CHAPTER IV

THE RELEASE

While all this was taking place, Prince Abderraman was riding the wide world over, with his sword at his side and his staff in his hand. There was not a mountain in Asia, not a desert in Africa, nor a field, town or city in Southern or Middle Europe which he had not traversed in vain. But what had he to hope for in Europe? No tigers are found there except the tame ones exhibited in the city menageries; and among _them_ there was no _Ahriman_! Sorrow drew the prince back on the way to Persia, and his trusty dog, Valledivau, accompanied him.

One day the dog hunted a wild duck among the reeds of a lake, captured it and carried it alive to his master. Just as the prince was about to kill it, the duck quacked out:

"Spare my life, and I will tell you something!"

"I _will_ spare your life, wonderful bird," the prince exclaimed, astonished. "What have you to tell me?"

"Ride to Lapland!" quacked the duck, at the same time escaping into the water.

Lapland! The prince had never even heard of such a kingdom. When he inquired about it and how he should find it, people answered:

"Ride northward, steadily northward; and stop not until the road ends, the forest ends, and you no more find a human dwelling with builded hearth."

"Wonderful!" thought the prince, and he followed the advice. He rode northward, steadily northward; stopping not until the road came to an end, the forest came to an end, and no human dwelling was to be seen but one lone movable tent.

It was on the last day of August, after he had ridden many long and weary miles without seeing a single trace of man, that the prince suddenly discovered, at the foot of a high mountain, this lone tent of reindeer skin. The last day of August! The sun still shone and the heather still blossomed, but the sky had changed and a cool north wind blew. When the wind ceased, then would come the frost!

The prince drew nearer to the tent that he might once more repeat his fruitless query for the lost princess, when to his indescribable astonishment he perceived in the distance an inscription on a rock on the mountainside. The characters were very legible. He read the name of

LINDAGULL!

The wizard had carved the name there, over the door of the mountain grotto, so that he could find the place again when he moved his tent away.

The prince had dismounted, and was just about to draw his sword and enter the tent when Hirmu came out on his way to the heath.

"Give me back the Princess Lindagull or I will send you to the Kingdom of the Prince of Darkness!" shouted Abderraman.

The wizard was a crafty fellow who knew many a trick by which to save himself when in a dilemma. But he lost his presence of mind at this unexpected encounter and could think of no better way out of the difficulty than to change himself instantly into a mountain fox. With a hasty spring he fled swiftly away into the mountain. He thought thus to be safe from the prince's sword, but he forgot the dog by whom the prince was followed!

No sooner had Valledivau seen the fox spring away than he was off on the hunt after it. The fox hid in every cleft and jumped over the mountain ravines; but Valledivau, even more agile, chased him to the highest mountain top, tore him in pieces, and ate up his heart.

This proved the death of Hirmu the wizard; for his heart had entered the fox just as it had before gone into the tiger; and when the heart was eaten up, that was the end of the wizard.

When the dog returned with his nose covered with blood, his master understood that now their common enemy had met his destruction. But where was Lindagull to be found?

* * * * *

The prince went to the door of the tent. The Lapp woman, Pimpedora, was cooking reindeer meat; and her boy, Pimpepanturi, stretched lazily on the soft moss, was sleeping instead of doing something useful while he was waiting for dinner.

"Woman," said the prince, "your husband is dead. Give me back the Princess Lindagull, and no harm shall come to you."

"O mercy! And is he dead?" exclaimed the Lapp woman, coming out of the tent, but not appearing very much distressed. "Ah, well! It's time there should come an end to his evil arts. As for Lindagull, we must seek her out there among the heather blossoms. My husband has changed her into a heather blossom, exactly like many thousands of others; and to-night the frost will come and then all will be over with her!"

"Ah! dearest little Lindagull! Must you die to-night and I not be able to discover the stalk on which you wither?" cried the prince, throwing himself down among the heather on the boundless moor, where a thousand times a thousand pale, purple-pink blossoms, exactly like each other, awaited death.

"Hold!" said the Lapp woman. "Despair not! Now occurs to me the saying with which Lindagull was enchanted! I thought he planned a wrong against the child, and crept back of a big stone to see what my husband was going to do. Then I heard him say:

"_Adáma donai Marrabataësan!_"

"Ah!" sighed the prince, "how can that help us when we do not know the words which loosen the enchantment?"

Pimpepanturi, waking and thinking that the dinner had been long enough deferred, walked out of the tent to look for his mother. When he heard the prince's words, he scratched his forehead thoughtfully a few times and said, "Father used to change the saying around when he wanted to disenchant any one."

"Yes, so he did!" said the Lapp woman.

Prince Abderraman, with terrified eagerness, gave a great leap, landed on a rock, and shouted as loudly as he could over the limitless heath:

"_Marrabataësan donai Adáma!_"

The words rang out through the air without effect. No blossom arose. The sun was sinking rapidly toward the horizon and the wind was growing still.

The prince, fearing he should not give the right turn to the magic command, repeated it time after time saying the words in different order and with different expression. But in vain.

At last, at a certain way of saying the words, it seemed to him that a bit of heather on a distant mound had lifted itself up to listen, but sunk immediately back, undistinguishable among the multitudinous blossoms.

"The sun is going down," said the Lapp woman. "If we do not quickly find the right manner of saying the words, the frost will come, and then it will be too late."

By this time the sun's red beams had sunk quite down to the horizon. All nature was silent. A cool and damp evening mist, the forerunner of the frost, spread itself like a veil over moor and mound. All living things which had ventured to bloom for a short time in Lapland were now doomed to death.

Prince Abderraman was pallid with terror. His voice choked, and he could scarcely articulate the one untried arrangement of the magical words:

"_Marraba donai Adáma taësan._"

Behold! On the distant hillock, a heather blossom raised itself on its stalk. It grew as rapidly as does the lily which the Afghanistan fairies cause to spring forth in the red dawn, when they tap on the blue mountains with their magic wands.

The mist lay all around the mound. Out of the mist arose a slender figure, and as the prince approached the mound, running breathlessly, Lindagull came toward him pale with the escape of death. Prince Abderraman had found the right order for the words just in time to save her life.

The Princess Lindagull was borne to the tent in the arms of Abderraman, and her strength soon returned under the Lappish woman's kind care. Pimpedora was happy; and Pimpepanturi in his gladness forgot his longed-for dinner, which was sadly burnt in the pot.

The hero-prince, picturing to himself the perils of the princess and the wonder of her recovery, swooned with rapture. His first words as he recovered were a prayer to Allah; and then he asked Lindagull:

"How did it feel to be changed into a heather blossom?"

"Just as if one sank back into the cradle of childhood and knew no more of the world than to eat, drink, and be happy in God's love," answered Lindagull.

"And how did it feel when you came back to life again?"

"Just as when one awakes on a clear morning after a deep and pleasant slumber."

"To-morrow shall we go back to Persia?"

"Yes," answered Lindagull. "But the good woman and her son have had a share in saving the poor captive Lindagull. We will take them with us and they shall have a palace in Ispahan."

"No; many, many thanks," answered Pimpedora; "I like my reindeer tent in Lapland better."

"Are there snow and reindeer in Persia?" asked Pimpepanturi.

"Snow is found only on the highest mountains," said the princess; "and instead of reindeer we have horses, antelopes, and gazelles."

"No, thank you heartily, then," said Pimpepanturi. "You can go with pleasure, and marry whom you wish. Nowhere in the world is there to be found so good a land as Lapland!"

It was of no use trying to dispute that question with the Laplanders, so the prince and princess set out the following day without them. Before departing they presented the Lapp woman and her son with their gold-embroidered clothes and with many jewels; receiving in return gifts of Lappish garments made from reindeer skin.

The Lapp woman put the costly Persian robes carefully away in birch bark, and rejoiced because with them she could buy a whole field of grain.

* * * * *

Shah Nadir sat alone in Ispahan's golden palace and groaned with grief. He could not forget his lost daughter. His wicked and ungrateful sons had raised a rebellion against him, and were marching with a large army toward the capital to cast their father from the throne.

While affairs were at this juncture the Grand Vizier announced that a young foreign couple, dressed in reindeer skin and followed by a dog, wished to prostrate themselves at the king's feet.

Shah Nadir never refused audience to a stranger,--(perhaps such a traveler would know something of his dear lost child!)--and so the two foreigners were led into his presence.

The young man cast himself down before the feet of the Shah; but the young woman, without ado, threw her arms around his neck; at which proceeding the Grand Vizier's beard became green with consternation!

But Shah Nadir, under her Lappish hood of reindeer skin, recognized his child so long sought and so hopelessly bewailed. "Allah! Allah!" cried he in joy; "now I am willing to die!"

"No, my lord king," broke out Prince Abderraman. "Now shall you live to rejoice with us, and to win back your kingdom again."

When Shah Nadir learned about his daughter's captivity and of the loyal service which the prince had shown her, he immediately proclaimed Prince Abderraman successor to his throne, promised him the Princess Lindagull in marriage, and sent him in command of the fifty thousand knights with gold saddles to fight the rebellious army.

It was not long before the prince won a glorious battle, took the rebel sons prisoners, and came back victorious to the rejoicing people of Ispahan.

Then was the wedding of Prince Abderraman and Princess Lindagull celebrated with great state (but without a wild beast fight!) and they lived long and happily after. But one day every year,--and that was the thirty-first of August, the date of Princess Lindagull's deliverance,--the royal pair showed themselves (to the great wonderment of magnificent Persia) in the Lapps' outlandish clothes of reindeer skin, so that in their prosperity they should not forget the great escape and blessing of the past.

In his old age, Shah Nadir had happy little grandchildren to sit upon his knee. The wicked sons ended their careers as swineherds for old King Bom Bali in Turan. The dog, Valledivau, lived to be thirty years old and died of the toothache (!); his skin was stuffed and kept in great honor. But about Pimpedora, and Pimpepanturi who bore for a season the proud name of Morus Pandorus von Pikkulukulikuck´ulu, nothing has since been heard in Persia. Probably they have never found a better land on the earth's broad expanse than Lapland.

--_Z. Topelius_.

SIKKU AND THE TROLLS

In the time of Charles the Twelfth there lived, in North Finland, a poor herd-boy called Sikku. His name should have been Sixtus, but the tongue of the Finn is so unmanageable that some names baffle it, and in that case he simply makes them over to suit himself,--to the form that he can best pronounce; so for that reason, Sixtus became Sikku.

Sikku was so poor that he had neither cap nor shirt nor shoes; but not in the least did this trouble him. He was always gay and happy, and while tending his cows at the foot of Sipuri Mountain, sang songs from morning till evening or blew on his wooden horn, taking great delight in hearing the mountain echoes mimic him.

Sikku had an old jack-knife, which counted for riches to him; and besides that he rejoiced in a comrade named Kettu, a long-nosed, long-tailed yellow dog, faithful to Sikku, but with a testy temper toward other folk.

The two stood by each other in plenty and in need, through weal and through woe. Kettu drove the cows together when they strayed, Kettu watched them while Sikku took his midday nap, and Sikku shared with Kettu the hard bread that was, for both, the usual breakfast and dinner. With the bread, they always had a fine soup of clear spring water, and almost every day a delicious dessert,--strawberries, raspberries, Arctic blackberries, blueberries, red whortleberries, wild cherries, or berries from the mountain-ash.

Kettu scorned such things, but Sikku enjoyed them all in the course of the summer, and thought he fared like a prince. When the weather was very rainy and cold, however, he would begin, toward evening, to long for the porridge pot. Oh, that nice warm porridge pot, that he could scrape and scrape, eating all the porridge there was left anywhere in it! Kettu got the porridge ladle to lick, and stole Miss Pussy's milk from the broken earthen dish which stood on the floor near the water-tub, though he seldom got the milk without a battle!

The master of Anttilla Farm was stingy and grasping and his wife was like him, but what mattered that to Sikku? He had his freedom, and the only thing he was responsible for was that all the fifteen cows returned to the farm every evening to be milked. Not another care in the world had Sikku, and for a time all went well and happily.

One day he climbed up the highest peak of the mountain while Kettu watched the cows in the valley. There was a wide beautiful view over forests, marshes, and small lonely lakes, but no houses were in sight. Sikku had never in his life thought that the world could be so big! His heart warmed within him as he saw the sun sparkle on the lakes between the dark branches of the pines. When a cloud sailed over the sky, one gleam after another flashed, vanished in shadow and shone out anew in another spot. Sikku sang and sang, blowing his wooden horn between times. The sounds rang out merrily up there on the mountain and turned into a little song:

"Oh, Sipuri Mountain! Tu-tu´! Falidu´! Tu-tu´! Falidu´! In all the whole world not a boy can be found Who is tending his cows, with such grandeur around. Tu-tu´! Falidu´!"

While he was singing, there suddenly appeared before him a hideous little old woman who said to him, "All the land that you see shall be yours if you will be my boy and obey me."

"Oh, ho!" exclaimed Sikku, observing the woman closely and recognizing her as the troll woman from Allis Farm.

"Give me the white cow, Kimmo," continued she, "and say when you go home that the wolf caught her."

Sikku's eyes grew big and he answered: "Indeed I will not. I am no such rascal as that!"

"Then blame yourself for what happens," said the troll woman; and with that she hopped, crow fashion, down the mountain.

Kettu began to howl from the valley. Sikku sprang down and found that Kimmo had sunk in the wet marsh so that only her horn stood up above the soft, yielding ground. He tried to drag her out, but he was not strong enough, and when he had worked over her until he was worn out, he had to give up and go home driving only fourteen cows, while the bell cow lowed and Kettu howled.

Poor Sikku told of the disaster and got a hard thrashing; and the next morning was sent to his work without anything to eat, not even the dry bread usually given to him for the noon meal.

He sang no songs that day but sat hungry and sorrowful at the foot of the mountain. By and by, the long-bearded old troll man from Allis came to him and said:

"Give me the black cow, Mustikka, and say that the wolf tore her to pieces, and I will give you all the land you can see from Sipuri Peak."

"Indeed I will not. I am no such rascal as that!" answered Sikku, offended.

"Blame yourself then for what happens," said the troll; and with that off he went, turning somersaults all the way.

Kettu began to bark. Sikku ran at once to the herd and found Mustikka lying dead among the trees on a hillside. She had eaten some poisonous plant and could not be restored to life. Sikku, distressed and crying, made a birch-bark cone, in which he brought water from the spring and dashed over her head; but it was of no use. He must go home with only thirteen cows and report the misfortune. This time he was shut up in the cellar without food for three days. The fourth day he was sent out with the thirteen cows and the usual lunch-bag. Being very hungry he no sooner reached the gate than he opened the bag, but found in it only a gray stone!

Sikku drove the cows toward the mountain, ate berries in the forest, and sat down, full of grief, on a stump right in the midst of the herd, so that no further ill might befall. Then there came to him the pretty little troll maiden from Allis, who held out toward him a fresh wheaten roll, patted his thin cheek, and said:

"Give me the red cow, Mansikka, and tell them when you go home that a bear tore her to pieces, and you shall have this nice fresh roll and all the land you can see from the top of Sipuri besides."

Sikku was so hungry that he could have swallowed a roll of moss! He looked at the wheaten roll, he looked at the pretty little troll maiden and had to bite his tongue to keep from instantly answering yes. But the troll maiden laughed and that offended Sikku, and he answered:

"Indeed I will not. I am no such rascal as that!"

"Blame yourself then for what happens!" said the troll maiden; and with that, fluttering like a magpie, away she went into the forest.

Sikku, fearing a new misfortune, turned at once to Mansikka who had been grazing right near him. She now lay stretched at full length upon the grass with a snake hanging fast to her nose; and in a short time she was dead from the poisonous bite. What did it matter that Sikku killed the snake? Its bite had killed the cow, and home must he go with only twelve cows, and tell of this new disaster.

"Decide yourself what punishment you deserve!" said the angry farmer. "Shall I roast you in the bath-house furnace or would you rather be thrown into the deep well?"

"I couldn't help it,--it wasn't my fault!" said Sikku, weeping bitterly. "Three times they offered me all the land I could see from Sipuri Peak if I would steal a cow for them and then lie to you; but that of course I would not do."

"They did, did they?" said the farmer. "Very well. That is my land that you see from Sipuri Peak and I will promise it to you, if you, before the next full moon, lead to my farm nine beautiful cows in the place of Kimmo, Mustikka, and Mansikka, lying dead over there by the mountain. But what shall I do with you now? You must have some kind of punishment."

"Bind him hand and foot, lay him on the highest peak of Sipuri Mountain, and let him eat his fill of the view of the land you promise him," said the farm mistress, who could not forgive Sikku for the loss of the three cows.

This suggestion pleased the farmer. Sikku was bound hand and foot, and placed on the tip top of the mountain; and everybody was forbidden to give him anything to eat or drink. The remaining twelve cows were driven by another boy to graze in fields the other side of the farm, far away from the mountain.

There lay Sikku, bound hand and foot, and half dead from hunger. The forest wafted fragrance, the lakes glittered in the sunshine, twilight came, night came, the dew fell, the thrushes sang, the stars twinkled, and the moon looked down upon the poor boy; and it seemed as if no one in the whole world thought or cared about him.

But high over mountain and forest, over the lakes, the dew, the thrushes and even the stars and the moon, there is nevertheless One who sees all the oppressed and miserable upon earth; and He saw even poor forsaken Sikku and sent to him a faithful friend. Who was the faithful friend? Who should it be but Kettu?

Kettu could have porridge to eat at the farm; he could steal milk, as was his custom, from the cat's broken dish by the water-tub; but though he was hungry, Kettu chose rather to dash up the mountain in search of Sikku, to lie at Sikku's bound feet, and lick his bound hands. Sikku was so glad to have his dog with him that he once more felt happy and content; and soon both fell asleep in the moonlight.

* * * * *

Now there was at this time,--in the reign of Charles the Twelfth,--a great war going on in the southern part of the land. The people in North Finland did not know much about this war, but lived in peace behind their thick forests. Suddenly an enemy's fleet appeared on their seacoast and bands of warriors were put ashore. They spread over the land, fighting and plundering everywhere.

On this very night, one of these fierce warrior bands had come to the region near Sipuri. They attacked, burned and plundered Anttilla Farm, took the master himself prisoner, and drove forth all his cattle as part of their booty.

Afterward the warriors separated into smaller groups, to continue their plundering in other places. And certain Cossacks were left behind to guard the prisoners and the stolen cattle, until it was convenient to put them on board the ship.

Early in the morning, Sikku awoke to find that Kettu was biting a man in the leg. Two wild-looking, heavily-bearded men had climbed to the mountain top to get a good view of the land and see whither they should now betake themselves. Finding a young boy, tied and helpless, they pitied him,--hostile though they were,--freed him, gave him bread from their knapsacks and took him along with them.

Reaching their horses, which had been left tied to trees at the foot of the mountain, one of the men lifted Sikku to his horse's back, the other drove Kettu away so that he should not follow them, and off they galloped, not stopping until the riders neared the shore of a large lake.

Much booty and many prisoners had been brought here, but the Cossacks were so eager to continue their raids that they left only six men to guard what they had already taken, the others riding forth again immediately.

When night came on, the six Cossacks began to be afraid lest some of the land's own people should attack them in the dark. Therefore, they got into a small boat, taking Sikku with them, and rowed out to an island in the lake, so that they might pass the night in safety. They left the cattle to graze on the shore, while the prisoners and even the six horses were still securely bound to the trees.

Sikku lay among the Cossacks on the barren island. The night was dark, the great waves dashed against the island's pebbly beach, and a strong wind blew toward the mainland. Sikku was wakeful, and heard the long-drawn, regular breathing of the weary Cossacks as they slept beside him. Five of them lay there, but the sixth had stayed on guard in the boat.

Sikku raised himself slowly and listened. One of the Cossacks began talking in his sleep and tossed his arms about, so Sikku lay down again; but still he could not sleep.

After a while he sat up once more, and since everything was quiet, he stole out from among the sleeping Cossacks and went silently down to the boat at the shore. Here the trusted guard was also asleep, and slept so heavily that he knew nothing of Sikku's doings, although Sikku shoved the boat gently out into the water, sat down in the stern and let the wind drive the boat toward the mainland.

Still the Cossack watchman slept as the boat sped quietly on. He had ridden hard, many, many miles. Little wonder that he slept like a log!

When Sikku felt the boat grate against the land, he climbed softly out, took his old knife from his pocket, and cut the ropes that bound the prisoners. The Cossack still slept. The released prisoners could scarcely believe that they were free. They followed Sikku to the boat, and bound their enemy with the same ropes by which a moment ago they themselves had been bound.

Now at last the Cossack was awake, but too late. He had been made his captives' captive.

"Kill him at once! And then let us row to the island and kill the others while they sleep!" shouted one of the newly freed men.

"No," said Sikku, who recognized his master's voice. "Let us rather take their booty and hurry it and ourselves to safety."

"They have burnt my house and barns, and stolen everything I had," said the farmer savagely.

"They freed me and gave me food," said Sikku, who seemed suddenly like a grown man.

Most of the men agreed with Sikku. The Cossacks were not killed, some of the land's folk rode away on the enemy's horses, others drove herds of cattle off to safe hiding-places in the forest, and each person carried away as much as he could of the enemy's plunder. Sikku had chosen his share and was well pleased with it.

Several days after, the warrior bands returned from their raids and took to their ships again.

Then the folk came out from the depths of the forest and from the mountain caves where they had sought refuge in the hour of danger, and many came from their burnt farms. They gathered at the church to consult together as to what was best to be done now. For one thing, they must decide the fate of the six captive Cossacks,--the five on the island having also been captured.

"Kill them! Kill them!" shouted several.

"No, give them to Sikku," said others. "He captured them."

So the six Cossacks were given to Sikku who exacted the promise from them that they would not fight against Finland any more. Then he let them go, free and unharmed.

The farmer of Anttilla and his wife had settled themselves in a tiny hut on their estate which the enemy, in their headlong haste, had not burned.

"Alas!" said the wife, the first evening they sat in their new poor home. "If we only had our beautiful cows now!"

"If we only had!" said the farmer.

At that moment they saw a little bareheaded, barefooted boy come from the hillside grove toward the hut, driving before him, with the help of a long-nosed, yellow dog, a herd of nine beautiful cows.

"Isn't that Sikku? And Kettu?" exclaimed the farmer.

"And are not those our cows?" cried the farm mistress.

Yes, it was Sikku; and Kettu; and those were the Anttilla Farm cows that the robbers had taken away with them. Three had been slain, but the nine that were left, Sikku had asked for as his share of the booty.

"Here I come, bringing you nine beautiful cows!" shouted Sikku. He would fain have swung his cap for joy, only he had no cap.

"Darling boy!" "Is it really you?" exclaimed the farmer and his wife at the same time. Then they embraced Sikku, and patted the cows again and again in their delight.

Kettu had already disappeared in the hut to see whether Miss Pussy's broken dish still stood by the water-tub. Miss Pussy hissed and spat at him and so there was again war in the land.

"Are you hungry, Sikku?" asked the mistress. Her conscience was very uneasy.

"No, I thank you," answered Sikku. "I was thinking of something else. It is not yet full moon."

At these words, the farmer fumbled with his big ears in embarrassment and distress, remembering his rash promise. Here was Sikku with nine cows, and true enough, the moon was not yet full. Well, Sikku had proved himself a fine fellow;--a promise was a promise;--they needed the cows sadly. One might as well make the best of the situation.

"Listen now, Sikku," said he. "Let us be good friends. What could you do with so much land while you are so little? Serve me faithfully for seven years, and I will then keep my promise and give you all the land you can see from Sipuri Mountain."

"Done!" said Sikku.

So Sikku served faithfully for seven years at Anttilla Farm, grew tall and strong, got shirts and caps and shoes, married the farmer's daughter, the kind Greta, and received with her not only all the land to be seen from Sipuri Mountain, but a fine new farmhouse besides.

Kettu and Miss Pussy lived many years and, when they died, were both buried at the foot of Sipuri Mountain.

And the three trolls? Oh, yes. Well, there is a big crows' nest at Allis Farm, in which live three crows. They can give you news of the trolls, if any one can; but people say, you know, that crows are not to be relied upon in the least.

--_Z. Topelius_. [Illustration]

SAMPO LAPPELIL

There was once a Lapp and a Lapp woman. The Lapps are a people who live north of the Swedes, the Norwegians, and the Finns, far, far up in the north. They have neither fields, nor real forests, nor regular houses, but only great barren bogs and high mountains, and small huts, which they crawl into through a hole. The country of the Lapps is strange. Half the year it is light most of the time, for the sun never sets in the middle of summer, and the other half of the year it is dark most of the time, and the stars shine all day in winter.

Ten months of the year it is winter, and then the little Lapp men and the little Lapp women drive over the snow in small boats, which are called pulks. There is no horse harnessed before the pulk, but a reindeer. Have you ever seen a reindeer? It is as large as a little horse, is gray in color, has high branching horns, a stooping neck, and a pretty little head with great clear eyes. When it runs at full speed, it goes flying over mountains and hills like a rushing wild wind, and its hoofs snap as it dashes along.

There was, as I have said, a Lapp and a Lapp woman. They lived far up in Lapland, in Aimio, which lies near Tenojoki or the Tana River. (You can see it on the map of Finland, where Lapland can be found like a great nightcap on Finland's high head.) The place was barren and wild, but the Lapp and his wife felt sure that nowhere on the whole earth could you see such white snow, such clear stars, and such beautiful Northern Lights as at Aimio. There they had built themselves a hut such as Lapps usually live in. No large trees grew in that region,--only slender birches, that were more like bushes than trees--so where could they get wood for a house? Instead, they took long, thin sticks, stuck them into the snow, in a circle, tied the upper ends together, hung reindeer skins over the sticks, so that altogether it looked like a gray sugar-loaf, and then the hut was finished. In the top of the sugar-loaf they left a hole, through which the smoke could escape if they lighted a fire, and there was another hole in the southern side through which they could crawl in and out. The Lapps thought it was pretty and warm and were very happy in it, though they had no other bed and no other floor than the white snow.

The man and the woman had a little boy whose name was Sampo, and that means "luck" in Lapland. But Sampo had two names. Once some strange gentlemen in great fur coats had come and stayed in the hut. They had with them little hard, white pieces of snow, such as the Lapp woman had never seen before, which they called "sugar." They gave Sampo a few pieces of the sweet snow, and they patted him on the cheek and said: "Lappelil! Lappelil!" which means "little Lapp." They could not say anything else, for they could not talk Lapp. And then they traveled away farther north, to the Arctic Ocean and the northernmost point of Europe which is called the North Cape. The Lapp woman liked the strange gentlemen and their sweet snow, and she began from that time to call her boy "Lappelil."

"I think Sampo a much better name," said the man, rather vexed. "Sampo means 'riches,' and I tell you, Mother, don't spoil the name! For, some time, Sampo will become the king of the Lapps, and reign over thousands of reindeer and fifty Lapp huts."

"Yes, but Lappelil sounds so pretty," said the woman. And she called the boy "Lappelil," and the man called him "Sampo." He was, however, not christened yet, for at that time there was no priest within a hundred miles. "Next year we will go to the priest and let him christen the boy," the man used to say. But next year something came in the way, and the journey did not take place, and the boy did not get christened.

Sampo Lappelil was now a fat little fellow seven or eight years old, with black hair and brown eyes; he had a snub nose and a broad mouth just like his papa's; in Lapland a face must have such features if it is to be thought really fine. Sampo was not a stupid boy for his age; he had his own little snow-shoes and on them he danced over the high hills near the Tana; and his own little reindeer which he harnessed before his own pulk. You should have seen how the snow blew about him, as he rushed off over the ice and the high snow-drifts, so that nothing of the boy was to be seen but a tuft of his black hair!

"I shall never feel quite safe until the boy is christened," the Lapp woman often said. "The wolves may get him some fine day here on the mountains, or he may meet Hiisi's reindeer with the golden horns--and then may God protect the poor creature who is not christened!"

Sampo, hearing this, began to wonder what kind of a reindeer it could be that had golden horns. "That must be a beautiful reindeer," said he. "I should like to drive it once; then I would travel to Rastekais!"

Rastekais is a very wild, high mountain that may be seen from twenty-five or thirty miles away.

"Don't you dare to talk so, naughty boy!" said the mother, and scolded him. "It is just on Rastekais that the trolls are, and there lives Hiisi."

"Hiisi--who is that?" asked Sampo.

The woman became confused. "Now, he must ask about everything, that boy," she thought to herself. "Why do I stand here and talk about such things so that he can hear? But at least I will frighten him away from Rastekais!"

And so she said: "Dear Lappelil, never go to Rastekais, for there lives Hiisi, the great mountain king who eats a reindeer in a mouthful, and swallows boys like gnats."

Sampo began to wonder when he heard this; but he said nothing. He thought to himself: "It must be good fun to see such a horrid creature as the mountain king,--but only from a long way off!"

It was now already three or four weeks after Christmas, and it was still dark in Lapland. There was no morning, noon, nor evening. It was always night; and the moon shone, and the Northern Lights crackled, and the stars twinkled brightly all the time. Sampo began to feel dull. It was so long since he had seen the sun that he had almost forgotten what it looked like; and when any one talked of summer Sampo only remembered it was the time when the gnats were so bad and tried to eat him up. Therefore he did not care if the summer stayed away forever, if only it would grow light enough to go about easily on snow-shoes.

One day about noon the Lapp said: "Come here, and you shall see something!" Sampo crept out of the hut in the dark, and looked toward the south, for it was in that direction that his father pointed. There he saw a little red streak way down on the horizon.

"Do you know what that is?" asked the Lapp.

"That is Southern Lights," said the boy. He had a good idea of the points of the compass, and knew very well that you could not see Northern Lights in the south.

"No," said his father, "that is the forerunner of the sun. To-morrow or the day after we shall see the sun itself. Only look how strangely the red light shines on the top of Rastekais."

Sampo turned to the west and saw how the snow was colored red far away on the dark, wild top of Rastekais. Immediately it came into his mind how very pleasant it would be to see the mountain king--from a long way off.

Sampo thought about this all day and half the night. He tried to sleep, but could not. "Yes," he thought, "it would be fun to see the mountain king once!" He kept thinking about it, until at last he crept quite softly out from the reindeer-skin under which he lay, and out through the door. It was so cold that the stars snapped and the snow crackled under his feet. But Sampo Lappelil was not afraid of cold. Besides he had a leather jacket, leather trousers, Lapp shoes, and a fur cap and mittens. Thus fortified, he looked at the stars, and did not know exactly what he should do next.

Then he heard his little reindeer scratching in the snow not far off. "What if I took a drive?" thought Sampo.

No sooner said than done. Sampo harnessed the reindeer before the pulk as he usually did, and started off over the great bare snow-field. "I will drive a little way toward Rastekais, only a little way," he thought to himself. So he drove down over the frozen river and up on the other side of the Tana, and then was in the kingdom of Norway, for the Tana River is the boundary. But that Sampo did not know.

You, who are reading this story of Sampo Lappelil, did you ever sing: "Run, my brave reindeer"? Do you know the beautiful songs of the dear, good Bishop Franzén, whom all Sweden and all Finland love, and have you ever seen the title-page of the fourth volume of his songs? There you can see a Lapp boy driving with his reindeer over the snow, and that is just Sampo Lappelil. So he sat and sang to himself:

"So short is the day, The road is so long, Oh! hark to my song: Let us hurry away! The wolf pack lives here, Rest not, little deer!"

As he sang he saw in the dark the wolves running like gray dogs around the pulk, and barking after the reindeer; but he did not mind that; he knew that no wolf could run as fast as his swift reindeer. Ha, how they went over stones and hills! The wind whistled in their ears! Sampo Lappelil only rushed on. The reindeer's hoofs snapped, and the moon in the sky raced with him, and the high mountains seemed to rebound, but Sampo Lappelil only rushed on. It was pleasant to drive; he thought of nothing else. Then it happened that in a sudden turn over a hill, the pulk upset and Sampo fell out and was left lying in a snow-drift.

But the reindeer did not notice that; it thought that he still sat in the pulk, and so ran on, and Sampo had got his mouth so full of snow that he could not call. There he lay, like a lemming that had lost a foot, in the dark night, in the midst of the desolate wilderness where no one lived for many miles around.

Sampo was frightened at first--that you cannot wonder at. He worked himself out of the snow, and found he was not hurt in the least, but what good would that do? As far as he could see in the pale moonlight, there were only snow-drifts and snow-fields and high mountains. But one mountain reached high above all the others, and Sampo guessed that he was now near Rastekais. Here lived the horrible mountain king, who ate a reindeer in one mouthful, and swallowed boys like gnats! Now Sampo Lappelil grew frightened indeed. Ah! how gladly would he have been at home with his father and mother in the warm hut. But how should he get there? Would not the mountain king come and swallow him with his trousers and mittens, as if he were but a poor little gnat?

Well, there sat Sampo Lappelil in the snow and the dark, on Lapland's barren mountain. It was so strange, so frightful to see the high black shadow of Rastekais, where the mountain king lived! But it did not help him to sit there and cry, for his tears froze in a moment, and ran like peas down on his furry reindeer-skin jacket. So Sampo got up from the snow-drift to run himself warm.

"If I stand here I shall freeze," said he to himself. "No, rather will I go to the mountain king. If he eat me, then he will eat me. But I will tell him that it would be better that he should eat the wolves here on the mountain; they are fatter than I, and he will have less trouble with their skin than he would with my furs."

Sampo began to climb up the high mountain. He had not gone far before he heard something come stealthily over the snow, and immediately afterward a great furry wolf sprang out close to his side. Sampo started, his little Lapp heart beat loud, but he determined to behave as if he were not afraid. "Don't jump in my way," he called to the wolf. "I have an errand to the mountain king, and if you wish to keep your skin don't do me any harm!"

"Well, well, take it easy," said the wolf, for on Rastekais all the animals could talk. "Who are you, little fellow, working yourself through the snow?"

"My name is Sampo Lappelil," answered the boy. "And who are you?"

"I am the mountain king's highest master-wolf," answered the monster, "and have been running from mountain to mountain to bring his people to the great Sun Festival. Since you are coming my way, you can sit up on my back and ride to the king."

Sampo climbed up on the wolf's furry coat, and they rushed away over clefts and precipices.

"Sun Festival--what does that mean?" asked Sampo.

"Don't you know?" said the wolf. "After it has been dark in Lapland all winter, and the sun for the first time rises in the sky, then we celebrate. All the animals and all the trolls collect here on Rastekais, and on that day no one is allowed to do any harm. That is lucky for you, Sampo Lappelil, for otherwise, you see, I should have eaten you up a long time ago."

"Is there the same law for the king, too?" asked Sampo.

"Of course," said the wolf. "For one hour before the sun rises and for one hour after it sets, the mountain king dare not touch a hair of your head; but you must take care, after that time; for if you are still on the mountain, then a hundred thousand wolves and a thousand bears will rush upon you, and the mountain king will seize the first one he can get hold of, and then it will soon be over with Sampo Lappelil."

"Perhaps you will be so kind as to help me back, as soon as there is danger?" asked Sampo with a beating heart.

The wolf began to laugh, for on Rastekais the wolves can laugh. "Don't imagine that, dear Sampo," said he; "I will be the first to stick my claws into you. You are a fine fat boy; I see that you have been fattened on reindeer's milk and reindeer cheese. You will taste very good for an early breakfast."

Sampo wondered if it would not be as well to jump down from the wolfs back immediately, but it was too late; they had come to the top of the mountain, and he saw a wonderful sight. There sat the great mountain king on his throne of sky-high rocks, looking far out over mountains and valleys into the dark night. On his head he wore a cap of white snow-clouds; his eyes were like the full moon when it rises over the woods, his nose like a mountain top, his mouth like a mountain cleft, his beard like long icicles; his arms were as thick as the thickest fir-tree, his hands were like pine branches, his legs were like coasting-hills in winter, and his great fur coat like a snow mountain. If you ask how any one could see the mountain king and his people in the middle of the night, then you must know that the snow cast a light upon everything, and that over the sky the most beautiful Northern Lights played.

Around the mountain king sat millions of gray mountain trolls and brownies, so small that when they ran on the frozen snow they left no more trace after them than a squirrel leaves. They had collected here from the farthest ends of the earth, from Nova Zembla and Spitsbergen and Greenland and Iceland--yes, from the North Pole itself, to worship the sun, as savages from fear worship the devil; for the trolls do not like the sun and would prefer that it should never rise again after it has once set behind the barren mountains. Farther away stood all the animals of Lapland in long close rows--a thousand and again a thousand bears, wolves, and lynxes, the good reindeer, the little lemming, and the lively reindeer-fleas; but the gnats had not been able to come--they were frozen to death.

All this Sampo Lappelil saw with wonder. He climbed down quietly from the master-wolf's back and hid himself behind a great stone to see what would happen.

The mountain king raised his high head so that the snow flew around him; and the beautiful Northern Lights stood like a halo about his forehead, and shot in long star-shaped, pale-red rays out over the blue night sky; there was a crackling and a roaring like that a forest fire makes when its flames leap up against the crowns of the pine-trees; now the Lights spread themselves out, now they drew together again; now the brightness was very dazzling, now it grew pale, then one gleam of light after another shot like a sudden shower out over the snow-covered mountain. This pleased the mountain king. He clapped his icy hands, and the echo from the mountains sounded like thunder, and the trolls whistled with joy, and the animals round about screamed with fear. This pleased the mountain king still more, so that he called out, loud, over the wilderness:

"So shall it be! So shall it be! Forever winter and forever night! That is what I like."

"Yes, so shall it be, so shall it be!" cried the trolls as loud as they could, for they all liked winter and night better than summer and sunshine.

But among the animals there arose a murmur of talking, for all the beasts of prey and the lemmings thought as the trolls did, while the reindeer and the other animals would have found no fault with the summer, if they had not suddenly happened to think of the gnats in Lapland. It was only the little reindeer-flea who really wanted the summer; he cried as loud as he could: "Your Majesty, we came here to wait for the sun!"

"Will you be quiet, you wretched insect!" growled the white bear, close beside it. "It is only an old custom that makes us collect together here. But it will be pleasant; the sun will stay away forever. The sun is put out! The sun is dead!"

"The sun is put out! The sun is dead!" murmured all the animals, and a shiver went through all nature.

The trolls from the North Pole laughed so that their caps flew off, and the great mountain king raised his voice of thunder and called out over the wilderness: "So shall it be! So shall it be! The sun is dead. The whole earth shall fall down and worship me, Hiisi, the king of everlasting winter and of everlasting night."

That provoked Sampo Lappelil, as he sat behind the stone, and he came out and shouted with his little saucy voice: "You are lying, mountain king! you are lying, as tall as you are! Yesterday I saw the forerunner of the sun in the sky, and the sun is not dead! Your beard will still melt when it comes midsummer."

At these words the mountain king's brow grew as dark as a black cloud, and he forgot the law and stretched out his terrible long arm to crush Sampo Lappelil. But at that moment the Northern Lights grew pale, and a red ray sprang up in the sky and shone straight into the mountain king's ice-cold face, so that he was suddenly dazzled and let his arm fall.

And now the sun's golden rim could be seen lifting itself slowly and majestically up over the horizon, and it lighted up the mountains and wildernesses, the snow-drifts and clefts, the trolls and beasts and the brave little Sampo Lappelil. Then all at once a glow spread over the snow, as if many million of roses had rained down upon it, and the sun shone into all their eyes, yes, and into all their hearts, too. Even those who had rejoiced because the sun was dead were now really glad to see it again. It was funny to witness the trolls' surprise. They stared at the sun with their little gray eyes, from under their red caps, and while it stayed they became against their will so beside themselves with joy that they stood on their heads in the snow. The terrible mountain king's beard began to melt and to drip down like a running brook over his great white coat.

While they all stood looking at the sun with feelings so different, the first hour had almost slipped away, and Sampo Lappelil heard one of the reindeer say to its little one: "Come, come, dear child! We must go now or we shall be eaten up by the wolves!"

Then Sampo, too, remembered what he had to expect if he waited there any longer. And as he saw by his side a reindeer with beautiful golden horns, he jumped up on its back, and they rushed off at a gallop over the steep mountain.

"What can that strange noise be that we hear behind us?" asked Sampo after a while, when he had got a little used to the violent ride.

"That is the thousand bears who are coming after us to eat us," answered the reindeer. "But don't be afraid; I am the mountain king's own magic reindeer, and no bear has ever gnawed my heels."

When they had ridden a while longer, Sampo asked: "What can that be that breathes and moans so strangely behind us?"

The reindeer answered: "That is the hundred thousand wolves who are coming after us at full gallop to tear you and me to pieces. But don't be afraid; no wolf has ever beaten me in a race here in the wilderness."

They rode on a while longer; then Sampo asked: "Is it thundering in the mountains there behind us?"

"No," said the reindeer, and began to shake in all his limbs. "That is Hiisi, the mountain king himself, who is coming with giant steps after us; and now it is all over with both of us, for him it is impossible to escape."

"Is there no help?" asked Sampo.

"No," said the reindeer, "there is nothing to do now but to try to get to the parsonage off there near Enare Lake. If we get there we are saved, for the mountain king has no power over Christians."

"Oh," said Sampo, "run now, my brave reindeer, over mountain and valley, and I will give you golden oats in a silver manger!"

The reindeer ran and ran; it was a life-and-death race! And they had but just reached the priest's house when the mountain king came up outside and knocked so hard on the door that every one thought the whole house would fall down. "Who is that?" asked the priest.

"It is I!" answered a voice of thunder outside.

"Open the door for Hiisi, the mountain king. There is an unchristened child within, and all heathen belong to me!"

"Wait a minute, until I put on my surplice and collar, so that I can receive so distinguished a guest with proper dignity," answered the priest.

"Hurry, then!" growled the mountain king; "hurry, or I will kick the walls down."

"Immediately, immediately, sir," answered the priest.

But at the same time he took a bowl of water and christened Sampo Lappelil with all proper ceremony.

"Well, are you not ready yet?" growled the mountain king, and he lifted his terrible foot to kick the house down.

But the priest opened the door and said: "Begone, you king of night and winter, for with this child you have nothing to do! The sun of God's grace shines over Sampo Lappelil, and he belongs not to you but to God's kingdom!"

Then the mountain king grew so furious that he burst on the spot and turned into a terrible snow-cloud, and it snowed so hard that the snow reached up over the roof of the parsonage and they all expected to be buried alive. But when the morning came the sun shone on the snow, the snow melted away, and the parsonage and all in it were saved; and there was no sign of the mountain king. Every one thinks, however, that he still lives and reigns on Rastekais.

Sampo Lappelil thanked the priest and borrowed a pulk from him. Then he harnessed to it the reindeer with the golden horns and went home to his father in Aimio. There was great joy when Sampo Lappelil came back so unexpectedly. But how he became a great man and fed his reindeer with golden oats from a silver manger, that is another story, which it would take too long to tell now. It is said that since that time when Sampo had such a narrow escape, the Lapps have never, as before, put off from year to year having their little children christened--for who would like to see his child eaten up by the terrible mountain king? Sampo Lappelil knows what it means to run that risk! And having heard Hiisi's mighty footsteps, he knows, too, precisely what it is when thunder resounds in the mountains.

--_Z. Topelius_.

_Translated by Margaret Böcher_.

A LEGEND OF MERCY

On one side of the lake there was a large town; on the opposite shore stood a little lone cottage. The snow whirled over the frozen lake in great clouds and the wind was very keen; for it was winter and Christmastide in the world.

At the cottage there was poverty inside, but riches on the roof. Up there stood the great golden sheaf of grain about which the birds of heaven gathered joyfully for their Christmas feast, while inside the cottage food was scanty, as usual. The peasants' little children, however, listened happily to the birds' joyous twitter from the housetop, and took great delight in seeing the fine prints of the sparrow's tiny feet in the smooth snow roundabout.

"If we had threshed that grain, instead of giving it to the sparrows, we might have had fresh wheaten rolls for the children for Christmas," sighed the peasant's wife.

"Don't you know that the merciful are blessed?" asked the gentle old peasant with a kind glance at his dissatisfied wife.

"But to let the birds of the air eat our bread," she sighed again.

"Yes, the birds. Furthermore, what matter, even if it were the wild beasts of the forest? Should we not show mercy? Besides, I have saved enough to be able to buy four fresh rolls and a can of milk for Christmas. Let us send the children across the lake to the town with their sled. They will easily get back with the things before evening."

"But suppose they meet a wolf on the ice," suggested the mother.

"I will give Arvid a big club," said the father. "He will get along all right, having that."

So it happened that Arvid and his sister Hanna went to town to buy the treat of white rolls and milk. By this time the snow was piled in great drifts on the ice, and the children had difficulty in dragging the sled, so that when they turned toward home the early darkness was already beginning to settle down. They trudged through the snow as fast as they could, but the drifts were much higher than before, and darkness came on in earnest while they still had quite a long distance to go.

As they struggled on, something black moved in the darkness. When it came nearer, the children saw that it was a wolf.

"Don't be afraid, Hanna," said Arvid. "I have a good club." And with these words, he raised it threateningly.

The wolf was now close beside the children but made no attempt to harm them. He only howled, but the howling was extraordinary for it sounded as if he uttered words in it,--words that the children could understand. "It is so cold, so cold," howled the wolf. "And my little ones have nothing to eat. Give me some bread for them in the name of mercy."

"Poor little things!" said Hanna. "We will give you _our_ two rolls for them, and we ourselves will eat hard bread to-night, but father and mother must have their Christmas treat."

"Many thanks," said the wolf as he took the two fresh rolls and glided away.

The children strove on through deeper and deeper snow, but in a little while they heard some creature treading heavily behind them. It proved to be a bear.

The bear growled out something in his own language, and at first the children could not find out what he meant although they tried hard; but the bear kept on growling and finally, strangely enough, the children understood. The bear, too, desired a Christmas gift.

"It is so cold, so cold," growled the big creature. "All the water everywhere is frozen and my poor little ones have nothing to drink. Be merciful and give me a little milk for them."

"How is this?" asked Arvid. "Why are you not asleep in your den for the winter, as other bears are? But that is your affair. We will give you our half of the milk for your little ones. Hanna and I can very well drink water to-night, if only father and mother have something good for Christmas."

"Many thanks," said the bear, as he took the milk in a birch-bark cone which he carried in his fore-paws. Then with slow, pompous steps, he lumbered away into the darkness.

The children waded along through the drifts still more eagerly now, for they could see the Christmas lights shining through the windows of their home; but they had not gone far before an ugly owl came flapping along beside them.

"I will have bread and milk! I will have bread and milk!" screamed the owl, stretching out her long claws to scratch the children.

"Oh, ho!" said Arvid. "If that is the kind you are, I shall have to teach you to be polite." So saying, he gave the owl such a clever blow on the wings with his club that she flew screaming away.

Soon after this the children were at home, gaily beating the snow from their clothes in the little entry.

"We have met a wolf!" shouted Hanna.

"And given a bear some milk!" added Arvid.

"But the owl got a taste of the club!" laughed Hanna. Then they told all their adventures.

The parents looked thoughtfully at each other. How wonderful! To think that their children had shown mercy even to the wild beasts of the forest! What would happen next? What did it all mean?

It was now supper-time. The peasant family gathered at the table upon which, besides the usual poor fare, was the half portion of the expected treat--all that the children had brought home.

Arvid and Hanna wished to eat only dry bread and drink only water, so that their parents might have the Christmas goodies; but the parents would not allow that. They joyfully shared with the children the two rolls and the half-tankard of milk which were such luxuries.

But as they ate, they noticed something very marvelous. However often they broke and broke pieces from either of the rolls, the fresh delicious wheaten rolls never grew smaller; and however often they poured milk from the tankard into one bowl after another the milk never grew less!

While they were wondering greatly over this, they heard a scratching at the little window, and behold! there stood the wolf and the bear with their fore-paws against the window pane. Both animals grinned and nodded in a knowing, friendly way. An owl could be heard flapping behind them in the darkness, and calling out in a hoarse voice to Arvid:

"Sometimes hits Sharpen wits. Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo! Not from need But from greed I begged of you. Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo!"

Then her hoarse cries died away in the distance, and the two beasts, after a little more grinning and nodding, disappeared from the window.

The peasant and his wife and the children understood now that a blessing rested upon their Christmas food because it had been shared in mercy with those that needed it; and they finished their meal in wonder and thankfulness.

On Christmas morning when they went to get their breakfast of dry bread and water, not expecting to have anything else, they found to their amazement that both rolls and milk were as fresh as when the children bought them,--and with no sign that the rolls had ever been broken or any milk used! And all that day it was the same! There were not only riches on the roof, but joy and plenty inside the peasants' cottage, where the children feasted and sang as gaily as did the sparrows, fluttering about their Christmas sheaf of golden grain.

--_Z. Topelius_.

ANTON'S ERRAND _OR THE BOY WHO MADE FRIENDS BY THE WAY_

Far to the South lies a beautiful land. High forest-clad mountains lift themselves toward the sky, and between them spreads a wide fruitful valley. A mighty river rushes southward singing of courage and joy, and from the mountains the merry brooks come hurrying along, the one faster than the other, as if racing to see which would get down first.

In the fields, the grass is tall and full of flowers, the grain waves like a billowy sea, and the fruit trees bend beneath the weight of rich fruits. But more than all else, grapevines grow here. The vines twine themselves in an endless wreath through the valley; and in the long arcades hang millions of clusters of grapes cooking themselves ripe in the sun's heat.

From olden times, an industrious folk lived in this valley cultivating their fields and pruning their vines. They gathered themselves together into small towns which were dotted here and there in the valley's green expanse like birds' nests in a spreading tree. On the surrounding heights rose the proud castles where the nobles lived. They tyrannized over the farmers in the valley, and if the poor peasants made the least complaint, down from the cliffs came the barons, like eagles from their eyries, and dug their claws into their defenseless prey.

* * * * *

Many, many years ago, a powerful baron named Rudolf Reinhold Rynkebryn lived in one of the largest of the mountain castles. He had, by force and violence, made himself Lord over one of the cities in the valley, and all who lived there must toil and moil for the hard master on Falkensten.

When the grain was ripe and the meal ground, many hundred bags of it must be carried on horses' backs up to the mountain castle; and when the grapes were ripe and the wine pressed out, many hundred barrels must go the same way.

So had it been for many years, but at last the peasants grew tired of this state of things, and gathered together for consultation.

"There is no sense in it," said an old man. "Here we plow and sow and reap and grind so that Rynkebryn can swallow the bread that belongs to us and our children."

"Yes. Isn't that the truth?" said another. "Isn't it a sin and a shame, also? We plant vines and prune them in the sweat of our brows and when the grapes are ripe, the wine we make must go to Falkensten so that Rynkebryn and his men may drink themselves crazy and descend like birds of prey upon us poor peasants. We should not endure it any longer."

"No, we _will_ not endure it any longer!" shouted all in chorus. Then it was determined that they should send Rynkebryn a letter, in which they renounced their allegiance to him.

For the future he might get his bread and his wine wherever he chose. Neither bag nor barrel should go from the valley to Falkensten.

Oh, yes! To come to this decision was easy. Nor was there any great difficulty about getting the letter written. The Mayor himself wrote it; and upon the letter he set the city's great seal which bore a sheaf pierced by a sword.

The difficulty was to find a messenger to deliver the letter, for every one well knew that he who carried such a message to the Baron of Falkensten would not return alive to the valley.

All to whom the mission was proposed immediately raised objections. One had no clothes, another had pains in his legs, another could by no means be spared from home, and another was sure he could never find the way up there. Oh, there were many difficulties about taking that particular letter to the Baron!

Finally someone said, "Why not send little Anton?" And immediately all shouted, "Yes, that is an excellent plan. Anton can go with the letter."

Anton was a poor boy, usually called "little Anton." He had neither father nor mother nor sister nor brother, but had been brought up among other poor children of the town in the Cloister School. Now that he was twelve or thirteen years old, he must take care of himself, and since he could do small jobs of all sorts, people made use of him, here, there and everywhere.

He helped to dig in the vineyards, to lay stone and mortar when a house was to be built; he ran with messages and letters out to the country roundabout; and as he could manage the most spirited horse, he drove, too, if there were no other driver to be had. He often took care of the babies while their mothers were out at work; he carded wool and picked hops; he sang at funerals and played at weddings.

Indeed, there was scarcely anything for which they did not use little Anton. He was quick of foot and light of hand, true as gold and silent as a locked box, so every one liked him and gave him plenty to do.

The Mayor himself went to little Anton and told him that the whole city had decided to entrust to him a very important errand. He was to go to Falkensten with a letter to Baron Rynkebryn. Of what was in the letter the Mayor said nothing, for if he had, little Anton would have realized that he was risking his life.

The others realized it very decidedly, but they reasoned thus: "Little Anton is a poor lone child, with no parents to mourn him, and if anything happens to him,--well!--we must hope that all is for the best. It is surely better that he should perish than that we who have wives and children should. Besides, the town is full of these little poor boys whom we can get to help us when we need them."

Anton took the big letter, turned it over and over in his hands, and asked if there would be any answer.

The Mayor became a little embarrassed and took a pinch of snuff. He could not look Anton straight in the face as he replied, "Answer? No, I do not think there will be any answer."

"So I can come right back?" queried little Anton.

"Yes, indeed. Deliver the letter and take to your heels as soon as you can."

The next day, early in the morning, Anton put on his thickest shoes, stuffed a couple of rolls and a small bottle of wine into his pocket, slung an old gun over his shoulder and started on his long tramp from the valley to Falkensten. He could see the castle high, high up like an eagle's nest, on the top of a cliff from which it looked out over three different valleys, many, many miles away.

It was a hot August day. The sky was without a cloud and the sun stood and smiled its broadest on the vineyards where the grapes steamed and cooked in the heat. Vines were planted on the lowest slopes of the mountain, so here Anton could walk up the stone steps between the walls. He turned and saw the city which looked shining and gay in the sunlight. The church was white as snow, and the hands on the clock glittered like gold.

By and by the vineyards ended and Anton came to some fields. The grass had already been cut for the second time and the fields were deserted. Not a person was to be seen.

Next he came to the forest of chestnut-trees. From here everything in the valley looked very small; houses and farms, and even the church, looked like toys spread out on a green carpet. The sun glowed hotter and hotter, and Anton took off his jacket, and walked on, in his shirt-sleeves. The road grew steeper and steeper. He was hot and thirsty so he sat down in the shade of a rock and took out his bottle of wine.

When he had refreshed himself, he leaned back, humming a little song and idly striking the ground with a switch he had broken from a bush.

As he sat there, he heard a soft rustling at his side and saw a little lizard come from the wall of rock and creep forth among the ferns. It wriggled its supple little body out into the sunshine and then lay perfectly still in front of Anton, gazing at him with its clear eyes.

"That was a beautiful song you sang," said the lizard. "Would you be so kind as to sing it once more? I am foolishly crazy over music."

"I can certainly do that much for you," answered Anton, and hummed the song again. He kept the switch behind him now, not wishing the lizard to see that he had it.

The lizard lay perfectly still, listening, but when the song was finished the little creature said to Anton, "Come, Anton, what are you really thinking of? I think your dark eyes have a sly look in them. Surely you are not, by any chance, intending to harm me?"

"Oh, I don't know!" said Anton, smacking his whip. "But I do think it might be amusing to give you a hit with this so that you snapped in two like a piece of glass."

"Do you think so?" asked the lizard drawing its tail close. "Well, well! How strange! It seems to me that would not be at all amusing. I think it is much more amusing to live, to lie here and enjoy myself in the sunshine."

Anton began to laugh, but continued to beat the ground with his switch.

"Listen, Anton," said the lizard. "I have really such a very short time to live. Let me go in peace. Don't do me any harm. Perhaps I can be of use to you some day. You may be sure you will never regret it if you let me go."

"What could such a forlorn little creature as you ever do for me?" asked Anton, as he got up. "But since you ask me so prettily, I will let you run. Suppose we see which of us will get to Falkensten first."

"Oh, I shall, I shall!" hissed the lizard; and it hurried away through the grass, calling back, however, "Farewell, Anton; you may be sure I shall not lose sight of you." With that, the lizard disappeared and Anton resumed his toilsome journey.

The sun mounted higher and higher and the whole sky was like a sea of burning light. The houses and churches in the valley looked now like many tiny white stones scattered over the ground. The path, steeper and steeper, led through a grove of larches, and here little Anton must again rest. He took two big swallows from his bottle, and wiped his hot face with his shirt-sleeves.

Hearing a strange cracking sound over his head and looking up, he saw a little squirrel that sat on the branch of a neighboring larch, eating the seeds from a cone. Between the mouthfuls he spat the shells down, chattering softly meanwhile as if to say, "What an excellent breakfast this is! Truly a delicious breakfast!"

Anton took his old gun quietly from his shoulder, got down on his knees, and crept carefully along. He held the gun by its barrel. With the butt end he could easily enough hit the little squirrel. But the alert creature, which was watching him with keen, anxious eyes, saw him before he had raised the butt end, and with a couple of big leaps, reached a higher branch of the tree.

"What are you going to do to me?" asked the frightened squirrel, poking his little head out. "What is it you really want to do to me?"

"Oh, I should just like to have your tail!" said Anton. "It would be a nice fur collar for me when the autumn storms howl from the mountain tops."

"But I would so much rather keep my tail myself," said the squirrel, raising it as high as he could in the air. "You see I was born with this tail, and therefore it is mine; and so, if you kill me and take it away from me, you are a thief,--a thief,--a real little tail-stealer!"

"You must stop saying such rude words," said Anton, lifting the gun. "If I can only catch you, your tail will be mine."

"No, stop, stop!" shrieked the squirrel, springing about in the branches. "It is horrid and ugly and disgusting of you. I don't want to be crushed with the butt end of a gun. It is ugly of you to think of it, ugly, ugly! And to be broken off in the middle of my nice breakfast to be murdered is truly most unpleasant. Would you like that, little Anton?"

The squirrel still leaped and sprang from branch to branch in fright. Anton laid his gun on the ground.

"Oh, little Anton!" piped the squirrel. "Let me alone! Let me hop around, a happy living squirrel. That is so much better and pleasanter!"

"Well, hop then," said Anton, throwing the gun over his shoulder again. "I am afraid I should dream of the frightened look in your eyes. And now we might see which of us can get to Falkensten first."

"Oh, I shall, I shall!" called the squirrel, wild with joy. "If you are going to Falkensten, I shall go, too. No harm shall happen to you while I am able to hop." With that, the squirrel set off with long leaps from tree to tree, and soon disappeared; and Anton walked on up the mountain.

The air became more and more sultry. The sky, which had been bright blue, grew white in some places, and the white ran together like thick milk and heaped itself in close masses. The sun was no longer to be seen. The clouds changed to gray and violet and dark-blue, with glowing edges, and thunder began to roll among the mountains. Anton could not see the valley now at all. The lofty peaks towered one behind another, and there seemed to be nothing else in the world. The path grew steeper and yet steeper.

Little Anton began to be frightfully tired. He had to lie down again and again on the ground, groaning with weariness. Not a drop more of the refreshing sour wine did he have to quench his thirst,--the bottle had been drained long ago.

Suddenly he heard a rushing sound, and lo! from the rock bubbled a white foaming stream of water, so fresh and living that one could not understand how it could gush forth from the dead stones. Anton knelt down and drank eagerly from his hands. Never had he found any draught so wonderfully reviving.

When he had quenched his thirst, he thought he would resume his journey, but at that instant he caught sight of a dove flying toward him. It was a charming wood-dove, with blue-flecked wings and a little round head. The dove must, like him, have been thirsty, for she flew directly to the foaming water and bent over it to drink. "That is a lovely bird," thought Anton; and he took his gun noiselessly from his shoulder. "I can surely hit her."

He had laid the gun to his cheek and was taking aim, when the dove lifted her head from the water and fluttered her wings.

"Why should you shoot me, little Anton?" she asked. "You have quenched your thirst and I have quenched mine. The spring has been good to both of us. Why should you do evil to me?"

"You have such beautiful wings," said Anton. "It would look fine if I stretched you out flat and fastened you on the barn door."

"It looks much finer when I float upward toward the sunlight," said the dove. "The mountain path is difficult for you, little Anton; but you are at least free to pursue your way. Let me fly mine. Here in these solitudes no one should do another harm."

The dove looked so gentle and talked in such friendly tones that Anton felt thoroughly ashamed of himself.

"Yes, fly away, little dove, fly wherever you will," said he, waving his hands. "We might see which of us two will get to Falkensten first."

"Oh, I shall!" responded the dove, lifting her wings. "But if it is to that fierce Baron you are taking a message, I prefer to wait outside on the tower." Then up she flew.

The sky was now one dark mass of thunder-clouds. The thunder rumbled among the mountains; the green fields on the heights shone out like emeralds against the dark blue haze beyond. All creatures had become wonderfully silent; not a bird sang, not an insect hummed. Anton went forward with dragging step, and the dove floated silently above him,--a white speck against the dark sky.

But what was that high up there on the cliff? It was a little chamois that stood with all its four feet close together on a point of rock, and looked about.

"Hurrah! I shall get you!" thought Anton as he cocked his gun; but the chamois with a couple of nimble bounds sprang farther up the mountain.

"Ho, ho! That won't help you any!" said Anton, running nearer to the rocks where the chamois stood. "I am a good shot, let me tell you; and I must have prey of some sort to take with me from the mountain."

"But why should you kill me?" asked the chamois, bounding a little farther away. "What harm have I ever done to you? Does it annoy you that I stand here and look at the view?"

"No, but you have such handsome little horns. I should like to put them up over my door as a sign that I had conquered you."

"For you to conquer me would be easy," said the chamois. "You have a gun, and I have nothing. But I had always believed that the mountain was made for us both."

Anton made no reply but scrambled hastily up the rocks to get nearer the chamois.

"Oh, Anton, little Anton! let me alone!" called the chamois, making the longest leap it could. "I would truly rather have my horns on my head than over your door! Cannot you understand that? If you love your freedom, let me keep mine."

At that moment the thunder pealed with a frightful crash among the mountains. Anton became altogether uncomfortable and put his gun down. "Leap where you will, then," he called to the chamois. "Perhaps we might see which of us can get to Falkensten first."

"Oh, I shall, surely," said the chamois, starting off with a big leap. "But I will wait for you outside the castle wall, and if you need my help you will know where to find me." And with these words the chamois vanished.

"Shall I never, never reach Falkensten?" groaned Anton. He was dead tired and began to think he had gone astray, but suddenly, at a turn in the path, the castle stood before him as if it had sprung up out of the earth.

It was of the same color as the rocks upon which it was built, and how big and high and thick-walled it was! It had but few windows scattered here and there on the side toward the path. From the tower waved Rynkebryn's banner,--a fiery red flag on which was a black falcon. The drawbridge that led over to the castle was drawn up, and over the chasm that was between the rocks on which the castle was built and the other rocks, there was only a rough narrow bridge, made of slender branches placed side by side.

Anton stood still. It would be dangerous to go over such a bridge without any kind of a railing to hold fast to; but he must deliver the letter. Just then he heard something whispering at his feet:

"Since you can't glide like me, and creep, Be wise; cross not the chasm deep."

It was the little lizard that came hurrying toward him with this warning.

"But how should I then get the message to Baron Rynkebryn?" said Anton. He had already started across the bridge.

And now something came hopping along at his side. It was the squirrel with his red tail high in the air like a flag, and with wide-open eyes; and while he hopped about Anton's feet he chattered:

"Since you can't hop like me, and climb, That castle shun; be warned in time!"

"But how then should I attend to my errand?" Anton was now half-way across the bridge.

As he stood there, the dove came flying and floating on her wings above the abyss.

"Since you can't float and fly like me, Turn back, turn back and homeward flee,"

said the dove, flying near Anton's cheek.

"Yes, that I will do when once I have given the Baron his letter," said Anton, "but I don't turn back when I am half-way over the bridge, nor flee homeward until my errand is done."

So he proceeded. The thin branches in the loosely-made bridge creaked and bent under his feet. On both sides of him was the dizzy chasm. He had a queer pain in his heart and everything turned black before his eyes; but he pressed his hands against his breast where he had hidden the letter, kept his gaze straight ahead, and walked on with firm step. There! Now he could draw a long breath, a sigh of relief; for he was at last safely across the frail bridge,--on the other side of the chasm, and under the castle wall.

At first he could see no opening in the wall; it stretched up as hard and impenetrable as the rock upon which it stood, but when Anton stole around it, he found a small door,--an iron door with many locks and fastenings. He picked up a stone and knocked hard on the door, but no one answered. Everything around him was still as death.

Suddenly he heard a strange rumbling sound, which he thought at first might be the echo of the thunder among the rocks; but no. The sound came from the hall where Baron Rynkebryn and his men sat and drank, and roared with laughter loud enough to make the castle tremble.

Since no one seemed to hear Anton, he lost patience, took his gun which was still loaded and shot it off. He could hear the echoes answer from mountain to mountain and at last die away; but now there were signs of life in the castle. A man opened a shutter high up in the tower and called, "Who shoots under Falkensten Castle? Is it friend or foe?"

Anton put both hands to his mouth and shouted back, "A friend! A friend! A messenger from the valley!" Then he heard the man slam the shutter to, come with a clatter down the stairs, trudge across the courtyard, and begin to rattle the locks and bolts of the iron door. At last the door opened slowly and a gruff-looking warrior stood before little Anton.

"What do you want?" asked the warrior. His voice sounded like a bear's. "What have you to say to the Lord of Falkensten?"

"That I must tell to Baron Rynkebryn himself," answered Anton. "The message is to him and none other."

"Listen to the young sparrow that dares to come into the falcon's nest!" said the warrior, but he opened the door just wide enough for Anton to slip in.

As the boy turned in the doorway, he caught sight of the chamois which stood on a stone beside the chasm, stretching its head forward.

"Yes, here I am!" called the chamois. "I will keep on the watch by the wall, so you will know where to find me!"

At that instant the heavy iron door clanged shut after Anton, and he was at last inside the walls of Falkensten. His steps echoed with a hollow sound in the small courtyard; and it was dark and damp as a cellar, inside the castle on the great winding stairs that led to the baronial hall. Little Anton felt his heart beating like a hammer and choking him, when the warrior opened the door to the hall and let him pass in.

At the end of a long oaken table sat Baron Rynkebryn and his retainers, drinking. Their eyes were bloodshot like those of an angry bull, and they laughed and shouted so that the high rafters shook. Little Anton squeezed himself into a corner near the door and stood, hat in hand, waiting until Rynkebryn should speak to him.

Long did he wait, for the Baron was wholly absorbed in his carousing. The wine flowed over his beard; he sat with both arms leaning on the table and laughed till his bones rattled. Suddenly his eye fell upon Anton.

"Who is that little whipper-snapper shivering there by the door?" he asked, pointing with his big finger. So Anton had to go forward. He bowed many times as he crossed the room, each bow deeper than the last, and when he reached the Baron, he took the letter from his breast and presented it.

The Baron snatched it from him and began to read it, Anton meanwhile standing still and looking out of the tower window. Never before had he seen so far out into the world. One mountain chain after another gleamed forth, lit by the sun; streams lay like narrow white ribbons in the valley; and the boundless sky arched over all, its big thunder-clouds looking like mountains above the other mountains. Anton forgot entirely where he was while gazing at all this glory; but he was awakened to reality by a roar from Rynkebryn.

"So this is the kind of message you bring me, is it?" he screamed, and he struck his fist on the table so violently that the wine bottles tumbled over, and the rich red wine ran in streams across the white cloth, like blood. "How dare you bring such a letter to the Lord of Falkensten?"

"How should I know what was in the letter?" asked Anton. He trembled like an aspen leaf. "I do not read the letters people trust me with."

"Oh, you don't, don't you?" roared Rynkebryn. He had first grown red as the wine he drank, but now he was as white as the table-cloth. "It might have been well for you if you had peeped into this letter. If you had, I think you would have turned back with it. Herein"--he shook the letter till it rattled--"herein those traitors of the valley renounce their allegiance to me; and he who goes on errands for traitors is a traitor himself and shall die a traitor's death. Do you understand that, you miserable little worm?"

Anton tried to speak, but could not get a word over his lips. He grew icy cold and shook as if he had the ague.

"But I shall revenge myself on that pack," shouted Rynkebryn. "I shall descend upon them like an overwhelming horror, like a thief in the night, and lay their land waste. Sure as death, before three nights have passed there shall be neither stick nor stone left of their city in the valley."

"Shall I tell them that?" asked Anton, in a low, frightened voice.

"No, you can spare yourself the trouble!" shouted Rynkebryn, laughing. "I shall say it to them myself with a drawn sword. No, my little friend,"--his eyes glared horribly, "you shall have a night's lodging at Falkensten. Your guest-chamber is ready. You shall march down to the castle prison, and there you can lie and amuse yourself guessing what death you are to die in the morning. Let me see. I must think of something very fine. I might, for instance, hit you with a club so that you broke in two like a piece of glass. That might be very amusing to see. Ha! ha! ha!"

Anton shuddered. He remembered that he had threatened the little lizard with this very treatment, and had had the same idea that it would be amusing to see.

"Or," continued the Baron, "I could crush you with one whack of my gun, so!--That would be very quickly done."

The icy shivers ran down Anton's back. Just this kind of terror that he was feeling must the squirrel have felt when Anton threatened him with the butt of his gun.

"Or I could fasten you out on the castle wall, as one fastens a bird that has been shot upon a barn door. There you could hang as a warning to traitors, until you fell to pieces," growled Rynkebryn, stroking his beard.

Things turned black before Anton's eyes. "Oh!" he thought with anguish. "This is just the way I threatened the dove, the innocent little creature!"

"Or I could chop your head off!" roared Rynkebryn, rushing toward Anton with clenched fists. "Then I could put your head on top of the tower where there is a glorious view. What a treat that would be for you!" All the men laughed so hard at this that they had to hold their sides.

But little Anton did not laugh. He stood there thinking, with deep remorse, how he had threatened to take the life of the harmless chamois, and put its horns over the door. "Oh, God be praised that I let it run!" he thought; but just then Rynkebryn's men caught hold of him, tied him securely, hand and foot, with strong rope, and took him to the castle prison.

Dark and damp indeed was the prison cell. It had no windows except, high up in the wall, a little opening with strong iron bars across it. The men threw Anton on the floor and then went out, locking the door after them with so many locks that Anton knew he could never open that door, even if he had both his hands free.

There he lay, looking up at the barred window. The sunset glowed through it still, but faded little by little, and darkness came on. High in the sky the stars twinkled out, one after another. And Anton lay and thought that when their light was quenched again, his life was to be put out, as if it were but a spark. What made him most unhappy was the thought that he could not get a message to the city in the valley, so that some one might know that Rynkebryn, the next night, was going to creep upon them like a thief, burn their city and devastate their land.

He laid his head on the damp floor of the cell and began to cry. All at once he heard something rustle,--a queer little sound. He thought it might be a rat that would bite him, and drew his legs up close; but something small came creeping lightly over him right up to his cheek. "Don't be afraid," it whispered. "It is only I, the little lizard you met on your way. I have hurried at your heels the whole time, until you disappeared through the castle door. But how have you brought yourself to this? You should have followed my advice and turned back in time,--you who can neither creep nor glide."

"Perhaps," sighed poor Anton. "But it is too late to think of that, and no one in the world can help me now."

"Oh," answered the lizard, "one should never give up hope. Since I could get into the castle prison, we shall manage to get you out." And with that the tiny creature rustled away in the darkness.

A minute or two after, little Anton saw something black against the barred window. It squeezed itself between the bars and dropped with a thump to the floor.

"Here am I," chattered the squirrel, hopping to Anton. "What foolishness has been going on here?"

"As you see," replied Anton, "I am captured and bound, and in the morning I am to die."

"Oh, in the morning!" said the squirrel. "It is a long time to morning. Much can happen before the sun gets up again."

"But I cannot stir hand or foot," said Anton. "Don't you see how they have tied my hands behind my back?"

"Oh, yes! I see that well enough," replied the squirrel, opening his big eyes wider than ever. "Where are the knots?" And with one jump he was on Anton's back, beginning immediately to gnaw at the knots with his small pointed teeth. He bit and pulled at the rope so that his little body shook with the effort; and it was not long before Anton felt the loosening at his wrists and afterward at his ankles. All at once the ropes fell off and he was free.

"Oh, you blessed little animal!" said Anton, hugging and kissing the squirrel. "Now I am a free person again, and not a tied-up bundle!"

"Yes, but there is still the high, barred window," said the squirrel. "We must have the dove's help now." And he sprang up to the window and vanished through it.

Little Anton stood looking after him, but suddenly he could no longer see the stars and the sky as before, for they were blotted out by something that filled the whole window. He soon saw that it was the dove flapping her out-spread wings against the bars. She could not get in, but she had something in her bill which she let fall through the window. It clanged as it hit the floor, and when Anton stooped to pick it up, he saw that it was a file.

"I found that in Rynkebryn's own window where it lay, ready to be used for his evil purposes; but now it shall help you out of prison," said the dove.

No one would have imagined they could do it, but the squirrel and the dove helped Anton to get the ropes he had been tied with up to the window, and to fasten them there so firmly that he could climb up the ropes. Then he filed and filed at the iron bars till his hands bled, while the lizard ran up and down the wall saying: "Make haste! Make haste! It will soon be morning!"

But the sun had not yet risen when little Anton stood, rescued and free, on the rocks outside the castle wall.

And there was the chamois waiting for him!

"Seat yourself on my back, little Anton!" said the chamois. "And hold tight! for we are going to gallop down the mountain so fast that straps and buckles would not keep you on!"

So Anton got on the chamois' back and held tight. This was necessary indeed; for slow as it had been trudging up the mountain, he now went down with a speed like that of a stone which, being tossed, bounds from rock to rock as it strikes them on its downward-flying way.

"I shall fall! I shall fall!" shouted Anton, clinging for dear life to the chamois' neck. "I shall pitch off head first!"

"Oh, no! You won't fall," said the chamois; "nor I, either. I am very sure-footed," and on it leaped as fast as ever.

Just as the sun rose, Anton stood at the Mayor's door and knocked. The Mayor himself came to open it, and was overwhelmed with wonder when he saw little Anton standing there as alive as ever, and without so much as a hair of his head hurt!

"I come with bad tidings," said Anton. "If you don't look out, you will have Rynkebryn and his men after you before you know it; and he is not going to spare any of you,--yourselves or your property. Every one had better be armed and ready."

The next night, Baron Rynkebryn with all his warriors came sneaking down the mountain expecting to take the peasants by surprise, and to catch them all as one catches rats in a trap; and he felt himself completely fooled when he found the peasants on the alert and prepared to give him a warm welcome! From all the country round had the town folk summoned help, and the men were armed with lances and javelins, with scythes and pitchforks; and there was nothing for Rynkebryn to do but to hasten up the mountain again as fast as his legs could carry him. But the peasants followed him all the way to Falkensten, gathered brushwood and branches which they heaped about the castle, and then set on fire, determined to destroy that den of thieves. It blazed and flamed like a bonfire and sent ruddy light far and near. The wicked Baron Rynkebryn and his men were forced to flee and to hide like wild eagles high up in desolate clefts of the mountains.

And now there was nothing good that the people did not wish to do for little Anton! They would have him to be Mayor, and a great festival should be held in his honor in the palatial hall of the Council House. But little Anton only thanked them over and over. He had not the least desire in the world to be Mayor, neither did he care to sit and feast and sing with those who had recently sent him out on that dangerous errand without troubling themselves at all as to what would happen to him.

Therefore, he asked only that he might have what he needed in order to give a party to his nearest and dearest friends. Oh, yes! The people would gladly give him anything; he need only say what he wished for.

Then Anton said he would like one vest-pocket full of grain, and the other full of small snails; and one trousers-pocket full of nuts, and the other full of salt. He would like also a loaf of white bread, a bottle of wine and a handful of fresh peaches.

The people thought his wishes were very peculiar indeed; but he received what he had asked for and then started toward the mountain.

A little later, as he sat under a chestnut-tree and looked out over the valley, he heard the drums and trumpets from the festival in the Council House, where the people sat and feasted, and shouted hurrahs for their old Mayor. A spring bubbled near him; the chestnut-tree shaded him; the sun shone on the vineyards below, while high up at the top of the mountain, smoke was still rising from the ruins of Falkensten.

He had spread his table on the fresh green grass. There lay the bread and the peaches and beside them stood the flask of wine; but before he began to eat, he invited his guests to take their food. The lizard had all the little snails; the dove ate grain from Anton's one hand, while the chamois licked salt from the other; but the little squirrel sat above in the chestnut-tree and stuffed himself up to his throat with nuts, throwing all the shells down upon little Anton's head.

--_Helena Nyblom_. [Illustration]

THE FOREST WITCH

It was in the earliest springtime. In the shade the air was still quite cold; but where the clear and strong sunshine streamed down, one could see that spring had come, for there the blossoms were beginning to stretch upward on their tiny stalks.

A couple of children were walking through the forest: a ten-year-old girl, named Nina, and her little brother Johannes.

They were seeking flowers. Nina had to find them because the flowers were too tiny and too much hidden for so small a child as Johannes to discover them for himself, but she always let him have the pleasure of picking them.

It was such a joyous spring walk that Nina did not notice how far they were straying away from their grandmother's hut, back of the hill. This little hut had been their home only for a short time. When their dear father and mother died, their grandmother had kindly taken them to live with her; and this was their first walk in the forest.

At last Nina thought they ought to go back, but just as she turned around with Johannes by the hand, who should stand before them but a hideous old creature, more glaring and frightful than you can imagine!

"What are you doing here, you wretched children?" she shrieked; "are you plucking flowers in my forest? Then shall I pluck you, you may believe!"

"Oh, pardon us," cried Nina; "we did not know that we must not pick flowers here. We are strangers in this forest. Pray, pray pardon us."

"_Snikkesnak!_" (fiddlestick!) answered the terrific old Witch, for such the creature was. "Don't talk to me! I never pay any attention to what children say; nor to old folks' talk either, for that matter. Indeed I don't! Snikkesnak! snikkesnak! But it is not you that I want, silly girl. It is the boy there who has offended me. The little rascal! It is he who picked the flowers. Now I shall take him!"

"Oh! take me, take me instead," cried Nina in terror, flinging her arms around her brother. "It is my fault! I showed him the flowers, and let him pick them. You've no right to take him! Oh! do take me; he is too little."

"_Snikkesnak!_" answered the Witch; "what a lot of talk! But you are right; the boy is small to come into my service, so I suppose I shall have to take you. Now listen well to what I say. Spring and summer are coming and I shall have no work for you then; so I shall not trouble myself about you for the present. But when autumn has come and gone, and all the leaves and flowers have disappeared, then are we very busy in the underground world. Then you may believe that I shall teach you how to work! and I live deep down, very, very deep! Now you may go; but I will make a bargain with you. When the last flower is faded--listen!--when the last flower is faded, meet me here on this spot--or--or----"

The old Witch stopped to think what she could best threaten Nina with. Her wicked eyes glared around for an instant till she noticed that Nina stood, with her arms about her little brother, ready to ward off any evil that might come upon him.

"Or I shall come and catch this little rascal, and twist his arms and legs all out of joint!" screamed the Witch, shaking her knotty stick at little Johannes.

Then, after a dark glance at Nina, she shuffled off through the forest, with the crows shrieking after her, and the leaves and flowers trembling on every side.

As soon as the Witch was out of sight, Nina hastened home with Johannes. Like a kind sister she suited her frightened pace to his, so that he should not stumble and fall.

The poor little boy had been so terrified at the Witch that he had not in the least understood the cruel threats she had used against him, or the dreadful fate which was in store for Nina.

Nina was rejoiced that this was so; for then he could not tell their grandmother what the Witch had said, and she herself would not disclose the dreadful doom hanging over her. She was determined that the poor grandmother should not be made anxious and sorrowful as long as it could be helped.

Shortly after this, the spring burst forth in all its power and beauty, and the blossoms shot up everywhere--in the woods, the fields, the meadows, and the gardens. Nina welcomed them as her dearest friends. They would protect her against the Forest Witch. So long as she had a single one of these, she would not have to go down into the dark earth to serve the hideous creature.

Nina had always loved flowers, but never had she thought so much about them as now. Yet, alas! Spring soon turned into summer, and summer went faster than ever before, it seemed to poor Nina. The tears streamed down her cheeks, as she saw the blue cornflowers fall before the reaper's scythe, when the grain was cut in harvest-time.

But Nina could still hope, even then; for the roses continued to bloom on Grandmother's old rose-bush outside the door of the hut. Nina kissed them and begged them to last as long as ever they could! And so they did--the dear, friendly roses!

When the last little rose had at length withered, autumn had almost passed and the many-colored leaves were dropping from the trees by thousands. Yet Nina discovered to her joy and comfort that there were flowers still. Along the roadside stood the simple, hardy wild aster, which blossomed on and on, although the autumn winds and rains destroyed everything else.

Winter began; but so mildly that it seemed as if it were still autumn. When the asters finally disappeared, other help came to Nina; for the hazel-bush was completely hoaxed by the mild weather and thought it was spring; so it began to unfold its yellow catkins, standing beautiful and bright, as one saw it between the bare trees over the hedges.

So, even when the winter was far advanced, Nina was still saved from going to the Witch; but this could not long continue. Cold weather must soon come, because Grandmother had said that Christmas was near.

And suddenly winter did come in earnest, with its icy frosts and drifting snows. For five days it was impossible to get out of the hut, because the wind kept whirling the snow into high drifts all about it. But when the sixth day came the wind abated and the snow lay peacefully on the ground.

Now Nina dared no longer to stay in the house, for surely all the flowers were dead, and buried under the cold snow, after this bitter storm. She must go and keep her compact with the Witch. So gathering together all her courage, she stole out of the house without being seen by any one.

Outside, she stood still for an instant, took a last look at the hut, which now seemed so cozy and dear, whispered "Farewell," and started on her way to the forest.

But she had gathered too little courage, after all; for it melted away immediately when she discovered the Witch a few steps from the door, standing in the little roadside garden, waiting for her.

"You've been rather slow about keeping to your bargain!" exclaimed the Witch angrily. "I was just coming after you."

"Oh! do not make me go with you!" cried Nina.

In her agony she fell down upon the snow at the Witch's great feet, and besought her wildly: "Let me be free! Oh, do let me be free!"

"_Snikkesnak!_" snapped the Witch. "Up with you! No nonsense!"

"Is there not a single flower to save me?" wailed Nina. She half rose, and, fairly beside herself with fright and despair, began to scrape the snow away from the garden-bed at the side of the path, trying to find a flower.

"Oh, yes, look if you like! _Snikkesnak! snikkesnak!_" laughed the Witch, her face glowing with exultation at Nina's trouble.

But an instant after, her countenance became filled with fury, for where Nina had cleared the snow away, there appeared a plant with fresh dark-green leaves and white flower buds!

Nina clasped her hands together in great joy and thankfulness; then, breaking off a bud, she lifted it up high toward the Witch and rushed away into the hut. The Witch, in her disappointment and vexation, sprang about so wildly in the snow that it rose in a cloud all about her, and Nina never saw her again.

Safe at home in the little hut, Nina now told all her adventure; and the grandmother took the little girl's sweet, frightened face between her two old hands, and kissed her forehead many times.

Faithfully every day Nina went to pay a loving visit to the little "Christmas Rose" in the garden (_helleborus niger_); for that was the flower which had saved her; and the whole winter long, it could be found fresh and beautiful, here and there under the snow.

Though no other blossoms dare come forth to face the snows and frosts of deep winter, the Christmas Rose ventures bravely out into the bleak weather, and with modest and serene courage holds her own against its powers. The snow lying over it keeps it from freezing; and if one brushes away this beautiful covering, the Christmas Rose appears with its lovely, white, gold-centered blossoms, laughing at the frost. It blooms steadily on until it can say "Good-day" to spring's first blossom--the little snowdrop; and so, through all the year, there are flowers blooming in our dear Northern land, Denmark.

Thus it was that Nina escaped the Witch, who, being a Forest Witch, did not know of the Christmas Rose, because that is a garden flower.

--_J. Krohn_. [Illustration]

THE TESTING OF THE TWO KNIGHTS

Down in the town all was laughter, dancing and jollity. Banners were flying from housetops and windows, flowers were wreathed about poles and arches, and green branches decorated every gateway and door. Clearly, a great festival was in progress.

High on a hill overlooking the town, towered the old red castle of a duke. In front of the castle, on a beautiful green mound, stood gilded cannon, which at intervals sent thunderous peals through the town and over the near-lying hills.

Inside the castle, speeches were being made and toasts given, and many were the eager shouts of "Hail to the Princess!" and "Long life to the Princess!" for this was the birthday of the Duke's only daughter, Princess Inga, and the festival was in her honor. At the conclusion of each speech and chorus of joyous shouts up at the castle, the cannon sent forth their signaling volley; and at each volley the people in the town took up the rejoicing and heartily echoed "Hail! hail! Long life to the Princess!" for they had loved the beautiful daughter of their good Duke ever since that first day when she had appeared among them, a tiny smiling child, in her little carriage drawn by a pair of white goats.

After the feasting was over, the guests dispersed from the stately hall and strolled about the terraces and gardens to enjoy the summer night and its sweet refreshing air.

Down one of the shadowy garden walks paced the Duke, and with him a man conspicuous among the richly adorned guests for the dull simplicity of his attire. He was no other than the Wise One from Fir Forest who wore now, as at all times, his plain dark robe of brown,--against which flowed in sharp contrast his long snow-white wavy beard.

"The day has passed right merrily," said the Duke, "and there has been no lack of congratulations and speeches; and all the speeches were to no other end than to wish happiness and good fortune to my beloved daughter. What showers of good wishes have been poured upon her to-day! If she receives but a quarter of all these blessings, her life will overflow with happiness."

"I pray that it may," said the Wise One gravely. "But the Princess, like all others, must win her own happiness."

"What say you?" asked the Duke.

The Wise One answered slowly, "Happiness comes from forgetting self and living for the joy of others. In no other way can one be truly happy."

"Yet I am happy," said the Duke.

"You, dear Duke, yes!" answered the Wise One. "And well may you be happy, for you never think of yourself. You take kindliest care of all in your dukedom, ever doing good among the poor and the sick, and giving pleasure to all those about you, especially to the Princess. To gladden her is your greatest pleasure."

"That is true," assented the Duke, with evident gratification. He could not but be pleased at the Wise One's praise, never lightly given.

"And now, my good friend," continued the Duke, "since we speak of the Princess, I would fain ask your good counsel concerning her. Suitors will come to strive to win her hand. Indeed, two have already asked to appear before me, and I receive them in the morning. Many will seek her for the dukedom's sake, since the one she weds will become duke after me; and among all the suitors how shall we know which is a true and worthy knight? She should have the best of all,--only the very best."

"The best, like the happiest, is the person who thinks last of himself and first of all others, he who is wholly free from selfishness and envy. Only to such a one," said the Wise One earnestly, "only to such a one should we give our dear Princess."

"Oh, yes!" responded the Duke. "That is right, and very well conceived and stated, too. But how am I to test the hearts of those who come? Their hearts are not of glass, so that one may peep into them! How shall I discover, for instance, the true character of the rivals who seek audience to-morrow?"

The Wise One pondered for some minutes and then inquired slowly, "Who is the most despised, the meanest in station, of all the castle servitors?"

"Oh, that is easily said," responded the Duke, laughingly. "It could be no other than that stupid, good-natured Klaus Klodrian. He is but the fourth groom's under stable-boy, and yet he will never rise higher, poor, dull-witted fellow!"

"Good," said the Wise One. "He will serve our present purpose well. Let the rivals each take his turn dwelling one day as honored guest at the castle, and one day in the poor hut of Klaus Klodrian, and perhaps this will disclose the true knight to us. If not, there are other tests, but let us try this first."

"Yes, let us try it," said the Duke. "Glad am I to rely on your help, and most grateful for your counsel."

After arranging the plan a little more in detail, the Wise One said farewell and started on his homeward way. He was glad to leave behind the festivities and excitement of the castle, and longed to reach his peaceful little log hut in the midst of the great Fir Forest. Seldom were other sounds heard there than the whispering of the wind in the tree-tops, the glad twitter of birds and the whirring of their wings.

Just as he was turning from the roadside into the forest, two knights came galloping past, and he knew that they must be the expected suitors for Princess Inga's hand. Both were young and stately and sat proudly upon their beautiful horses. The one knight was clad in green velvet, with graceful hat and waving plume of the same color, and the trappings of his horse shone with gold. The other knight was richly dressed also, but in blue velvet and with a snowy plume in his blue hat, and silver on the trappings of his horse.

As they rode gaily along, looking so happy and handsome, and exchanging friendly words and glances, it would be hard indeed to wish success to one at the expense of the other.

The Wise One went hastily into the forest, directing his steps to its densest part, where was sequestered his lonely home. Soon after, a great blackbird stole forth from the woods, turned its yellow beak toward the road which the two knights had taken and flew after them. The knights quickly reached the town and rode to "The Golden Fish," an inn not far below the castle.

Before they went to their sleeping-rooms, the Blue Knight opened one of the windows and leaned far out, looking up into the high, dark-blue heavens, where the stars gleamed in myriads.

"What are you doing?" asked the Green Knight.

"Looking at the stars," answered the other.

"But why, pray?" asked the Green Knight.

"Oh, it is but a fancy of mine," answered the Blue Knight. "I like to look up there every evening. The stars shine down upon us with such benign watchfulness, that I would fain render some return; and to enjoy their beauty seems all I can do."

* * * * *

The next morning the two knights started in good-fellowship riding at leisurely pace, side by side, through the streets and up the castle hill. Many eyes peeped out at them through windows and door cracks, and the host of "The Golden Fish" rubbed his fat hands together with pleasure. He saw that he should have a profitable day in his tavern, for the town folk would soon come flocking in and out, to hear what they could of the suitors.

In the great gilded hall of the castle, the Duke sat in state to give audience to the knights. Princess Inga stood by his side. White-robed and with a cluster of dewy roses in her hand, she looked so fair, so gracious and lovely, that both the cavaliers were enraptured.

After the salutations were over, the Duke, in a straightforward manner, gave them his friendly permission to make further acquaintance with the Princess, provided they would yield to his wishes in one respect.

To prevent either suitor from interfering with or standing in the way of the other, the Duke would have each knight in turn spend one day with the Princess and one day with Klaus Klodrian, a humble servitor of the castle, who dwelt in a hut on the borders of the estate.

If they had any disinclination to do this, the matter was at an end; for this was the plan he had fixed upon, and it was unalterable.

"Have the goodness, my honored guests," then continued the Duke, "to agree between yourselves which of you shall remain here to-day, and which shall now go to Klaus Klodrian."

Since the Green Knight sat in silence with the evident intention of awaiting what the other might say, the Blue Knight politely offered to give his fellow-suitor the first day with the Princess. The offer was accepted with much pleasure, and while the Green Knight bowed before the Princess and began to talk with her, the Blue Knight was conducted out of the audience hall, down a broad staircase, across a great courtyard, and thence on and on, through garden and park, through barnyards and stables, into the lane at the end of which stood the hut of the stable-boy, Klaus Klodrian.

Poor Klaus sat inside, being just about to begin his frugal noonday meal. He jumped up in great confusion at the sudden entrance of a grand gentleman.

Holding a long loaf of black bread in his hands, he stood startled and bewildered, his round eyes staring, his great mouth wide open; but when the Blue Knight gave him a gentle greeting, courteously asked permission to spend the day with him, and began to talk to him in a friendly manner, Klaus gradually recovered from his confusion and became his quiet, simple self again. He clattered clumsily about on his heavy wooden shoes, with long straws from the stable dangling from his clothes and littering the floor. Always good-natured and unused to any attention save ridicule, he soon glowed with happiness because of the Blue Knight's kind treatment.

"I will show you something," said Klaus with joy and pride, though shyly; and he brought forth his only treasure--two white doves in a cage,--and began to talk eagerly about them. It seemed as if he could reiterate the praises of these doves endlessly. To him there was nothing equal to them in the whole world.

That day would have been long and tedious, indeed, to the knight, if he had not found something with which to occupy himself. With his ready sympathy toward all, he soon discovered that Klaus Klodrian was not altogether a hopeless dullard. If only one would tell him a thing twelve or fourteen times, he could then understand most of it; but no one heretofore had found this out, because no one had taken pains enough, or been patient enough with him.

The Blue Knight, feeling sorry for the poor witless fellow, labored earnestly with him, giving him long explanations, telling him the same things again and again, and showing him better ways of doing his work with the horses and about the stalls.

And Klaus Klodrian, as the day wore on, really began to show a little comprehension. He laughed so heartily over it all, that it seemed as if his wide mouth really did stretch from ear to ear.

As for the Blue Knight, he became so absorbed in trying to teach Klaus, that the long summer day was neither tiresome nor unhappy. Twice during the day had he seen the Princess and the Green Knight walking together in the castle garden. They talked and laughed, and seemed, he thought, to have become exceedingly good friends. So also thought the Duke, and he remarked upon it to the Wise One who, in his evening walk, came past the castle.

"Ah, but this Green Knight is a magnificent fellow," said the Duke. "And he is very talented. He will gain the Princess. They are already excellent friends, and I am greatly prejudiced in his favor. He is really charming! You should have heard the good stories he told to-day when we were dining. Yes, he will certainly gain the Princess."

"To-day he is sailing with the wind," said the Wise One. "Let us see him to-morrow when the wind is against him."

The sun had gone down and darkness had spread itself all around, but the castle was brilliantly illuminated, and from its windows the light streamed out, while soft strains of music floated through the halls and into the summer air. There was a ball at the castle.

Thoughts of the lovely Princess had been present with the Blue Knight all the day long, no matter how intently he was laboring with Klaus; so when evening came he sought to get just a glimpse of her through the castle window.

Yes--there she was. The Green Knight held her hand and danced with her. She danced more gaily than any other in the merry company, and oh! how proud and happy she looked! And the Duke nodded and smiled at the handsome pair as they glided past him.

The Blue Knight had seen enough. He turned away and walked sadly back to the stable-boy's hut.

Klaus Klodrian had also been out,--to hear the dance music. He could remember a little of one of the airs, and now sat down upon the edge of his straw bed, and tried to play it by striking one wooden shoe against the other.

"Good-night and sleep well," said Klaus, as the knight entered. "And thanks for the day."

"Good-night, and best thanks to yourself, my good Klaus Klodrian," was the answer. "If I gain nothing more by my journey hither, I have learned from you how little a man need have in order to be content, and that is good. When men learn to be content with little, there will be less trouble in the world."

"Yes, yes," said Klaus Klodrian. "If one owns a pair of fine doves, one can hold out against anything." And therewith he settled himself in the bed and slept. The Blue Knight, however, went out under the summer sky and gazed long at the stars. He was convinced that he had lost the Princess, and that the Green Knight had won her; but as he stood there, looking at the stars, a sense of peace stole over him, and in his heart were none but good wishes for the Princess and the Green Knight. The stars seemed to tell him that this was right, for never before had they sparkled down upon him with such friendly rays.

The next morning he awoke refreshed, and led out his horse, thinking it was useless to press his suit after having seen the success which his rival had met with the previous day. But before he had mounted, a courteous message came from the Duke, requesting that he should now come to the castle in his turn, according to their agreement.

Likewise according to agreement, came the Green Knight down to Klaus Klodrian; but though he came, he felt that he was being subjected to great indignity, and showed his ill-humor plainly.

Simple Klaus began at once to try to entertain him by showing his precious doves, but the Green Knight sullenly told him to hold his tongue; and when, a little after, poor Klaus, stupid and forgetful, began again his rambling talk in praise of the doves, the Green Knight impatiently kicked over their cage, and the terrified doves flew away.

They took their flight through the Fir Forest, and when the Wise One saw them, speeding with fear-quickened wings over the tree-tops, he said, "Aha! The Green Knight likes not to sail against the wind!"

Then he gave a call, and out flocked the blackbirds from the trees near the Wise One's hut. These gloomy-looking, swift-flying birds were his messengers. Daily they took their flight out into the world, far and near, and when they came back to the forest, they told their master all they had seen and heard. Thus he received much strange and minute information, but so secretly, that no one guessed how he gained his knowledge.

This morning he gave some of the birds special directions, and the result was that all day long, blackbirds hovered in unusual swarms near the hut of Klaus Klodrian, and over the castle gardens. They had hovered there, keeping watch, the day before also, but no one had remarked it. Who notices a few blackbirds more or less?

That was a hard day for Klaus Klodrian. He missed his kind instructor of the previous day sadly, and had no gentle doves to cheer his heavy spirit. The harsh treatment of the Green Knight made him so excited and unhappy, that though he strove hard to hold fast to all that the Blue Knight had taught him, he felt only confusion of mind, and in his bewilderment made more stupid blunders than ever before. But worst of all, it was impossible for the poor witless fellow to understand the gathering wrath of the Green Knight, and so, now and again throughout the day, he made attempts at friendly conversation. At last it ended in his receiving a thrashing from the ill-tempered cavalier, so that when evening closed in, poor Klaus was fain to stretch his bruised body on the soft cool meadow grass, not daring to seek his straw bed.

Who can tell how miserably the hours dragged by for the Green Knight, with his jealous, uncontrolled temper? He could not endure to think of the Blue Knight up at the castle, walking in the garden with the Princess. And when he went near enough to see her pluck roses for her companion, he thought that the roses the Blue Knight received were much richer and redder than those which she had given him the day before from the same bush!

Venting his anger upon poor Klaus had not cooled it in the least. Rage boiled within him hotter than ever, after he had given the thrashing. And when the day was at last ended and the darkness fell, his bitter envious thoughts drove him to the castle. Here were music and dancing and feasting again, this time in honor of the Blue Knight.

The Green Knight stole cautiously up to the balcony, hid himself in the shadow of its twining vines, and looked at the gay scene within the hall. Ah! There were the Princess and the Blue Knight. His heart burned with envy; he forgot that the Blue Knight was having no more opportunity and enjoyment than he himself had had. "Never shall that fellow become Duke, never!" he muttered.

Full of evil thoughts, the Green Knight drew his sword; but he did not notice that as he did so, a bird rustled out from the vines above, and flew swiftly away.

The music ceased at last with prolonged, rapturous trill. The Princess, however, was enjoying the ball so much that she asked the Duke if she might not have just one single dance more. And well it was that her request was granted.

After this very last dance was finished, the Blue Knight turned toward the balcony door, drawn by a great desire to greet the stars, so happy and thankful did he feel.

Just at this moment the Wise One strode into the hall. The Duke and all the guests were greatly astonished, for never before had the revered counselor visited the castle at such a late hour.

The Wise One placed himself before the Blue Knight, gave a sign to the liveried torch-bearers standing near, then threw wide open the large doors leading to the balcony. There stood the Green Knight, with his naked sword in his hand. His guilty gaze sought the ground--and his limbs refused to flee.

"What means this?" asked the Duke.

"There stand Envy and Jealousy disclosed," answered the Wise One. Then he turned and with gentle step approached the Princess. In her terror she had grasped the Blue Knight's arm and was still clinging to him, while tears shone in her tender eyes.

The Wise One looked toward the Duke an instant and then said:

"There stands the true knight! and I believe that the heart of the Princess has chosen him."

"And to him shall she be given," said the Duke. "The day with Klaus Klodrian has indeed brought to light the true character of the suitors. Your wise counsel has served us well, good friend. Will you not honor us now by coming to the banqueting hall and being the first to offer congratulations and good wishes to the Princess and to her proven knight?"

Then the music began again,--the musicians playing gladdest melodies with all their hearts.

The Green Knight plunged into the darkness and ran to his horse. Hastily mounting, he sped his steed mercilessly forward, with whip and spur, into the murky night.

* * * * *

Some days later the Blue Knight rode forth from the castle with face as radiant as the morning. He was to ride to his home, bearing thither the news of his good fortune, but he was soon to wend his way back. The Princess watched as long as her eyes could see him, while he bowed and waved fond adieus. Behind the Blue Knight rode, rather awkwardly, his new squire,--none other than Klaus Klodrian! He was proudly conscious of his fine long riding-boots and other new attire, and happier than ever before; for not only was he now to serve the knight whose kindness had won his heart, but his precious doves had been restored to him. The Wise One had recovered them for him through the aid of the watchful blackbirds.

--_J. Krohn_.