Part 3

Then the old woman burst into tears and flung her arms around the neck of her little guest. “Oh, do not leave me, kind Fairy-child!” she said. “I love you very dearly, and how shall I live without you? I loved you when I thought you were only a little monkey, but now I love you a thousand times more.”

Gently the Fairy kissed her and said, “Now hear what the gift is that I may give you. I may give you one wish of three, and you shall choose between them. You shared your simple food with a poor little animal-guest. Now for the first wish: Would you live always on princely fare? If you so choose you may have more than you need to eat. You may have meats and fruit, fine wheaten bread and choice sweets, such as are set upon palace tables. You may have everything that a dainty palate could desire, and every day a different feast of goodies. This you may choose, if you so will. Or, if you think the second choice a better one, you may become young again as I am now, for I am a picture of your lost youth which you have forgotten. You may have health and strength, and appetite to enjoy life, and the hearty meals which you will be able to earn. That is a goodly gift, is it not?”

The old woman nodded, but still her eyes were unsatisfied.

“Then there is the third choice,” said the Fairy, and her voice was very soft. “But that one it seems selfish for me to name, because it is a wish for my happiness.”

“What is the third wish?” asked the old woman eagerly.

“You may wish, if you choose--and the wish will be granted by the Fairy Queen--that all may remain as it now is; you will be what you are, a dear old woman living still in this little hut, with your little well in which there will ever be one dipperful of water, no more; with your little bucket in which there will ever be one handful of rice, no more; with your little teapot in which there will ever be one drop of tea, no more. It is scanty fare for one, Mother; yet withal, if you would have one to share it, I will do so still, as I have done so long. I will become your child--no longer a Fairy-child, but your little human girl-child, such as I seem now. I will live with you always, love you and take care of you always and share your scanty portion.”

The old woman gave a cry of joy. “But do _you_ wish it?” she said. “Would you not rather go back to your beautiful Fairyland, where you can be happy and care-free always?”

“Nay, dear Mother,” said the Fairy; “if the choice were mine I would rather remain here with you than anywhere in the whole wide world, for I have been very happy here and I have learned many things. I do not want to go back to Fairyland to be an idle, careless, selfish Fairy. I would rather be a human child and share my mother’s joys and sorrows. Dear Mother, will you have it so?”

“Yes, I will have it so!” cried the old woman joyfully.

“Think,” said the Fairy, lifting a warning finger, “think of the fine feasts and the dainties you might have. Think of the youth and strength. Would you give up all this for only me--who must share half the refreshment from your well, your bucket, and your teapot?”

“That is enough,” said the old woman. “What do we need more? We can still offer a sup to any poor stranger who may come as you came to my door. Oh, dear child, if you will stay with me, that is all I ask!”

“Well, then, let us sit down and have breakfast,” said the dear little girl, tossing her green cap into the fire. “Now I am a Fairy no longer, but your very own little girl-child. And here is a dipper of water--the only one left in the well. Here is a dish of rice--I used the last handful from the bucket. Here is just a tiny drop of tea in the teapot. Oh, Mother, I am so glad!”

So they sat down to their frugal meal, and they laughed, and they laughed, and they laughed, they were so happy.

CHILD OR FAIRY

’Tis good to be a Fairy-thing, And flit about on gauzy wing; To sleep in cradles made of flowers, Or play through all the joyous hours. For Fairies have no grief nor care, Happy they are, and always fair,-- I suppose.

And yet ’tis better far to be A little human child like me, With lessons hard and tasks to do, And sometimes little troubles, too. For I have Mother’s tender kiss, And nothing is so good as this,-- Every one knows!

KARL AND THE DRYAD

KARL AND THE DRYAD

There was once a lad named Karl who lived with his father and mother in a little village of the Flat Land. Karl was a big fellow, tall and yellow-haired. But all his strength was in his long, lean body. There was none in his poor head. Karl was the village simpleton.

Poor Karl! His life was a sorry one. He was despised and jeered at by the whole village. The children followed and tormented him at every chance, because he could not learn at school; the grown folk were little kinder, but nudged one another and made jokes about him when he came to the market-place. Even the cur-dogs followed and barked at him, but they knew no better. They were cruel folk, those dwellers in the Flat Land.

Karl’s own parents were the unkindest of all. They did not love their son nor pity his wretchedness, but were ashamed because he was so simple. They were angry, too, because in their poverty he could not help them earn a living. For there seemed little indeed that poor Karl could learn to do,--he was so very simple. His parents were continually telling him how useless he was in this workaday world.

“Oh, you stupid fellow!” they would sometimes say, driving him out of the house with blows of broom or stick. “Oh, you great good-for-nothing, sitting here and eating our bread without doing aught to pay for it! Were ever parents troubled with so worthless a son? Other folk have bright boys and girls who will grow up to do some good in the world and be a credit to their parents. But you will always be a big, overgrown baby for us to take care of. Bah! Karl, we are tired of seeing you about!”

With the tears streaming down his face poor Karl would shuffle out of the mean little cottage where they lived, the most unhappy boy in the whole wide world. There was one place whither Karl loved to go at such times, the only place where he was sure of finding rest and quiet and a friend. In a corner of the village was a little wood,--a rare sight in the Flat Land, where trees grew but sparsely.

Few other persons came here, for the folk of the country cared little about rest or quiet, and nothing at all for the beauty of nature. They were quite satisfied with the look of their clean-shaven country, their smooth lawns and geometrical canals, their straight, shadeless roads, curbed neatly on either hand. It had never occurred to them to plant trees for beauty and shade, and for the other good things which trees offer. The little wood had grown quite by accident, and no one cared anything about it. But Karl loved the lonely, pretty place, and especially the great oak which grew in the midst thereof, the only oak in the whole Flat Land. It was so big, so sturdy, and yet withal so gentle when it stretched its great limbs protectingly over his wretchedness, giving the comfort of its shade and coolness to refresh him in his troubles. It was Karl’s only friend.

A hot, sultry day came upon the Flat Land, and it seemed to be Karl’s evil day. In the morning a rout of children and dogs chased him through the village, pelting him with bad eggs and fruit, and with stones, too. They chased him until the school bell rang, when he escaped; for Karl did not go to school,--he was too simple. When he returned home, breathless, bruised, and weary, scarcely able to speak from fright and exhaustion, his father beat him because he could not tell where he had been all the morning. Poor Karl! There was no part of the whole town where he had not been in that dreadful chase. But he had not the words to explain this to his parents; so his cruel father punished him, and his mother drove him out without his dinner.

More wretched than ever before, Karl fled to his refuge, the little wood, and flung himself on the greensward beneath the giant oak tree. He buried his face in the cool, soft moss, and cried as though his heart would break.

“Poor fool! Poor fool!” he wailed. “Poor Karl, good for nothing!”

While he lay thus, sobbing aloud and filling the cups of the moss with his tears, he heard a heavy tread approaching. Glancing up fearfully,--for he had no hope to meet a friendly face, since none in all the world had ever smiled upon him,--he saw a Farmer approaching with a great axe over his shoulder.

“Hullo, there!” cried the Farmer when he spied Karl under the tree. “You Simpleton, better get up. I am going to cut down that tree which grows over your head.”

“Cut down my tree!” gasped Karl, and he began to tremble. Was he to lose his only friend?

“_Your_ tree!” jeered the Farmer. “Poor Fool, I never knew that you owned anything, even your senses. The tree is mine, with the land on which it grows and acres on every hand. I am going to cut down the tree to make firewood for next winter. That is all trees are good for.”

“Oh, do not do that!” begged Karl, spreading out his arms as if to protect the tree. “I will not let you cut it down!”

“Ho ho!” laughed the Farmer. “How will you prevent it, Simpleton? And what is the tree to you, anyway?”

“The only big tree there is anywhere!” sobbed Karl. “The only shade; the only safe, quiet, cool, kind place in the whole world! O Man, do not cut down the tree! You cannot make another.”

The Farmer had lifted his axe to strike, but now he paused and rested it on the ground. Karl’s last words had struck him with a new thought. “The Fool speaks a word of wisdom,” he growled to himself. “It is easier to cut down a tree like this than to make another. The acorn which I might plant to-day would become no such tree in my lifetime--nor in that of my son, or my grandson, or my great-grandson, for that matter. Fool, I will think it over (the more fool I, ’tis likely). I will spare _your_ tree--ha ha!--for a time. I can cut it down whenever I like. But as you say, I cannot soon grow another. My folly bids yours good-day, Fool.”

Shouldering his axe, the Farmer trudged half sulkily away. Then Karl fell to sobbing again, but this time with joy that his tree was spared. He flung his arm around the great trunk and pressed his lips against the rough bark, kissing it again and again. Suddenly he heard a sharp crack in the oak; another and another, as if the bark were being ripped away. He started up in a fright and stood back from the tree, wondering what was happening to his old friend.

Presently a long vertical slit appeared in the side of the tree and grew gradually wider and wider. A door was opening in the trunk! Karl stood gazing spell-bound at this amazing sight, when out from the dark entrance stepped a figure most wonderful to see. It was a lovely maiden, dressed all in brown,--the color of the tree-bark. About her head was twined a wreath of green oak leaves and acorns, and in her hand she carried a wand, made from a branch of the tree. She was a Dryad, the spirit whose home was the old oak tree; but Karl was too simple to know that. He merely stood staring at the beautiful stranger, too much surprised even to close his poor foolish mouth, which hung wide open.

The Dryad smiled sweetly at the lad and said, “Thanks, kind friend, for saving my tree. I heard your wise words to the cruel Farmer, and brave you were to speak them. Now what can I do to make you happy, as we Dryads love to make happy him who does kindness to our sheltering trees?”

Poor Karl did not understand how he had saved the tree. He only knew that for some reason the cruel Farmer had changed his mind. As little did he understand why the Dryad thanked him. But he heard the kindness of her voice, and knew she offered aid.

“Oh, can you help me, beautiful Stranger?” he cried, clasping his hands eagerly and looking at her with tears in his eyes.

“Indeed, I will help you all I can, kind lad,” said the Dryad, waving her wand and taking a step towards him. “Tell me about your trouble.”

Then Karl told the Dryad all the sorrow of his life,--how he was foolish and of no use, a burden to his parents and a disgrace to the town; how all the village, even the little children and the cur-dogs, hated and despised him; how unhappy and lonesome he was.

“O fair Stranger,” said Karl as he finished the sad little tale, “I am only a poor simpleton, and I can never do anything good or great. But if you could only teach me how to do some little thing that will be of use to the world, so that I shall not always be hated and despised even by the little children and dogs of the village, I should be so very happy! Will you do this, dear Tree-Maiden?”

The Dryad looked at him pityingly, and the tears stood in her own brown eyes when she heard his wish. “Poor boy,” she said, and her voice was very sweet, “you ask nothing for yourself, neither riches nor happiness nor even wisdom. You ask only to be taught how your simplicity may be of some use to the world which has treated you so unkindly. Some would call it a foolish wish. But I say, O Karl, that it is not foolishness. Twice to-day you have spoken wisely, lad.”

The Dryad looked up into the tree under which they stood; she looked down upon the ground; then she glanced around and about, thinking hard for Karl’s sake. And at last she spoke again.

“Remember the words which you spoke to-day when the Farmer raised his axe. You told him that he could not make another such tree; and those words saved this great oak. You were right, Karl. And he was right when he agreed that the acorn which he might plant to-day would not become like this king of trees in his lifetime, nor in that of his son, or his grandson, or his great-grandson. Yet the acorn which you plant will grow, and its shade, its beauty, its greenness will one day equal this. Though you may never see it, the world will be better for your deed, and future generations will bless you for it. This shall be your task, Karl, to fare forth upon a lifelong pilgrimage and plant as you go the blessed trees which will shelter the many people who are to come after you. Thus the Flat Land will become famous for all time as the place of happy wayfaring.”

Now poor Karl understood not one word of all this which the Dryad had so prettily spoken, save that he was to go away. But this thought he seized eagerly.

“I am to go away!” he cried. “When, dear Maiden, and where?”

“You must go to-night,” answered the Dryad, waving her wand. “See, already the shadows are falling. You must not be missed nor sought for this night. You must take with you only this,--a sack of acorns upon your shoulders. See where they lie all about us under the tree, ready for you to gather! And look! I will take this green mantle which I wear and make of it a sack to hold your burden. Take it, Karl, and fill it thus with the gift of your old friend, the oak.”

Karl did as she showed him, and presently he had the long, soft sack filled with brown acorns. Then the Dryad gave him a lesson in planting. She showed him how to dig a little hole for each acorn and cover it with mould; and though Karl was so simple he learned the lesson readily, for he had a loving teacher. Then the Dryad told him how he must walk a hundred paces from the planting of one acorn before he turned earth to cover the next.

“Now, Karl, you shall go forth,” she said, “from village to village wherever your thought may lead,--for it does not matter,--planting acorns on either side of the way. And if any one asks you why you do this, do you tell him the story of this day; and I warrant you will need no other pence to pay for food or a bed whenever you need them. Do not forget this story, Karl. Do not forget.”

“I am a simpleton,” said Karl humbly, “yet I shall never forget this day’s happenings, nor your words to me. But shall I indeed be doing something for the world’s good? I do not see how that can be.”

“Trust me, Karl,” said the Dryad kindly. “Indeed and indeed, you will be doing much, I promise you,--more than many men who call themselves wise. But see, already the night is falling. It is time that you were starting upon your journey.”

Thereupon she helped him to place the stout sack of acorns upon his shoulders, and with a wave of the wand started him forth upon his pilgrimage. Smiling with joy to think that at last he was about to be of some use in the world, Karl bent his long frame under the heavy burden, and trudged out of the little wood. When he reached the highroad, he turned to wave a last farewell to the Dryad. But already she had retreated into her tree-cell, closing the door behind her so tightly that one would never know where it opened. It was to his friend the great oak, alone, that Karl bade his last good-by.

Thus Karl began his pilgrimage with the green sack of acorns on his back, and with neither penny nor crust in his pocket. He began his pilgrimage at dusk, when every one was indoors at the evening meal; so no one thought of him, or spied his doings. With great glee the simple fellow planted his first acorn in the heart of the village, just within sight of the parent oak. So long as light lasted he trudged on with a happier heart than he had ever known. He was being of some use to the world! He did not understand how, but he believed the gentle Dryad’s promise. At every hundred paces he planted an acorn, and he was so busy counting his steps between whiles that he forgot all his troubles. And this, too, the wise Dryad had foreseen.

At last, when the way had grown so dim that Karl could barely see to dig earth for the last planting, a wayfarer accosted him.

“What ho, Stranger! What are you doing there?” cried this man.

“I am planting an acorn,” said Karl simply.

“Ho ho! what an idea!” cried the fellow with a guffaw. “You’ll never live to enjoy the oak that grows from that acorn. Why do you take so much trouble for nothing, my funny fellow?”

Then Karl told him the whole story, as the Dryad had bade him do. And when he paused at the end, the man was silent for a little time.

“Poor fellow!” he said at last. “Simple, simple! What a story made of fool’s fancies! An oak tree--a maiden coming out of it--acorns to be planted along the road for shade and rest! Yet--there is something in that last thought. It might not be a bad thing to have trees along our highways, though I never before heard of such a thing. Whew! I know I should have been glad to-day for the shade of a tree when I ate my luncheon in the burning sun.--Have you supped? Where do you lodge to-night, lad?”

Karl dropped his foolish mouth and said blankly that he did not know. In truth, he had never thought of the matter until that minute. But the stranger clapped him on the shoulder and said,--

“Come home with me and I will give you a bed and a sup. Your wonderful story deserves so much reward.”

So Karl fared well that night, and on the morrow once more started happily forth upon his mission. Thus indeed he fared wherever he went. At first folk laughed at the story which he told. But when they came to think it over, they found it not so ridiculous. Looking at the poor fool’s eager face and watching his tireless labor for the good of people whom he would never see, their hearts smote them for their own selfishness, and they were ashamed. They treated him well. Karl never lacked for a meal or a bed; the telling of his story always earned either. Yet he never expected this reward, but was continually wondering why folk were so good to him. He thanked them humbly for their charity, and when he was refreshed, went forth again upon his pilgrimage with no care for the morrow or for the next meal. Karl was indeed a simpleton.

The days and the weeks and the years went by, and Karl still wandered, planting the acorns as he went. He never retraced his steps, but went on and on, down new roads, new avenues, new boulevards, into new countries. He never was curious to see how his work was faring. He was too simple to think of that. He had been told what he must do in order to be useful in the world; that was enough. The Power that watches over little acorns and great oaks, over simpletons and wise men, would take care of the work which Karl had begun.

Mile after mile he traversed, country after country he visited; the years passed over his head, silvering his hair and bending still more his tall frame. As Karl grew older the burden on his shoulders became lighter to carry; but very gradually. The sack made from the Dryad’s mantle must have had magic woven in its tissue. For that first stock of acorns from the old oak tree lasted throughout the entire pilgrimage, during the whole of Karl’s life, so that he had no need to return to the unfriendly village for a fresh supply. On and on he went, and behind him for miles and miles through the countries and the years stretched rows of little oak saplings, of various heights and sizes, and full of promise,--the beginning of a wonderful arched avenue. For after he had passed out of sight, the people of every village, remembering his strange words and his wild story, began to think of him as a holy man, and to look upon the acorns which he had planted as holy things. So the sprouts were cherished carefully and more carefully as the years went by.

Now at last, after many years, Karl was grown old and feeble, and the acorns were few in the bottom of the Dryad’s green sack; and he knew that his pilgrimage was almost over. He was many, many miles from home, and for the first time he thought of returning, longing for the Tree, his friend. He was now bowed and white-haired. A snowy beard descended to his waist; his garments were in rags and his shoes were mere strips of leather bound around his bare feet. But he was very happy, for he knew his work was done.

In a little village of the far South country he planted the last acorn, and sank upon the spot, unable to go any farther. The towns-folk gathered around him, saying, “Who is this? What holy man is this?” For his face was indeed that of a blessed saint. Then once more, for the last time, he told his story. He told it in a faint and faltering voice, and it was so sad, so sweet, that every one wept to hear it, and marveled greatly, saying,--

“Surely, he is indeed a holy man! See, the green wonder-sack is empty. This is the end of his pilgrimage. Our village is blest and shall be famous as the end of his pilgrimage. We will set up a shrine in his honor where the last acorn is planted. But first we must take him home.”

“Yes, take me home!” said Karl, who understood only this word of all the praise they gave him.