Part 20
At an early age St Dolly showed the sweetness of her nature by her tender love for her widowed father, a baker, dwelling at Pie Corner, with a large family of little children. It chanced that with bad harvests bread became so dear that, of course, bakers were ruined by high prices. The miller fell upon Dolly’s father, and swept the shop with his golden thumb. Not a bed was left for the baker or his little ones. St Dolly slept upon a flour sack, having prayed that good angels would help her to help her father. Now sleeping, she dreamt that the oven was lighted, and she felt falling in a shower about her, raisins, currants, almonds, lemon peel, flour, with heavy drops of brandy. Then in her dreams she saw the fairies gather up the things that fell, and knead them into a cake. They put the cake into the oven, and dancing round and round, the fairies vanished, crying, “Draw the cake, Dolly--Dolly, draw the cake.” And Dolly awoke and drew the cake, and, behold, it was the first Twelfth Cake, sugared at the top, and bearing the images of Faith, Hope and Charity. Now this cake, shown in the window, came to the king’s ear; and the king bought the cake, and married Dolly to his grand falconer, to whom she proved a faithful and loving wife, bearing him a baker’s dozen of lovely children.
* * * * *
There was a general laugh at Pink’s story, it was so _very_ short, and Pink felt quite proud of herself in having got through her tale telling about twice as quickly as Quick.
“Only two more stories,” said Oberon, “and then all must fly back to their proper work as fairies. There are so many of us here that would like to take a turn on the tale-teller’s stool that it is now not easy to choose, so we will have our next story from the first fairy who can get on the stool--but wait,” for as soon as Oberon spoke the rush began, “you must all go to your places and start fair when I say ‘three.’” There was a pause while all settled back in their places, and then Oberon said slowly, “One--Two--Three.”
As soon as the last word was heard there was such a scramble and rush from all parts of the ring, some running, some flying, but the nimblest of all was a Kobold, who seated himself firmly on the stool and would not let himself be pushed off. As soon as it was seen that the stool was occupied all the fairies who had tried to get there went laughing merrily back to their places, and the Kobold triumphantly began the story of
The Little Glass Shoe
A peasant, named John Wilde, found one time a glass shoe on one of the hills where the little people used to dance. He clapped it instantly into his pocket and ran away with it, keeping his hand as close on his pocket as if he had a dove in it, for he knew that he had found a treasure which the underground people must redeem at any price.
Others say that John Wilde lay in ambush one night for the underground people, and gained an opportunity of pulling off one of their shoes, by stretching himself there with a brandy-bottle beside him, and acting like one that was dead drunk; for he was a very cunning man, not over scrupulous in his morals, and had taken in many a one by his craftiness, and, on this account, his name was in no good repute among his neighbours, who, to say the truth, were willing to have as little to do with him as possible. Many hold, too, that he was acquainted with forbidden arts, and used to carry on an intercourse with the fiends and old women that raised storms, and such like.
However, be this as it may, when John had gotten the shoe, he lost no time in letting the folk that dwell under the ground know that he had it. So at midnight he went to the Nine-hills, and cried with all his might, “John Wilde of Rodenkirchen has got a beautiful glass shoe. Who will buy it, who will buy it?” For he knew that the little one who had lost the shoe must go barefoot till he got it again, and that is no trifle, for the little people have generally to walk upon very hard and stony ground.
John’s advertisement was speedily attended to. The little fellow who had lost the shoe made no delay in setting about redeeming it. The first free day he got, that he might come out into the daylight, he came as a respectable merchant, and knocked at John Wilde’s door, and asked if John had not a glass shoe to sell. “For,” says he, “they are an article now in great demand, and are sought for in every market.” John replied that it was true he had a very little little, nice, pretty little glass shoe, but it was so small that even a dwarf’s foot would be squeezed in it, and that God Almighty must make people on purpose for it before it could be of any use, but that, for all that, it was an extraordinary shoe and a valuable shoe, and a dear shoe, and it was not every merchant that could afford to pay for it.
The merchant asked to see it, and when he had examined it, “Glass shoes” said he, “are not by any means such rare articles, my good friend, as you think here in Rodenkirchen, because you do not happen to go much into the world. However,” said he, after hemming a little, “I will give you a good price for it, because I happen to have the very fellow of it.” And he bid the countryman a thousand dollars for it.
“A thousand dollars are money, my father used to say when he drove fat oxen to market,” replied John Wilde, in a mocking tone; “but it will not leave my hands for that shabby price, and, for my own part, it may ornament the foot of my daughter’s doll. Harkye, friend; I have heard a sort of little song sung about the glass shoe, and it is not for a parcel of dirt that it will go out of my hands. Tell me now, my good fellow, should you happen to know the knack of it, that in every furrow I make when I am ploughing I should find a ducat. If not, the shoe is still mine, and you may inquire for glass shoes at those other markets.”
The merchant made still a great many attempts, and twisted and turned in every direction to get the shoe, but when he found the farmer inflexible he agreed to what John desired, and swore to the performance of it.
Cunning John believed in him, and gave him up the glass shoe, for he knew right well with whom he had to do. So the business being ended, away went the merchant with his glass shoe.
Without a moment’s delay, John repaired to his stable, got ready his horses and his plough, and drove out to the field. He selected a piece of ground where he would have the shortest turns possible, and began to plough. Hardly had the plough turned up the first sod, when up sprang a ducat out of the ground, and it was the same with every fresh furrow he made. There was now no end of his ploughing, and John Wilde soon bought eight new horses, and put them into the stable to the eight he already had--and their mangers were never without plenty of oats in them--that he might be able every two hours to yoke two fresh horses, and so be enabled to drive them the faster.
John was now insatiable in ploughing, every morning he was out before sunrise, and many a time he ploughed on till after midnight. Summer and winter it was plough, plough with him evermore, except when the ground was frozen as hard as a stone. But he always ploughed by himself, and never suffered any one to go out with him, or to come to him when he was at work, for John understood too well the nature of his crop to let people see what it was he ploughed so constantly for.
But it fared far worse with himself than with his horses, who ate good oats and were regularly changed and relieved, while he grew pale and meagre by reason of his continual working and toiling. His wife and children had no longer any comfort of him, he never went to the ale-house or the club, he withdrew himself from every one, and scarcely ever spoke a single word, but went about silent and wrapped up in his own thoughts. All the day long he toiled for his ducats, and at night he had to count them and to plan and meditate how he might find out a still swifter kind of plough.
His wife and the neighbours lamented over his strange conduct, his dulness and melancholy, and began to think that he was grown foolish. Everybody pitied his wife and children, for they imagined that the numerous horses that he kept in his stable, and the preposterous mode of agriculture that he pursued, with his unnecessary and superfluous ploughing, must soon leave him without house or land.
But their anticipations were not fulfilled. True it is, the poor man never enjoyed a happy or contented hour since he began to plough the ducats up out of the ground. The old saying held good in his case, that he who gives himself up to the pursuit of gold is half way in the claws of the evil one. Flesh and blood cannot bear perpetual labour, and John Wilde did not long hold out against this running through the furrows day and night. He got through the first spring, but one day, in the second, he dropped down at the tail of the plough like an exhausted November fly. Out of the pure thirst after gold he was wasted away and dried up to nothing whereas he had been a very strong and hearty man the day the shoe of the little underground man fell into his hands.
His wife, however, found after him a considerable treasure, two great nailed up chests full of good new ducats, and his sons purchased large estates for themselves, and became lords and noblemen. But what good did all that do poor John Wilde.
* * * * *
“And now,” said the King, “we come to our last story, and I think it shall be told us by the fairy who comes from the furthest North.”
Several dwarfs and Elves started up at this word, but the King signalled them back to their places; “No,” he said, “none of you is the one from farthest North.” Then slowly up the middle of the circle came a quaint little figure all in white with long white hair and beard--looking, only of course the idea is ridiculous, like an _old_ fairy. He had come from the land of perpetual winter, where everything is white as the everlasting snow, but though he looked old he was lively and youthful as the most frolicsome of the flower fairies there. He skipped briskly on to the stool, then passing his hand down his long white beard--strange guest where all was so brilliantly coloured--he began a story which he named
East o’ the Sun and West o’ the Moon
Once on a time there was a poor husbandman who had so many children that he hadn’t much of either food or clothing to give them. Pretty children they all were, but the prettiest was the youngest daughter, who was so lovely there was no end to her loveliness.
So one day, ’twas on a Thursday evening late at the fall of the year, the weather was so wild and rough outside, and it was so cruelly dark, and rain fell and wind blew, till the walls of the cottage shook again. There they all sat round the fire busy with this thing and that. But just then, all at once, something gave three taps on the window-pane. Then the father went out to see what was the matter; and, when he got out of doors, what should he see but a great big White Bear.
“Good evening to you!” said the White Bear.
“The same to you,” said the man.
“Will you give me your youngest daughter? If you will, I’ll make you as rich as you are now poor,” said the Bear.
Well, the man would not be at all sorry to be so rich, but still he thought he must have a bit of a talk with his daughter first, so he went in and told them how there was a great White Bear waiting outside, who had given his word to make them so rich if he could only have the youngest daughter.
The lassie said “No!” outright. Nothing could get her to say anything else; so the man went out and settled it with the White Bear, that he should come again the next Thursday evening and get an answer. Meantime he talked his daughter over, and kept on telling her of all the riches they would get, and how well off she would be herself, so at last she thought better of it, and washed and mended her rags, made herself as smart as she could, and was ready to start. I can’t say her packing gave her much trouble.
Next Thursday evening came the White Bear to fetch her, and she got upon his back with her bundle, and off they went. So when they had gone a bit of the way, the White Bear said:--
“Are you afraid?”
“No! she wasn’t.”
“Well! mind and hold tight by my shaggy coat, and then there’s nothing to fear,” said the Bear.
So she rode a long, long way, till they came to a great steep hill. There on the face of it the White Bear gave a knock, and a door opened, and they came into a castle, where there were many rooms all lit up, rooms gleaming with silver and gold, and there too was a table ready laid, and it was all as grand as grand could be. Then the White Bear gave her a silver bell, saying that if she rang it when she wanted anything she would get it at once.
Well, after she had eaten and drunk, and evening wore on, she got sleepy after her journey, and thought she would like to go to bed, so she rang the bell, and she had scarce taken hold of it before she came into a chamber, where there was a bed made, as fair and white as any one would wish to sleep in, with silken pillows and curtains and gold fringe. All that was in the room was gold or silver, but when she had gone to bed, and put out the light, a man came and laid himself alongside her. That was the White Bear, who threw off his beast-shape at night, but she never saw him, for he always came after she had put out the light, and before the day dawned he was up and off again. So things went on happily for a while, but at last she began to get silent and sorrowful, for there she went about all day alone, and she longed to go home to see her father and mother, and brothers and sisters. So one day, when the White Bear asked what it was that she lacked, she said it was so dull and lonely there, and how she longed to go home to see her father and mother, and brothers and sisters, and that was why she was so sad and sorrowful, because she couldn’t get to them.
“Well, well!” said the Bear, “perhaps there’s a cure for all this, but you must promise me one thing, not to talk alone with your mother but only when the rest are by to hear, for she’ll take you by the hand and try to lead you into a room alone to talk, but you must mind and not do that, else you’ll bring bad luck on both of us.”
So one Sunday the White Bear came and said now they could set off to see her father and mother. Well, off they started, she sitting on his back, and they went far and long. At last they came to a grand house, and there her brothers and sisters were running about out of doors at play, and everything was so pretty, ’twas a joy to see.
“This is where your father and mother live now,” said the White Bear, “but don’t forget what I told you, else you’ll make us both unlucky.”
“No! bless her, she’d not forget”; and when she had reached the house, the White Bear turned right about and left her.
Then when she went in to see her father and mother, there was such joy, there was no end to it. None of them thought they could thank her enough for all she had done for them. Now they had everything they wished, as good as good could be, and they all wanted to know how she got on where she lived.
Well, she said, it was very good to live where she did; she had all she wished. What she said beside I don’t know, but I don’t think any of them had the right end of the stick, or that they got much out of her. But so in the afternoon, after they had done dinner, all happened as the White Bear had said. Her mother wanted to talk with her alone in her bedroom, but she minded what the White Bear had said, and wouldn’t go upstairs.
“Oh! what we have to talk about will keep,” she said, and put her mother off. But somehow or other, her mother got round her at last, and she had to tell her the whole story. So she said, how every night, when she had gone to bed, a man came and lay down beside her as soon as she had put out the light, how she never saw him, because he was always up and away before the morning dawned, and how she went about woeful and sorrowing, for she thought she should so much like to see him, and how all day long she walked about there alone, and how dull, and dreary, and lonesome it was.
“My!” said her mother; “it may well be a Troll you slept with! But now I’ll teach you a lesson how to set eyes on him. I’ll give you a bit of candle, which you can carry home in your bosom; just light that while he is asleep, but take care not to drop the tallow on him.”
Yes! she took the candle, and hid it in her bosom, and as night drew on, the White Bear came and fetched her away.
But when they had gone a bit of the way, the White Bear asked if all hadn’t happened as he had said.
“Well, she couldn’t say it hadn’t.”
“Now, mind,” said he, “if you have listened to your mother’s advice, you have brought bad luck on us both, and then all that has passed between us will be as nothing.”
“No,” she said, “she hadn’t listened to her mother’s advice.”
So when she had reached home, and had gone to bed, it was the old story over again. There came a man and lay down beside her; but at dead of night, when she heard he slept, she got up and struck a light, lit the candle, and let the light shine on him, and so she saw that he was the loveliest Prince one ever set eyes on, and she fell so deep in love with him, on the spot, that she thought she couldn’t live if she didn’t give him a kiss there and then. And so she did, but as she kissed him she dropped three hot drops of tallow on his shirt, and he woke up.
“What have you done?” he cried; “now you have made us both unlucky, for had you held out only this one year, I had been freed. For I have a stepmother who has bewitched me, so that I am a White Bear by day and a man by night. But now all ties are snapped between us, now I must set off from you to her. She lives in a castle which stands +EAST O’ THE SUN AND WEST O’ THE MOON+, and there, too, is a Princess, with a nose three ells long, and she’s the wife I must have now.”
She wept and took it ill, but there was no help for it; go he must.
Then she asked if she mightn’t go with him.
No, she mightn’t.
“Tell me the way then,” she said, “and I’ll search you out; that surely I may get leave to do.”
“Yes, she might do that,” he said, “but there was no way to that place. It lay +EAST O’ THE SUN AND WEST O’ THE MOON+, and thither she’d never find her way.”
So next morning when she woke up both Prince and castle were gone, and then she lay on a little green patch, in the midst of the gloomy thick wood, and by her side lay the same bundle of rags she had brought with her from her old home.
So when she had rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, and wept till she was tired, she set out on her way, and walked many, many days, till she came to a lofty rock. Under it sat an old hag, and played with a golden apple which she tossed about. Her the lassie asked if she knew the way to the prince, who lived with his stepmother in the Castle, that lay +EAST O’ THE SUN AND WEST O’ THE MOON+, and who was to marry the Princess with a nose three ells long.
“How did you come to know about him?” asked the old hag; “but maybe you are the lassie who ought to have had him?”
Yes, she was.
“So, so, it’s you, is it?” said the old hag. “Well, all I know about him is, that he lives in the castle that lies +EAST O’ THE SUN AND WEST O’ THE MOON+, and thither you’ll come, late or never; but still you may have the loan of my horse, and on him you can ride to my next neighbour. Maybe she’ll be able to tell you; and when you get there, just give the horse a switch under the left ear, and beg him to be off home; and, stay, this gold apple you may take with you.”
So she got upon the horse, and rode a long long time, till she came to another rock, under which sat another old hag, with a gold carding-comb. Her the lassie asked if she knew the way to the castle that lay +EAST O’ THE SUN AND WEST O’ THE MOON+, and she answered, like the first old hag, that she knew nothing about it, except it was +EAST O’ THE SUN AND WEST O’ THE MOON+.
“And thither you’ll come, late or never, but you shall have the loan of my horse to my next neighbour; maybe she’ll tell you all about it; and when you get there, just switch the horse under the left ear, and beg him to be off home.”
And this old hag gave her the golden carding-comb; it might be she’d find the use for it, she said. So the lassie got up on the horse, and rode a far far way, and a weary time; and so at last she came to another great rock, under which sat another old hag, spinning with a golden spinning-wheel. Her, too, she asked if she knew the way to the Prince, and where the castle was, that lay +EAST O’ THE SUN AND WEST O’ THE MOON+. So it was the same thing again.
“Maybe it’s you that ought to have had the Prince?” said the old hag.
Yes, it was.
But she, too, didn’t know the way a bit better than the other two. “+EAST O’ THE SUN AND WEST O’ THE MOON+ it was” she knew--that was all.
“And thither you’ll come late or never; but I’ll lend you my horse, and then I think you’d best ride to the East Wind and ask him; maybe he knows those parts, and can blow you thither. But when you get to him, you need only give the horse a switch under the left ear, and he’ll trot home of himself.”
And so, too, she gave her the gold spinning-wheel. “Maybe you’ll find a use for it,” said the old hag.
Then on she rode many many days, a weary time, before she got to the East Wind’s house, but at last she did reach it, and then she asked the East Wind if he could tell her the way to the Prince who dwelt EAST O’ THE SUN AND WEST O’ THE MOON. Yes, the East Wind had often heard tell of it, the Prince, and the Castle, but he couldn’t tell the way, for he had never blown so far.
“But, if you will, I’ll go with you to my brother the West Wind, maybe he knows, for he’s much stronger. So, if you will just get on my back, I’ll carry you thither.”
Yes, she got on his back, and I should just think they went briskly along.
So when they got there, they went into the West Wind’s house, and the East Wind said the lassie he had brought was the one who ought to have had the Prince who lived in the castle EAST O’ THE SUN AND WEST O’ THE MOON; and so she had set out to seek him, and how he had come with her, and would be glad to know if the West Wind knew how to get to the castle.
“Nay,” said the West Wind, “so far I’ve never blown; but if you will I’ll go with you to our brother the South Wind, for he’s much stronger than either of us, and he has flapped his wings far and wide. Maybe he’ll tell you. You can get on my back and I’ll carry you to him.”
Yes! she got on his back, and so they travelled to the South Wind, and weren’t so very long on the way, I should think.
When they got there, the West Wind asked him if he could tell her the way to the castle that lay EAST O’ THE SUN AND WEST O’ THE MOON, for it was she that ought to have had the Prince who lived there.
“You don’t say so. That’s she, is it?” said the South Wind. “Well, I have blustered about in most places in my time, but so far have I never blown; but if you will, I’ll take you to my brother the North Wind; he is the oldest and the strongest of the whole lot of us, and if he don’t know where it is, you’ll never find anyone in the world to tell you. You can get on my back, and I’ll carry you thither.”
Yes! she got on his back, and away he went from his house at a fine rate, and this time, too, she wasn’t long on her way.
So when they got to the North Wind’s house, he was so wild and cross, cold puffs came from him a long way off.