Part 2

But she continued to look pensive and stared at her combs and never noticed that a fly flew into her web. Presently, she said:

“The fact is, one ought at least to see that one brings a pair of strapping wenches into the world. I suppose it’s my duty to leave somebody behind me to inherit my contempt for those wretched men.”

“She’s on the road!” whispered the mouse.

And the goat’s-foot and the fool’s-parsley nodded and neither of them said a word, so as not to disturb her in her reflections.

But the mouse hurried off to the hedge and called all the surviving gentleman-spiders together:

“The one who proposes to the princess to-morrow gets her,” said she. “She’s quite altered. She’s melted. Her heart is like wax. She won’t catch any flies, won’t eat, won’t drink and just sits and stares wistfully before her. Look sharp!”

Then the mouse ran away.

But the spiders looked at one another doubtfully. Not one of them had the proper courage to risk the attempt, seeing how badly the twelve had fared, and a few even of the wiser ones went up at once and hid under their leaves, so as not to fall into temptation.

A few remained behind, who thought about what the mouse had said, including one little young, thin one, who had always listened while the others were talking about the wonderful princess, but had never said anything himself:

“I think I’ll try,” he said, suddenly.

“You?” cried all the others, in one breath.

And they began to laugh at the thought that this chap should achieve what so many a bold spider-fellow had lost his life in attempting.

But the little chap let them laugh as much as they pleased:

“I don’t suppose I’m poaching on your preserves,” he said. “There’s none of you that has the pluck. And I just feel like making the experiment. I’ve been there to look at her and, by Jove, she is a fine woman! If she’s rejected the twelve, perhaps she’ll accept the thirteenth. Also, I think the suitors went the wrong way to work.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?” said the others, still laughing. “And how will you go to work?”

“You can come with me and see for yourselves,” he said. “I’ll stroll across to-morrow and propose.”

5

And he did, the next morning.

He came crawling up on his eight legs, very sedately and circumspectly. A little behind him came all that was left in the way of man-spiders in the hedge. The long twigs on the stubs stretched out their necks to see him. The parsley and the goat’s-foot spread out both flowers and leaves, to make his road as easy as possible. The mouse stood on her hind-legs with curiosity and stared and listened.

The princess herself sat in her web and pretended not to see him.

“Noble princess,” he said, “I have come to ask you if you will have me for your husband.”

“This is the thirteenth,” she said.

But within herself she thought that she liked him better than the others. They had all wanted to take her for their wife: this one begged her to take him for her husband. That sounded modest and well-mannered.

“She’s giving way,” said the mouse and danced with rapture.

“Hush!” said the parsley.

“Hark!” said the goat’s-foot.

“She hasn’t eaten him yet!” whispered the gentleman-spiders to one another.

“I well know,” said the wooer, “how presumptuous it is of me to address such a request to you. What is a wretched man compared with a woman and, in particular, what is a silly fellow like myself to you, who are the largest and cleverest lady in all the hedge? But that is just what attracts me to you.”

She turned and looked at him. He nearly fell to the ground with fright and cast his eight eyes down before him. All the other gentleman-spiders rushed away at a furious pace.

“Now she’ll eat him,” said the goat’s-foot and the parsley.

“She is a sweet young thing!” said the twigs on the stubs.

“She’s a terrible woman!” said the mouse.

But she did not eat him.

She caught a fly that flew into her web just then and began leisurely to devour it, while attentively contemplating her suitor.

He was an ugly little beggar, especially now, when he was shaking all over his body, because he thought that his last hour had struck. But that was just how she liked to see him. She thought that quite the right attitude for a man. And, when he saw that she gave no sign of making for him, he recovered to such an extent that he was able to finish his speech:

“I quite understand that you can’t see anything at all good-looking in me,” he said. “I don’t want to make myself out better than I am; and I am only a miserable man. But, if I could become the father of a daughter who was like you, I should consider that I had attained the object of my life and give thanks most humbly for my good fortune.”

Then a wonderful thing came to pass. She took the leg of a fly and threw it to him, which among spiders means the same as “yes.”

Quivering with happiness and apprehension, he crept nearer to her.

“Very well,” she said. “I accept you. But mind you don’t irritate me. For then I’ll eat you.”

“She’s accepted him!” said the mouse and swooned away with delight.

“She’s accepted him!” said the goat’s-foot and the parsley.

“She’s accepted him!” said the twigs on the stubs and rustled for sheer astonishment.

“She’s accepted him!” cried the gentleman-spiders, who had come back, but now ran away again, partly to spread the news in the hedge and partly so as not to be eaten at the wedding.

And it _was_ a wedding.

The whole hedge was a scene of jubilation and the mouse was the gladdest of them all, for it was her doing. Or perhaps the fool’s-parsley and the goat’s-foot were gladder still, for they would now have that family-life in their tops which they had so often longed for and which would raise them to the level of the real bushes. As for the twigs on the old stubs, they were infected with the universal joy and forgot their envy.

The wedding took place forthwith, for there was nothing to wait for. The parsley and the goat’s-foot scattered their white flowers on every side to mark the festival. The mouse dragged her little ones up the hedge so that they might see the happy bridal pair; the bluebell rang, the poppy laughed and the bindweed closed her petals half an hour earlier than usual so as not to embarrass the newly-married couple with a misplaced curiosity.

The bride ate all the flies that she had spun up, without offering the bridegroom one. But that did not matter, for he was up to the throat in happiness, so he could not have got a morsel down in any case. He made himself as small as possible. Once, when she stroked him on the back with one of her combs, he shook till they thought that he would die.

6

The mouse was astir early next morning:

“Have you seen nothing of the young couple?” she asked.

“No,” said the parsley.

“They’re asleep,” said the goat’s-foot.

“Ah!” said the mouse. “What a good thing that we got her married at last. Now you’ll see how sweet and amiable she will become. There is no end to the wonders that love can work. And when the children come!...”

“Do you think she’ll sing then?” asked the goat’s-foot.

“I shall hope for the best,” said the mouse. “She does not look as if she had a voice, but, as I said--love! Now you’ll just see, when she comes, what a radiance there will be about her. I half doubt if we shall know her when we see her.”

And the mouse laughed and the parsley and the goat’s-foot laughed and the sun rose and laughed with the rest.

Then the spider came crawling from under her leafy hiding-place.

“Good luck! Good luck!” squeaked the mouse.

“Good luck! Good luck!” said the parsley and the goat’s-foot.

The spider stretched herself and yawned. Then she went off and sat in her web, as though nothing had happened.

“Where’s the husband?” asked the mouse. “Won’t he get out of bed?”

“I’ve eaten him this morning,” replied the spider.

The mouse gave a scream that was heard all over the hedge. The parsley and the goat’s-foot trembled so that all their flowers fell off. The twigs snapped as though a storm were raging.

“He looked so stupid and ugly as he sat there beside me,” said the spider; “so I ate him. He could have staid away!”

“Heaven preserve us all!” screamed the mouse. “To eat one’s own, lawful husband!”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” said the goat’s-foot and the parsley.

“Stuff!” said the spider.

7

That day was very quiet in the hedge and the next was no livelier.

The spider attended to her web and caught and ate more flies than ever. She did not speak a word and looked so fierce that no one dared speak a word to her. The gentleman-spiders took good care not to come near her. They met every evening and talked about it.

“Yes, but he _got_ her all the same!” said the most romantic of them.

Then the others fell upon him and asked him if he thought that that was happiness, to be eaten by one’s wife on the morning after the wedding. And he didn’t know what to answer, for his romance wasn’t so very real, after all.

The mouse stole away dejectedly and went to her hole. She took the thing to heart as though it had happened in her own family. The goat’s-foot and the parsley hung their screens and felt sheepish and ashamed in the face of the twigs on the stubs. And so great was their overthrow that even the twigs thought it would be a shame to scoff at them.

But, one day, when there was a blazing sun and the spider had crawled as far as she could into the shade of the leaf, the parsley bent down to the mouse’s hole and whispered:

“Psst!... Mousie!...”

“What is it?” asked the mouse and came out.

“It’s only the goat’s-foot and I who have something to ask you,” said the parsley. “Tell me--you’re so clever--don’t you believe that it’s possible that the spider may become a different person when she begins to lay her eggs?”

“I believe nothing now,” said the mouse. “I shall never believe that that woman will ever lay eggs.”

But she did, for all that.

One fine morning, she began and behaved in such a way that no one in the hedge ever forgot the story:

“Ugh!” she said. “That one should be bothered with this nonsense with children now!”

She laid a heap of ten eggs and stood looking at them, angrily.

“Build a nest for your eggs,” said the parsley. “All that we have and possess is at your disposal.”

“Sit on them and hatch them,” said the goat’s-foot. “We will weave a roof over you, so the sun won’t inconvenience you in the least.”

“Lay up some small flies for the children, for when they come out,” said the mouse. “You have no idea what those young ones can eat.”

“Practise singing to them a bit,” said the twigs on the stubs.

“Stuff!” said the spider.

She laid four more heaps. Then she began to spin a fine, close covering of white threads to wrap each heap in separately.

“She’s not quite heartless,” said the mouse.

The spider took a heap, went down the hedge and buried it in the ground. Then up again for the next heap and so on until all the five heaps were buried.

“There!” she said. “Now that’s done with! And they won’t catch me at it again. Now at least I am a free and independent woman once more.”

“A nice woman!” said the mouse. “A shame and a disgrace to her sex, that’s what she is!”

“Such a dear little bird!” said the twigs on the stubs, sarcastically.

But the parsley and the goat’s-foot said nothing.

The next morning the spider was gone.

“The starling caught her,” said the mouse. “She was gone in a twinkling. I saw it myself.”

“If only she doesn’t make him ill,” said the twigs. “She must have been a bad mouthful.”

* * * * *

Then autumn came and winter.

The mouse sat snug in her hole and the spider’s eggs lay snug in the ground. The goat’s-foot and the parsley withered and died. The twigs on the stubs lost their leaves, but rustled on through storm and frost and snow until next spring.

THE MIST

THE MIST

1

The sun had just set.

The frog was croaking his even-song, which took so long that there seemed to be no end to it. The bee crept into her hive and the little children cried because it was bed-time. The flowers closed their petals and bent their heads, the bird hid his beak under his wing and the stag lay down to rest in the tall, soft grass of the glade.

The bells of the village-church rang in the night and, when that was done, the old sexton went off home, chatted a little with the villagers who were taking their evening stroll or standing at their doors smoking a pipe, bade them good-night and shut his door.

By and by, it was quite still and darkness fell. There was still a light in the parsonage and at the doctor’s. But at the farm-houses it was dark, for the farmers rise early in the summer and therefore have to go early to bed.

Then the stars shone forth in the sky and the moon rose higher and higher. A dog barked down in the village. But he was certainly dreaming, for there was really nothing to bark at.

2

“Is any one here?” asked the mist.

But no one answered, for there was no one there.

So the mist went on in his light, gleaming clothes. He danced over the meadows, up and down, to and fro. Now he would lie quite still for a while and then begin to dance again. He skipped across the pond and into the wood, where he flung his long, wet arms round the trunks of the trees.

“Who are you, friend?” asked the night-scented rocket, who stood and distilled her perfume for her own pleasure.

The mist did not reply, but went on dancing.

“I asked who you were,” said the rocket. “And, as you don’t answer me, I conclude that you are an ill-mannered churl.”

“I’ll conclude you!” said the mist.

And he lay down round the night-scented rocket, till her petals were dripping wet.

“Hi! Hi!” screamed the rocket. “Keep your fingers to yourself, my friend! I feel as if I had been dipped in the pond. You needn’t be so angry, just because I ask you who you are.”

The mist rose up again:

“Who I am?” he repeated. “Why, you wouldn’t understand if I told you.”

“Try,” said the rocket.

“I am the dew-drop on the flowers, the cloud in the sky and the mist on the fields,” he answered.

“I beg your pardon?” said the rocket. “Would you mind saying that again? Why, I know the dew-drop. He settles on my petals every morning; and I don’t see any resemblance between you.”

“Ah, I am the dew-drop, for all that!” said the mist, sadly. “But nobody knows me. I have to spend my life in many shapes. Sometimes I am dew and sometimes I am rain and sometimes I trickle in the form of a clear, cool spring through the wood. But, when I dance over the meadow in the evening, then people say that the mist is rising.”

“That’s a queer story,” said the rocket. “Have you any more to tell me? The night is long and sometimes I feel a little bored.”

“It is a sad story,” answered the mist. “But you shall hear it if you like.”

And he made as though to lie down, but the night-scented rocket shook all her petals in alarm.

“Be so good and keep a little farther off,” she said, “at least, until you have introduced yourself properly. I have never cared to be intimate with people whom I don’t know.”

The mist lay down a few steps away and began his story:

“I was born deep down in the ground,” he said, “much deeper than your roots grow. I and my brothers--for you must know that we are a big family--came into the world in the shape of clear crystal spring-water and lay long in our hiding-place. But, one day, we sprang suddenly from under a gentle hill, into the midst of the full, bright sunshine. Believe me, it was delightful to run through the wood. We rippled over the stones and splashed against the banks. Dear little fishes played among us and the trees bent over us and reflected their green splendour. If a leaf fell, we rocked it and caressed it and bore it into the wide world. Oh, how delightful it was! It was really the happiest time in my life.”

“Shall I soon hear how you came to be mist?” asked the night-scented rocket, impatiently. “I know the brook. On a very still night, I can hear her babbling from where I stand.”

The mist rose and took a little dance across the meadow. Then he came back and continued:

“That is the worst of this world; we are never satisfied with what we have. For instance, we ran on and on until, at last, we came to a big lake, where the water-lilies rocked on the water and the dragon-flies buzzed around on their great stiff wings. On the surface, the water was as clear as a mirror; but, whether we wanted to or not, we had to run along the bottom and there it was dark and dismal. I could not bear it. I longed for the sunbeams. I knew them so well from the time when I ran in the brook. Now they looked down upon us through the leaves and cast a bright light over me. I wanted to see them again and therefore I crept up to the surface and lay down in the sunshine among the white water-lilies and their big green leaves. But oh, how the sun burnt upon the lake! It was almost unendurable and I bitterly regretted that I had not remained at the bottom.”

“All this is very dull,” said the rocket. “When are we coming to the mist?”

“Here he is!” said the mist and lay down around the flower, who almost lost her breath.

“Hi! Hi!” screamed the rocket. “You’re the roughest playfellow I know. Go away and tell your story in your own manner, if you must.”

“In the evening, when the sun had gone down, I suddenly became wonderfully light,” said the mist. “I don’t know how it happened, but I felt that I must rise up and fly away from the lake. And, in fact, before I knew it, I was hovering over the water, away from the dragon-flies and the water-lilies. The evening-wind carried me along; I flew high in the air and there I met many of my brothers, who had been as inquisitive as I and had met with the same fortune. We were wafted up to the sky; we had turned into clouds: do you understand?”

“I am not quite sure,” said the rocket. “It does not sound very probable.”

“But it’s true, for all that,” said the mist. “Now listen. The wind carried us for some time through the sky. Then, suddenly, he grew tired of us and let us go. And we fell down upon the earth in pouring rain. The flowers lost no time in closing their petals and the birds took shelter, all except the ducks and geese, who were the better pleased the wetter it was. Oh; and the farmer, too: he stood there rejoicing, because his crops needed rain. He did not care how wet he got. But, otherwise, we really caused a great disturbance.”

“Ah, so you’re the rain too, are you?” asked the night-scented rocket. “I say, you seem to have plenty to do.”

“Yes, I never have any rest,” said the mist.

“All the same, I haven’t yet heard how you became mist,” said the rocket. “Now don’t fly into a passion again: you promised to tell me and I would rather hear the whole story over again than once more shiver in your horrid damp arms.”

The mist lay and wept for a moment and then continued:

“When I had fallen on the ground as rain, I sank through the black earth and was glad to think I was returning to my native place, the deep subterranean source. There at least I had known peace and been free from cares. But, just as I was sinking, the roots of the trees sucked me up again and, all day long, I had to wander around in the branches and leaves. They used me as a beast of burden, you see. I had to drag up from the roots all the food that the leaves and flowers needed. I was not free until the evening. When the sun had gone down, all the trees and flowers heaved deep sighs and in their sighs my brothers and I were sent forth as a light, gleaming mist. At night, we dance over the fields. But, in the morning, when the sun rises, we turn into beautiful, clear dew-drops and come and hang on your petals. Then you shake us off and we sink deeper and deeper until we come to the source where we were born, unless some root or other snatches us up on the way. And so it goes on: through the brook, into the lake, up in the sky and back again to earth....”

“Stop!” cried the night-scented rocket. “It makes my head swim to listen to you!”

3

Now the frog began to stir. He stretched his legs and went down to the ditch to take his morning bath. The birds began to chirp in the wood and the stag belled among the trees.

Morning began to break and the sun peeped over the hill:

“What’s this?” he said. “What does it all mean? One can’t see one’s hand before one’s eyes. Morning-wind! Up with you, you sluggard, and blow that nasty mist away!”

And the morning-wind flew across the fields and blew away the mist. At the same moment, the sun sent his first rays straight down upon the night-scented rocket.

“Hullo!” said the flower. “Here’s the sun! Now I must be quick and close my petals. Where in the name of wonder has the mist gone to?”

“Here I am,” said the dew-drop hanging from her stalk.

But the night-scented rocket shook her head fretfully:

“Tell that to the children,” she said. “I don’t believe a word of all you’ve said. You’re just water and nothing more.”

“You’re right enough there!” said the sun. And he laughed.

THE ANEMONES

THE ANEMONES

1

“Peewit! Peewit!” cried the lapwing, as he flew over the moss in the wood. “Dame Spring is coming! I can feel it in my legs and wings.”

When the new grass, which lay down below in the earth, heard this, it at once began to sprout and peeped out gaily between the old, yellow straw. For the grass is always in an immense hurry.

Now the anemones in between the trees had also heard the lapwing’s cry, but refused on any account to appear above the earth.

“You mustn’t believe the lapwing,” they whispered to one another. “He is a flighty customer, whom one can’t trust. He always comes too early and starts calling at once. No, we will wait quite quietly till the starling and the swallow come. They are sensible, sober people, who are not to be taken in and who know what they are about.”

And the starlings came.

They sat down on a twig outside their summer villa and looked about them.

“Too early, as usual,” said Mr. Starling. “Not a green leaf and not a fly, except an old tough one of last year, not worth opening one’s beak for.”

Mrs. Starling said nothing, but looked none too cheerful either.

“If we had only remained in our snug winter-quarters beyond the mountains!” said Mr. Starling. He was angry because his wife did not answer, for he was so cold that he thought a little discussion might do him good. “But it’s _your_ fault, just as last year. You’re always in such a terrible hurry to go to the country.”

“If I’m in a hurry, I know the reason _why_,” said Mrs. Starling. “And it would be a shame for you if you didn’t know too, for they are your eggs as well as mine.”

“Heaven forbid!” replied Mr. Starling, indignantly. “When have I denied my family? Perhaps you expect me, over and above, to sing to you in the cold?”

“Yes, _that_ I do!” said Mrs. Starling, in the tone which he could not resist.

He at once began to whistle as best he could. But, when Mrs. Starling had heard the first notes, she flapped her wings and pecked at him with her beak:

“Will you be quiet at once!” she screamed, angrily. “That sounds so dismal that it makes one quite melancholy. You’d better see to it that the anemones come out. I think it’s high time. And, besides, one always feels warmer when there are others shivering too.”

Now, as soon as the anemones had heard the starling’s first whistle, they carefully stuck their heads out of the ground. But they were still so tightly tucked up in their green wraps that one could hardly see them. They looked like green buds which might turn into anything.

“It’s too early,” they whispered. “It’s a shame for the starling to call us. There’s no one in the world left that one can trust.”

Then the swallow came:

“Tsee! Tsee!” he whistled and darted through the air on his long, pointed wings. “Out with you, you silly flowers! Can’t you see that Dame Spring has come?”

But the anemones had become careful. They just pushed their green wraps a little to one side and peeped out: