blondina entreated that her sister might be spared; but Prince Florizel interfered, and insisted that, for the future safety of his queen, Vixetta should then and there be compelled to take a pinch of the magic powder and change herself into a bat. This was done, and the sorceress, flying from the window, was never heard of more.

Blondina gave her hand and heart to Prince Florizel, as soon as he returned from a visit to his parents, who were overjoyed to regain their long-lost son and heir. The marriage took place with great magnificence, and the royal couple lived in peace for the remainder of their long and useful lives. They would often walk in the direction of the poultry-yard, and Blondina loved to tell her husband of all the things she had heard and seen there when in her turkey shape.

But the prime minister, after he had weeded out of the kingdom certain obnoxious individuals strongly resembling the warlocks seen at the underground council, preferred to assume a dignified forgetfulness of all that had passed during his enforced experience as a feathered biped. To the latest day of his life he would always cross the road to avoid meeting a turkey-gobbler, and for the race of pet kittens he continued to maintain the most unconquerable dislike.

By the laws of the kingdom, to kill or injure a mole was made a capital offence; and once every year a little blind gentleman in a fine black velvet coat arrived at the palace to pay his respects to their majesties, who received him with every mark of favor and affection.

TIMID AGNES.

Once there lived a poor girl whose wicked aunt treated her very cruelly. One morning, the aunt set out for a day of shopping and visiting to the neighboring town, after whipping her niece soundly (as she was in the habit of doing for exercise, every morning), and shutting up the poor girl in the garret, where a barrel of white sand had been spilt upon the floor.

"Pick up every grain of this sand before bedtime, or I will imprison you in the dark closet for a week," said the aunt as she went away.

The poor child cried so that she could not see the tiny particles; and as she sat, crying and picking up what she could feel, she heard a little scratching under the lid of the old wedding-chest in the corner. Presently, a pretty blue mouse with topaz eyes ran down the side of the chest, and came up to her. Now, if there was anything poor Agnes feared more than death, it was a mouse. The very sight of one had always made her shudder and scream and clutch at her petticoats, and climb up on chairs or tables or anything convenient.

So when she saw her visitor she gave a cry of terror, and climbed nimbly up to the top of a broken chest of drawers in the corner of the garret.

"Don't mind me," said the mouse, politely.

"I _beg_ your pardon, but I'm so awfully afraid of you," said Agnes, shuddering to her toes. "I think I could endure you if it were not for your horrid tail! But you really make me creep all over, don't you see?"

"If you would only take that apron off your head, and exercise a little self-control," said the mouse, with a shade of impatience in its manner, "you would soon see that I am a very superior kind of a mouse. Come, Miss Agnes, I have watched you very often at your work here, and I have a great desire to be of service to you. But there is really no talking reason to a person hunched up on top of a chest of drawers with a pink apron over her head; is there, now?"

Agnes, hearing the mouse talk so pleasantly, made a desperate effort to come down from her perch and converse with the little creature. After a while the blue mouse's eloquence proved sufficient to induce her to follow it near a crack in the wall, and to peep between the boards, as directed.

There she saw a secret room, full of beautiful things--clothes and jewels--scattered on the floor.

"All these shall be yours, fair Agnes," said the mouse, "if you will carry me in your pocket for a day."

Agnes trembled with horror so that she could hardly bring herself to say, "Thank you kindly, good Mr. Blue Mouse, but I hardly need anything new in the way of clothes, going out as little as I do. O--o--oh!" she exclaimed, catching her breath, as the mouse seemed to scuttle toward her.

"Do not fear! I am entirely too proud to obtrude my company where it is so little desired. Farewell, Miss Agnes; I leave you. But before I go, allow me to arrange this little difficulty for you."

The gallant little mouse whisked his tail (that hateful tail!), twice over the pile of sand, and at once, every grain of the shining heap, and all that lay scattered over the garret floor, flew back into the barrel.

"Thank you, kind Mr. Blue Mouse," cried the grateful Agnes; but no answer came. Her benefactor was nowhere to be seen. She looked in vain for the crack in the wall he had led her to; it was no longer in view.

When the wicked aunt found that Agnes had completed her task, she flew into a violent rage, and determined to rid herself forever of the girl. So, taking her again into the garret, she bound her hand-and-foot, tied a handkerchief across her mouth to still her cries, and, opening the old wedding-chest in the corner, thrust poor Agnes bodily into it, closing the lid with a vicious bang, and locking it with the great iron key.

"Lie there till doomsday, you tiresome thing!" said the wicked aunt, going down-stairs to eat her supper.

Poor Agnes thought she must soon die of suffocation, but just then she heard a scratching noise; four little feet scuttled over her face, and a long smooth tail whisked by her ear.

"Ugh!" groaned poor Agnes. "It's a mouse shut up here with me! Oh! why didn't she kill me, outright?"

Then little teeth began gnawing at her bandages and at the ropes that bound her, and in a few moments she was free.

"I am here, Miss Agnes; though, indeed, I won't touch you again!" said the familiar voice of the Blue Mouse. "But if you would only trust me, and carry me in your pocket, how much I could do for you!"

At last Agnes consented to grant his wish and, trembling in every limb, she let the mouse run into her pocket. Without a moment's delay, the bottom of the chest gave way, and Agnes felt herself sinking, sinking. When she recovered her wits, which in that moment of terror seemed fairly to forsake her, there she was in a beautiful garden, filled with ladies and gentlemen walking two and two in a grand procession along a bowery path strewn with roses and carnations. Fountains played in the sunshine, birds sang on the boughs. It was a scene so gay and beautiful, that Agnes clapped her hands for joy.

"How happy I am here!" she cried.

"And happy you shall always be here," said a voice behind her.

Agnes, turning, saw a young gentleman dressed in a blue court costume with topaz buttons, and wearing in his cap a long smooth plume of blue, caught by a brilliant brooch of the same gems.

He explained to her that he was none other than the mouse she had so much feared. Condemned from childhood to remain a mouse until some fair maiden should, of her own free will, allow him to run into her pocket, the unfortunate prince had only now been released from his long imprisonment. This garden belonged to his own palace, and the ladies and gentlemen coming to meet him were his friends and courtiers.

Agnes, shedding tears of penitence over the blindness of her former prejudice, bestowed her hand upon the prince, and was happy evermore.

THE OGRESS AND THE COOK.

One summer afternoon, a young girl sat upon the door-stone of her cottage home, awaiting the return of her father from the mill. Her day's work was neatly done, and the tiny house, both within and without, was as tidy as hands could make it; hollyhocks and sweet-peas grew beneath the windows; the plates on the cupboard shelf glittered; and a little fire sparkled upon the hearth, where a pot of savory broth was bubbling cheerfully. On the table was set a brown loaf, light as a feather and sweet as a nut, with a bunch of grapes from the trellis above the door, and a pewter mug ready to be filled with frothing ale at the moment when the good man should sit down. Dimple, whose fingers rarely rested, plied her knitting-needles as she watched the bridge upon the road where the first glimpse of her father might be caught. By-and-by, up came an old crone, dusty and way-worn.

"Pray, my kind little maiden, give me a bit of food, and a sup of drink, for sweet charity's sake," begged the wayfarer, who looked as if she were ready to drop from fatigue.

"Willingly, dame," said pretty little Dimple; and bidding the crone be seated, she ladled out for her a generous portion of the fragrant broth.

The crone's eyes sparkled; and, seizing a great horn spoon, she despatched the broth in two or three mouthfuls, then asked for more. Dimple supplied her; and in a little while, all the broth in the iron pot had disappeared.

"Never mind," sighed Dimple to herself. "The good father will have to put up with a rasher of bacon and some eggs, to-night."

As if reading her thoughts, the crone, displaying a pair of jaws opening as wide as a cavern and garnished with ferocious teeth, said:

"I am just beginning to feel a little refreshed. If there were only such a thing as a couple of fat slices of home-cured bacon, and a brace of new-laid eggs to help a poor old creature on her way."

Dimple ran to fetch the eggs, over the laying of which her fowls had scarcely ceased to cackle in the barn. Quickly and cheerfully, she prepared a delicious dish, which the crone despatched as before. The loaf of bread followed the bacon, and a gallon of ale followed the bread. All of the grapes, plucked and arranged in a basket for market next morning, were consumed; and, when Dimple had just begun to tremble with apprehension lest her voracious visitor should devour _her_ in conclusion, the crone pushed back her chair, jumped up with surprising agility and, running to the door, blew a shrill whistle.

Instantly, there came flying through the air a pair of huge vampires harnessed to a blood-red chariot. They halted at the cottage gate; and, before Dimple had time to cry out in her terror, the crone whisked her into the chariot, held her in place with a grasp of iron, and ordered the foul creatures to be off. Dimple fainted away and, when she came to herself, found that they were high above the earth, travelling with frightful speed through a thunder cloud. In vain she cried for mercy, and entreated to be restored to her father's house.

"Be silent, brat," said the furious crone, who was, in reality, an ogress. "Know that I have for a long time been in search of just such a trig little cook-maid as you are. Ever since my husband ate up the two last, I have had the greatest trouble to induce my servants to stay with me. Besides, we are particular about our table, and rather hard to suit. I dare say, now, you understand cooking a nice plump baby's thigh to perfection, and how to prepare a dish of rosy cheeks smothered in cream, hey? But it isn't every day we are in such luck as to get fare like that. Many's the time I've had to palm off lamb chops for baby cutlets, and to swear that the pig's tails I served up were boy's fingers. Now, stop that ridiculous shuddering and crying, and listen to reason. If you promise to serve me faithfully for seven years, I'll engage to keep you out of his way, and to send you home with a fortune in your pocket."

Dimple's fright and horror had by this time completely taken away her power of speech. She sank upon the floor of the chariot in silent despair; and when they reached the ogre's castle, situated on a frowning peak of rocks, where not the most daring human foot could climb, she allowed herself without resistance to be lifted out, and thrust into a dark cavernous kitchen. There she was ordered to prepare a large pie, made of rats and bats, for the ogre's supper. While poor Dimple was thus engaged, a monstrous giant came home, and angrily asked for food. The ogress greeted him affectionately, and nine young ogresses ran to meet him and would have jumped upon his knees, but that he pushed them away and fell to scolding everybody, every syllable of his speech sounding like the loudest thunder-peal. Dimple finished her hateful task, and such was her skill in cooking that the pastry on coming out of the oven looked and smelt delicious. The giant ceased to frown as he devoured it, and smiled when he laid down his knife and fork.

"Come here, lasses, and I'll kiss you all," he said, with rare amiability--actually bestowing on his wife's shoulder a pat of approval that would have felled Jumbo to the earth.

The young ogresses were tall and spindling creatures, as slim as young giraffes. They had pasty complexions, pink eyes, and long glistening white teeth. Dimple's business was, after she had set her kitchen in order, to go up into the nursery and put these frights to bed, each requiring to be rocked to sleep in a cradle nine feet long, and all howling like an army of pinched cats until slumber overtook them. Late at night, when all was quiet, poor Dimple would creep up to bed in a little turret room, where the wind moaned around the windows and owls hooted in the ivy so that sleep was impossible. She lay on her wretched bed and cried all night; and when day broke, she would scramble into her clothes again, and steal down stairs to her work in trembling, for she never knew at what moment the ogre might be prowling around in his stocking feet, and pounce upon her for a tid-bit. Months passed on, and one day the ogre came home in high good humor, carrying upon his back a living human being, whose feet and hands were tied and his eyes securely bandaged, while a gag in his mouth prevented the unfortunate victim from making a sound of remonstrance.

"Take this fellow to the kitchen," thundered the ogre, throwing his victim down upon the stone floor of the entrance hall with a violent bang; "see that he is in good condition for my table, and then serve him with plenty of onions in the sauce. Just as I was beginning to hanker after a young and tender morsel of human flesh, I came across this boy, following the plough. I'll warrant, I stopped his whistle quickly, when I grabbed him up! Now mind, wife, supper at sharp twelve, and don't forget the onions!"

The ogress lifted the prisoner as unconcernedly as one would handle a dead turkey and, carrying him below, threw him down upon the kitchen table, repeating her lord's directions to the cook. When Dimple recognized in the fainting prisoner an old schoolmate and neighbor of her own, Jim Hardy by name, she could scarcely refrain from a scream of rapture. But, pretending to be indifferent, she merely felt the poor youth's arms, as a cook examines the condition of her fowls for the table.

"Dear me, madam," she said, "surely you don't mean to cook this tough creature to-night? Why, I wouldn't dare to send up such a dish to my master. He would be in a fearful rage, and small blame to him. At least, allow me to fatten the bumpkin a bit."

"But what shall we serve my husband?" said the alarmed ogress. "He has set his heart on a dish of boy with onion sauce, and I dare not disappoint him."

"Leave that to me," said clever Dimple.

So she killed a lamb, and smothered it with onions, and the ogre knew no difference. The poor youth was set free, and great was his joy to find a friend in his proposed executioner. Dimple told him her story, and heard from him how long and sorrowfully her father had mourned her disappearance. Jim vowed to deliver her from the ogre; but both saw it was necessary to act with caution, at first. She was obliged to shut him up in an iron coop in the courtyard near the kitchen; and every time the old crone came into the kitchen, she went to the coop and felt and pinched the poor lad's legs and breast unmercifully.

"Surely he is tender enough to serve to-night, cook," she would say, impatiently. "Your master has an attack of the gout, and I am at my wit's end to keep him in good humor. Nothing would please him so much as a slice or two of the breast, grilled with pepper and mustard."

"Leave that to me," Dimple would answer; and she forthwith killed a pig, and served a dish so deliciously seasoned that the ogre forgot to growl, for at least an hour after eating it.

Once, while the supper was going on, Dimple and Jim crept up to listen at the dining-room door. After the ogre had drank a gallon or two of wine, he began to talk freely to his wife.

"Such a dainty dish as this you have served me deserves a reward, my dear," he said in a greasy voice, while the ogress meekly dipped some bread in the gravy as her share of the feast. "Open the closet in the corner yonder, and get me out my birdling."

What should the birdling prove to be but a tiny nightingale shining like gold! When its mouth opened at the ogre's command, "Sing, birdling, sing!" out poured a rain of sapphires, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and amethysts, that lay in a glittering stream upon the table-cloth.

"Take these for a bracelet," said the ogre, gathering them up in his hand, and tossing them to his wife; "and then put away my birdling, that no covetous eye may look upon this wonder of the world."

Dimple and Jim exchanged glances of astonishment, but dared not speak, as they crept silently down the flight of stairs.

Next day, the ogress came again into the kitchen to see about the supper dish for the evening, and in her zeal to prove that Jim was really ready for cooking, she bit his ear so that he could not help uttering a little squeal.

"See what you have done!" cried Dimple. "Now that the blood flows, he will not be fit for eating for another day or two. Certainly, _I_ won't engage to make a savory dish of him."

"Oh, don't be vexed, cook," said the ogress, who by this time had grown to depend absolutely upon Dimple's word in such matters. "I have a salve here that will heal all wounds, and will even cause a limb that has been cut off to grow again to the body."

So saying, she whipped out of her pocket a little box of ointment, and rubbed some of it on the wounded place, which at once ceased to bleed, becoming whole as before.

"What did I tell you?" asked the crone, triumphantly. "This salve is one of the wonders of the world, and the recipe is handed down only in our family." So saying, she carefully put away the box again in her pocket.

Day after day passed, Dimple continuing to make excuses for failing to serve the coveted dainty, and exerting all her skill to cook such dishes as might make the ogress forget her disappointment. Meantime, Jim occupied his time in the coop by weaving a rope long enough and strong enough to support his weight and Dimple's while making their proposed escape down the rocky precipice on which the castle stood. Once on the sea-shore beneath, they hoped to hide in some fisherman's hut until a ship might be found sailing to their own country.

"One thing is certain, Dimple," said Jim, who was a bold and fearless fellow; "we shall not leave this place without carrying off that wonderful bird of his. Why, just to remember the dazzling stream that poured from its mouth, makes my eyes wink."

"Oh! Jim," answered Dimple, trembling. "Please, please, don't attempt such a thing. It will make our punishment ten times worse if we are caught. Besides, what hope have you of getting inside the iron closet? It is madness to talk about it. For my part, what I would like to take, is a little of that marvellous salve. Then, if we are bruised or our bones are broken on the rocks, we can make all right again----"

"Why should you forever be talking to yourself, cook?" exclaimed the ogress, at that moment bursting in, carrying a bunch of keys that clanked like fetters. "See here! No more nonsense! I'd just like to know when you propose to give us that chap in yonder, who must have eaten more than his weight in good food since he came here?"

"Very soon, very soon, madam," said Dimple, with a palpitating heart; "in a very few days he should be fit for my master's table. You know that kind of a creature takes uncommonly long to fatten."

"Hold your tongue!" cried the ogress, exploding in sudden fury, like a mine of fire-crackers, and hurling at Dimple's unfortunate head a few convenient saucepans, skewers, flat-irons, and dish-covers. Happily the thrower was of the feminine gender, and so the projectiles missed their aim; but, as Dimple dodged around in a dark corner of the kitchen, the ogress continued to scold her angrily.

"I know this," she exclaimed, "that for only one single day longer will I consent to be put off by your palavering promises and excuses. The lad is fit to kill now, if he is ever going to be; and as day after to-morrow is my lord's two thousand and tenth birthday, you must prepare a dish that shall be better than all that have gone before it. Everything is arranged for a night of celebration. Exactly at midnight to-morrow, we proceed in the vampire chariot to visit our neighbor, the King of the Ghouls, and, returning, shall expect to find the feast served punctually at cock-crow; the dear children may sit up for it, and my brother, the Ogre of the Seven Mountains, is invited to partake."

During this speech Dimple's blood ran cold, but, summoning up all her resolution, she answered calmly, "All shall be ready, madam;" and when the appeased ogress took her leave, Dimple flew to the iron coop, and asked Jim if he had heard the conversation.