TWENTY-FOUR
    UNUSUAL STORIES

    FOR BOYS AND GIRLS

    ARRANGED AND RETOLD

    BY

    ANNA COGSWELL TYLER

    WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

    MAUD AND MISKA PETERSHAM

    NEW YORK

    HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY

    1921

    COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
    HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.

    PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

    THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY

    RAHWAY. N. J.

    TO THE BOYS AND GIRLS WHO
    HAVE ENJOYED THESE TALES

    AND HAVE BEEN THE INSPIRATION
    OF THE STORY-TELLER,
    THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

FOREWORD

It has been suggested that the boys and girls who have so often listened
to these stories in the clubs and story-hours of the New York Public
Library, might like to have a few of their favorites in one book; that
other boys and girls might be interested in reading them; and that the
story-teller, in search of stories for special occasions, might find
this little volume useful.

    ANNA COGSWELL TYLER.
    1920

CONTENTS

                                                                    PAGE

    THE CONVENT FREE FROM CARE                                         1

    _Jean de Bosschere_

    "WHAT THE GOOD-MAN DOES IS SURE TO
        BE RIGHT!"                                                     7

    _Hans Christian Andersen_

    WHERE TO LAY THE BLAME                                            17

    _Howard Pyle_

    THE WINDS, THE BIRDS, AND THE TELEGRAPH WIRES                     31

    _Rev. Jay T. Stocking_

    KATCHA AND THE DEVIL                                              45

    _Parker Fillmore_

    THE WHITE DOGS OF ARRAN                                           59

    _Cornelia Meigs_

    WIND AN' WAVE AN' WANDHERIN' FLAME                                81

    _Aldis Dunbar_

    THE KING, THE QUEEN, AND THE BEE                                  95

    _Aunt Naomi_

    THE WELL OF THE WORLD'S END                                      107

    _Joseph Jacobs_

    WINGS                                                            115

    _Fedor Sologub_

            CHRISTMAS STORIES

    THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO                                             123

    _Frances Browne_

    THE EMPEROR'S VISION                                             155

    _Selma Lagerlof_

    THE VOYAGE OF THE WEE RED CAP                                    167

    _Ruth Sawyer Durand_

    GREEK LEGENDS

    THE CURSE OF ECHO                                                183
    _Elsie Finnimore Buckley_

    HOW THE ASS BECAME A MAN AGAIN                                   195
    _Andrew Lang_

    HOW ALEXANDER THE KING GOT THE
    WATER OF LIFE                                                    213
    _Julia Dragoumis_

    AMERICAN INDIAN LEGENDS

    THE FIRST CORN                                                   223
    _George Bird Grinnell_

    WAUKEWA'S EAGLE                                                  233
    _James Buckham_

    HALLOWE'EN AND MYSTERY STORIES

    THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF                                        245
    _Arthur Quiller-Couch_

    HOW JAN BREWER WAS PISKEY-LADEN                                  277
    _Enys Tregarthen_

    MY GRANDFATHER HENDRY WATTY                                      285
    _Arthur Quiller-Couch_

    CHILDE ROWLAND                                                   297
    _Joseph Jacobs_

    TAM O' SHANTER                                                   309
    _Robert Burns_
    (Prose Version by Anna Cogswell Tyler)

    THE BOGGART                                                      325
    _Ernest Rhys_

[Illustration: THE CONVENT FREE FROM CARE]

THE CONVENT FREE FROM CARE[1]

ONCE when the Emperor Charles V was traveling in the country, he saw a
convent, and in passing by a little door he read this strange
inscription:

"Here you live without a care."

The Emperor was very surprised and could scarcely believe his eyes.

"It seems to me an impossibility," he thought; "does some one really
exist on earth who is free from care? As Emperor I am overwhelmed with
troubles, while here in this convent, which is a little kingdom in
itself, one would have nothing to worry about. I cannot believe it."

Immediately on setting foot in the village inn, the Emperor sent the
hostess to fetch the Abbot of this singular convent.

You can imagine what a state of mind the latter was in when he heard he
was summoned to the Emperor's presence.

"What have I done to displease him?" he asked himself. On the way he
examined his conscience over and over again, and he could think of no
fault of which he was guilty. "I am in troubled waters; I must steer my
way through," he said.

When he was in the Emperor's presence, the latter expressed his
astonishment of what he had read.

The Abbot now knew why he had been summoned, and smiled. "Sir," said he,
"does that astonish you? However, it is very simple; we eat, we drink,
we sleep, and worry over nothing."

"Well, Reverend Abbot, that state of things must come to an end," said
the Emperor, "and in order that you may have your share of trouble, I
command you to bring me to-morrow the answers to the three following
questions:

"First, What is the depth of the sea?

"Secondly, How many cows' tails would it take to measure the distance
between the earth and the sun?

"Thirdly, What am I thinking about?

"Try to please me or I shall exact a penalty from you."

On hearing these words, the Abbot returned to his convent with a heavy
heart. From that moment he knew no peace. He cudgeled his brains as to
what answer he could make to the Emperor.

When the little bell of the abbey rang, summoning the monks to prayer in
the chapel, the Abbot continued to pace his garden. He was so deep in
thought that he was quite oblivious of what was taking place around him.
Even if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, he would not have noticed
it.

"What a horrible thing," he thought. "Is it possible that such a
misfortune has overtaken me? I cannot possibly answer. Who can save the
situation? Perhaps our shepherd could; he has a very lively imagination;
but talk of the devil--"

At that identical moment the shepherd appeared, leading his flock. He
was very surprised to see the Abbot, who was always without a care,
meditating in solitude.

What could have happened?

Without more ado he went to him, and asked him what was troubling him so
deeply.

"Yes, I deserve to be pitied," said the Abbot, and he told him what had
happened.

"Why are you tormenting yourself over a little thing like that?" the
shepherd laughingly replied. "Leave it to me, and all will be well.
To-morrow I will come here and dress myself in your robe, and I will
turn the tables on him."

At first the Abbot demurred, but in the end he yielded, and the matter
was settled.

The next day the shepherd went boldly to find the Emperor.

"Well, Reverend Abbot," the Emperor said with serenity, "have you found
out the answers?"

"Yes, certainly, sire."

"Speak, I am listening."

"Sire, the sea is as deep as a stone's throw.

"To measure the distance between the earth and the sun, you only need
one cow's tail, if it is long enough.

"Do you wish to know, sire, what you are thinking? Well, at this moment,
you think, sire, that the Abbot of the convent is in your presence, and
it is only his shepherd."

The Emperor laughed so heartily that if he has not stopped laughing he
is laughing still.

[Illustration: "WHAT THE GOOD-MAN DOES IS SURE TO BE RIGHT!"]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: In _Christmas Tales of Flanders._ Illustrated and collected
by Jean De Bosschere. Dodd, Mead & Company.]

"WHAT THE GOOD-MAN DOES IS SURE TO BE RIGHT!"[2]

I AM going to tell you a story that was told to me when I was a little
one, and which I like better and better the oftener I think of it. For
it is with stories as with some men and women, the older they grow, the
pleasanter they grow, and that is delightful!

Of course you have been into the country? Well, then, you must have seen
a regularly poor old cottage. Moss and weeds spring up amid the thatch
of the roof, a stork's nest decorates the chimney (the stork can never
be dispensed with), the walls are aslant, the windows low (in fact, only
one of them can be shut), the baking-oven projects forward, and an
elder-bush leans over the gate, where you will see a tiny pond with a
duck and ducklings in it, close under a knotted old willow-tree. Yes,
and then there is a watch-dog that barks at every passer-by.

Just such a poor little cottage as this was the one in my story, and in
it dwelt a husband and wife. Few as their possessions were, one of them
they could do without, and that was a horse, that used to graze in the
ditch beside the highroad. The good-man rode on it to town, he lent it
to his neighbors, and received slight services from them in return, but
still it would be more profitable to sell the horse, or else exchange it
for something they could make of more frequent use. But which should
they do? sell, or exchange?

"Why, you will find out what is best, good-man," said the wife. "Isn't
this market-day? Come, ride off to the town--get money, or what you can
for the horse--whatever you do is sure to be right. Make haste for the
market!"

So she tied on his neckerchief--for that was a matter she understood
better than he--she tied it with a double knot, and made him look quite
spruce; she dusted his hat with the palm of her hand; and she kissed him
and sent him off, riding the horse that was to be either sold or
bartered. Of course, he would know what to do.

The sun was hot, and not a cloud in the sky. The road was dusty, and
such a crowd of folk passed on their way to market. Some in wagons, some
on horseback, some on their own legs. A fierce sun and no shade all the
way.

A man came driving a cow--as pretty a cow as could be. "That creature
must give beautiful milk," thought the peasant; "it would not be a bad
bargain if I got that. I say, you fellow with the cow!" he began aloud:
"let's have some talk together. Look you, a horse, I believe, costs more
than a cow, but it is all the same to me, as I have more use for a
cow--shall we make an exchange?"

"To be sure!" was the answer, and the bargain was made.

The good-man might just as well now turn back homeward--he had finished
his business. But he had made up his mind to go to market, so to market
he must go, if only to look on, so, with his cow, he continued on his
way. He trudged fast, so did the cow, and soon they overtook a man who
was leading a sheep--a sheep in good condition, well clothed with wool.

"I should very much like to have that!" said the peasant. "It would find
pasture enough by our road-side, and in winter we might take it into our
own room. And really it would be more reasonable for us to be keeping a
sheep than a cow. Shall we exchange?"

Yes, the man who owned the sheep was quite willing; so the exchange was
made, and the good-man now went on with his sheep. Presently there
passed him a man with a big goose under his arm.

"Well, you have got a heavy fellow there!" quoth the peasant. "Feathers
and fat in plenty! How nicely we could tie her up near our little pond,
and it would be something for the good-wife to gather up the scraps for.
She has often said: 'If we had but a goose!' Now she can have one--and
she shall, too! Will you exchange? I will give you my sheep for your
goose, and say 'thank you' besides."

The other had no objection, so the peasant had his will and his goose.
He was now close to the town; he was wearied with the heat and the
crowd, folk and cattle pushing past him, thronging on the road, in the
ditch, and close up to the turnpike-man's cabbage-garden, where his one
hen was tied up, lest in her fright she should lose her way and be
carried off. It was a short-backed hen: she winked with one eye, crying,
"Cluck, cluck!" What she was thinking of I can't say, but what the
peasant thought on seeing her, was this: "That is the prettiest hen I
have ever seen--much prettier than any of our parson's chickens. I
should very much like to have her. A hen can always pick up a grain here
and there--can provide for herself. I almost think it would be a good
plan to take her instead of the goose. Shall we exchange?" he asked.
"Exchange?" repeated the owner; "not a bad idea!" So it was done; the
turnpike-man got the goose, the peasant the hen.

He had transacted a deal of business since first starting on his way to
the town; hot was he, and wearied too; he must have a dram and a bit of
bread. He was on the point of entering an inn, when the innkeeper met
him in the doorway swinging a sack chock-full of something.

"What have you there?" asked the peasant.

"Mellow apples," was the answer, "a whole sackful for swine."

"What a quantity! wouldn't my wife like to see so many! Why, the last
year we had only one single apple on the whole tree at home. Ah! I wish
my wife could see them!"

"Well, what will you give me for them?"

"Give for them? why, I will give you my hen." So he gave the hen, took
the apples, and entered the inn, and going straight up to the bar, set
his sack upright against the stove without considering that there was a
fire lighted inside. A good many strangers were present, among them two
Englishmen, both with their pockets full of gold, and fond of laying
wagers, as Englishmen in stories are wont to be.

Presently there came a sound from the stove, "Suss--suss--suss!" the
apples were roasting. "What is that?" folk asked, and soon heard the
whole history of the horse that had been exchanged, first for a cow, and
lastly for a sack of rotten apples.

"Well! won't you get a good sound cuff from your wife, when you go
home?" said one of the Englishmen. "Something heavy enough to fell an
ox, I warn you!"

"I shall get kisses, not cuffs," replied the peasant. "My wife will say,
'Whatever the good-man does is right.'"

"A wager!" cried the Englishmen, "for a hundred pounds?"

"Say rather a bushelful," quoth the peasant, "and I can only lay my
bushel of apples with myself and the good-wife, but that will be more
than full measure, I trow."

"Done!" cried they. And the innkeeper's cart was brought out forthwith,
the Englishmen got into it, the peasant got into it, the rotten apples
got into it, and away they sped to the peasant's cottage.

"Good evening, wife."

"Same to you, good-man."

"Well, I have exchanged the horse, not sold it."

"Of course," said the wife, taking his hand, and in her eagerness to
listen noticing neither the sack nor the strangers.

"I exchanged the horse for a cow."

"O! how delightful! now we can have milk, butter, and cheese, on our
table. What a capital idea!"

"Yes, but I exchanged the cow for a sheep."

"Better and better!" cried the wife. "You are always so thoughtful; we
have only just grass enough for a sheep. But now we shall have ewe's
milk, and ewe's cheese, and woolen stockings, nay, woolen jackets too;
and a cow would not give us that; she loses all her hairs. But you are
always such a clever fellow."

"But the ewe I exchanged again for a goose."

"What! shall we really keep Michaelmas this year, good-man? You are
always thinking of what will please me, and that was a beautiful
thought. The goose can be tethered to the willow-tree and grow fat for
Michaelmas Day."

"But I gave the goose away for a hen," said the peasant.

"A hen? well, that was a good exchange," said his wife. "A hen will lay
eggs, sit upon them, and we shall have chickens. Fancy! a hen-yard! that
is just the thing I have always wished for most."

"Ah, but I exchanged the hen for a sack of mellow apples."

"Then I must give thee a kiss," cried the wife. "Thanks, my own husband.
And now I have something to tell. When you were gone I thought how I
could get a right good dinner ready for you: omelets with parsley. Now I
had the eggs, but not the parsley. So I went over to the schoolmaster's;
they have parsley, I know, but the woman is so crabbed, she wanted
something for it. Now what could I give her? nothing grows in our
garden, not even a rotten apple, not even that had I for her; but now I
can give her ten, nay, a whole sackful. That is famous, good-man!" and
she kissed him again.

"Well done!" cried the Englishmen. "Always down hill, and always happy!
Such a sight is worth the money!" And so quite contentedly they paid the
bushelful of gold pieces to the peasant, who had got kisses, not cuffs,
by his bargains.

Certainly virtue is her own reward, when the wife is sure that her
husband is the wisest man in the world, and that whatever he does is
right. So now you have heard this old story that was once told to me,
and I hope have learnt the moral.

[Illustration: WHERE TO LAY THE BLAME]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: Reprinted by special permission from _Stories and Tales_,
by Hans Christian Andersen. Copyright by Houghton, Mifflin Company.]

WHERE TO LAY THE BLAME[3]

     Many and many a man has come to trouble--so he will say--by
     following his wife's advice. This is how it was with a man of whom
     I shall tell you.

THERE was once upon a time a fisherman who had fished all day long and
had caught not so much as a sprat. So at night there he sat by the fire,
rubbing his knees and warming his shins, and waiting for supper that his
wife was cooking for him, and his hunger was as sharp as vinegar, and
his temper hot enough to fry fat.

While he sat there grumbling and growling and trying to make himself
comfortable and warm, there suddenly came a knock at the door. The good
woman opened it, and there stood an old man, clad all in red from head
to foot, and with a snowy beard at his chin as white as winter snow.

The fisherman's wife stood gasping and staring at the strange figure,
but the old man in red walked straight into the hut. "Bring your nets,
fisherman," said he, "and come with me. There is something that I want
you to catch for me, and if I have luck I will pay you for your fishing
as never fisherman was paid before."

"Not I," said the fisherman; "I go out no more this night. I have been
fishing all day long until my back is nearly broken, and have caught
nothing, and now I am not such a fool as to go out and leave a good
supper and a warm fire at your bidding." But the fisherman's wife had
listened to what the old man had said about paying for the job, and she
was of a different mind from her husband. "Come," said she, "the old man
promises to pay you well. This is not a chance to be lost, I can tell
you, and my advice to you is that you go."

The fisherman shook his head. No, he would not go; he had said he would
not, and he would not. But the wife only smiled and said again, "My
advice to you is that you go."

The fisherman grumbled and grumbled, and swore that he would not go. The
wife said nothing but one thing. She did not argue; she did not lose her
temper; she only said to everything that he said, "My advice to you is
that you go."

At last the fisherman's anger boiled over. "Very well," said he,
spitting his words at her; "if you drive me out into the night, I
suppose I will have to go." And then he spoke the words that so many men
say: "Many a man has come to trouble by following his wife's advice."

Then down he took his fur cap and up he took his nets, and off he and
the old man marched through the moonlight, their shadows bobbing along
like black spiders behind them.

Well, on they went, out from the town and across the fields and through
the woods, until at last they came to a dreary, lonesome desert, where
nothing was to be seen but gray rocks and weeds and thistles.

"Well," said the fisherman, "I have fished, man and boy, for forty-seven
years, but never did I see as unlikely a place to catch anything as
this."

But the old man said never a word. First of all he drew a great circle
with strange figures, marking it with his finger upon the ground. Then
out from under his red gown he brought a tinder-box and steel, and a
little silver casket covered all over with strange figures of serpents
and dragons and what not. He brought some sticks of spice-wood from his
pouch, and then he struck a light and made a fire. Out of the box he
took a gray powder, which he flung upon the little blaze.

Puff! flash! A vivid flame went up into the moonlight, and then a dense
smoke as black as ink, which spread out wider and wider, far and near,
till all below was darker than the darkest midnight. Then the old man
began to utter strange spells and words.

Presently there began a rumbling that sounded louder and louder and
nearer and nearer, until it roared and bellowed like thunder. The earth
rocked and swayed, and the poor fisherman shook and trembled with fear
till his teeth chattered in his head.

Then suddenly the roaring and bellowing ceased, and all was as still as
death, though the darkness was as thick and black as ever. "Now," said
the old magician--for such he was--"now we are about to take a journey
such as no one ever traveled before. Heed well what I tell you. Speak
not a single word, for if you do, misfortune will be sure to happen."

"Ain't I to say anything?" said the fisherman.

"No."

"Not even 'boo' to a goose?"

"No."

"Well, that is pretty hard upon a man who likes to say his say," said
the fisherman.

"And moreover," said the old man, "I must blindfold you as well."
Thereupon he took from his pocket a handkerchief, and made ready to tie
it about the fisherman's eyes.

"And ain't I to see anything at all?" said the fisherman.

"No."

"Not even so much as a single feather?"

"No."

"Well, then," said the fisherman, "I wish I'd not come."

But the old man tied the handkerchief tightly around his eyes, and then
he was as blind as a bat.

"Now," said the old man, "throw your leg over what you feel and hold
fast."

The fisherman reached down his hand, and there felt the back of
something rough and hairy. He flung his leg over it, and whisk! whizz!
off he shot through the air like a sky-rocket. Nothing was left for him
to do but grip tightly with hands and feet and to hold fast. On they
went, and on they went, until, after a great while, whatever it was that
was carrying him lit upon the ground, and there the fisherman found
himself standing, for that which had brought him had gone.

The old man whipped the handkerchief off his eyes, and there the
fisherman found himself on the shores of the sea, where there was
nothing to be seen but water upon one side and rocks and naked sand
upon the other.

"This is the place for you to cast your nets," said the old magician;
"for if we catch nothing here we catch nothing at all."

The fisherman unrolled his nets and cast them and dragged them, and then
cast them and dragged them again, but neither time caught so much as a
herring. But the third time that he cast he found that he had caught
something that weighed as heavy as lead. He pulled and pulled, until
by-and-by he dragged the load ashore, and what should it be but a great
chest of wood, blackened by sea-water, and covered with shells and green
moss.

That was the very thing that the magician had come to fish for. From his
pouch the old man took a little golden key, which he fitted into a
key-hole in the side of the chest. He threw back the lid; the fisherman
looked within, and there was the prettiest little palace that man's eye
ever beheld, all made of mother-of-pearl and silver-frosted as white as
snow. The old magician lifted the little palace out of the box and set
it upon the ground.

Then, lo and behold! a marvelous thing happened; for the palace
instantly began to grow for all the world like a soap-bubble, until it
stood in the moonlight gleaming and glistening like snow, the windows
bright with the lights of a thousand wax tapers, and the sound of music
and voices and laughter coming from within.

Hardly could the fisherman catch his breath from one strange thing when
another happened. The old magician took off his clothes and his
face--yes, his face--for all the world as though it had been a mask, and
there stood as handsome and noble a young man as ever the light looked
on. Then, beckoning to the fisherman, dumb with wonder, he led the way
up the great flight of marble steps to the palace door. As he came the
door swung open with a blaze of light, and there stood hundreds of
noblemen, all clad in silks and satins and velvets, who, when they saw
the magician, bowed low before him, as though he had been a king.
Leading the way, they brought the two through halls and chambers and
room after room, each more magnificent than the other, until they came
to one that surpassed a hundredfold any of the others.

At the farther end was a golden throne, and upon it sat a lady more
lovely and beautiful than a dream, her eyes as bright as diamonds, her
cheeks like rose leaves, and her hair like spun gold. She came half-way
down the steps of the throne to welcome the magician, and when the two
met they kissed one another before all those who were looking on. Then
she brought him to the throne and seated him beside her, and there they
talked for a long time very earnestly.

Nobody said a word to the fisherman, who stood staring about him like an
owl. "I wonder," said he to himself at last, "if they will give a body a
bite to eat by-and-by?" for, to tell the truth, the good supper he had
come away from at home had left a sharp hunger gnawing at his insides,
and he longed for something good and warm to fill the empty place. But
time passed, and not so much as a crust of bread was brought to stay his
stomach.

By-and-by the clock struck twelve, and then the two who sat upon the
throne arose. The beautiful lady took the magician by the hand, and,
turning to those who stood around, said, in a loud voice, "Behold him
who alone is worthy to possess the jewel of jewels! Unto him do I give
it, and with it all power of powers!" Thereon she opened a golden casket
that stood beside her, and brought thence a little crystal ball, about
as big as a pigeon's egg, in which was something that glistened like a
spark of fire. The magician took the crystal ball and thrust it into his
bosom; but what it was the fisherman could not guess, and if you do not
know I shall not tell you.

Then for the first time the beautiful lady seemed to notice the
fisherman. She beckoned him, and when he stood beside her two men came
carrying a chest. The chief treasurer opened it, and it was full of bags
of gold money. "How will you have it?" said the beautiful lady.

"Have what?" said the fisherman.

"Have the pay for your labor?" said the beautiful lady.

"I will," said the fisherman, promptly, "take it in my hat."

"So be it," said the beautiful lady. She waved her hand, and the chief
treasurer took a bag from the chest, untied it, and emptied a cataract
of gold into the fur cap. The fisherman had never seen so much wealth in
all his life before, and he stood like a man turned to stone.

"Is all this mine?" said the fisherman.

"It is," said the beautiful lady.

"Then God bless your pretty eyes," said the fisherman.

Then the magician kissed the beautiful lady, and, beckoning to the
fisherman, left the throne room the same way that they had come. The
noblemen, in silks and satins and velvets, marched ahead, and back they
went through the other apartments, until at last they came to the door.
Out they stepped, and then what do you suppose happened!

If the wonderful palace had grown like a bubble, like a bubble it
vanished. There the two stood on the sea-shore, with nothing to be seen
but rocks and sand and water, and the starry sky overhead. The fisherman
shook his cap of gold, and it jingled and tinkled, and was as heavy as
lead. If it was not all a dream, he was rich for life. "But anyhow,"
said he, "they might have given a body a bite to eat."

The magician put on his red clothes and his face again, making himself
as hoary and as old as before. He took out flint and steel, and his
sticks of spice-wood and his gray powder, and made a great fire and
smoke just as he had done before. Then again he tied his handkerchief
over the fisherman's eyes. "Remember," said he, "what I told you when we
started upon our journey. Keep your mouth tight shut, for if you utter
so much as a single word you are a lost man. Now throw your leg over
what you feel and hold fast."

The fisherman had his net over one arm and his cap of gold in the other
hand; nevertheless, there he felt the same hairy thing he had felt
before. He flung his leg over it, and away he was gone through the air
like a sky-rocket.

Now, he had grown somewhat used to strange things by this time, so he
began to think he would like to see what sort of a creature it was upon
which he was riding thus through the sky. So he contrived, in spite of
his net and cap, to push up the handkerchief from over one eye. Out he
peeped, and then he saw what the strange steed was. He was riding upon a
he-goat as black as night, and in front of him was the magician riding
upon just such another, his great red robe fluttering out in the
moonlight like huge red wings.

"Great herring and little fishes!" roared the fisherman; "it is a
billy-goat!"

Instantly goats, old man, and all were gone like a flash. Down fell the
fisherman through the empty sky, whirling over and over and around and
around like a frog. He held tightly to his net, but away flew his fur
cap, the golden money falling in a shower like sparks of yellow light.
Down he fell and down he fell, until his head spun like a top.

By good-luck his house was just below, with its thatch of soft rushes.
Into the very middle of it he tumbled, and right through the
thatch--bump!--into the room below.

The good wife was in bed, snoring away for dear life; but such a noise
as the fisherman made coming into the house was enough to wake the dead.
Up she jumped, and there she sat, staring and winking with sleep, and
with her brains as addled as a duck's egg in a thunderstorm.

"There!" said the fisherman, as he gathered himself up and rubbed his
shoulder, "that is what comes of following a woman's advice!"

[Illustration: THE WINDS, THE BIRDS, AND THE TELEGRAPH WIRES]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: Reprinted by special permission from _Twilight Land,_ by
Howard Pyle. Copyright by Harper & Brothers]

THE WINDS, THE BIRDS, AND THE TELEGRAPH WIRES[4]

LONG, long ago, a hundred times as long as any one can remember, the
Great Earth King became so very, very busy about a great many things
that there were several things that he could not do. So he sat himself
down and rested his great head upon his hand, and thought, and thought,
and thought until he decided that he must have some assistance. He would
advertise for some messengers! So he seized a great brush, as big as a
church steeple, dipped it into the red and golden sunset light, and
wrote in big letters high on the sky, that every one far and near could
read:

     WANTED! MESSENGERS! FLEETER THAN HORSES, SWIFTER THAN MEN, TO CARRY
     MY MESSAGES, A MILLION TIMES TEN.

and he signed it simply, "The Earth King." Then he went into his rainbow
house and laid himself down to sleep on his rainbow bed.

He had scarcely fallen asleep when there came a _rustle, rustle,
rustle_ at the rainbow window,
and a _rattle, rattle, rattle_ at the rainbow door. He sprang quickly
from his great bed.

"Who be ye?" he asked.

"We be messengers," came the reply, "come to serve the King."

Then the King opened the door. There before him stood four of the
strangest creatures that he had ever seen. They were so light that they
could stand on nothing; they had great wide wings; they had pale faces
and gleaming eyes; and they had light garments that floated and flapped
and fluttered in the breeze.

"What are your names?" asked the King.

"We are the Winds," answered the mightiest of the four, "East Wind, West
Wind, South Wind, North Wind," pointing to each in turn, himself last.
"We have come--

    _Fleeter than horses, swifter than men,
    To carry your messages, a million times ten._"

Then the King spoke to them in deep and solemn tone: "The task is a
great one. The King's business is grave and important. My messengers
must be swift and faithful. Are ye able?"

Then the four winds piously crossed their breasts with their wings and
whispered, "Try us and see, try us and see, try us and see."

So the King tried them.

"Down by the sea," said the King, "far over the mountains, many hours
away, there lives a fisher folk that I love. Every day the men of the
village go forth in their little boats to fish, and every evening they
come home with their catch. But of late thick and heavy clouds have hung
about them. They have not dared go forth lest they should not reach home
again, and their families begin to be in want. Go to them to-day. Drive
away the fog and clouds that the people may be happy again. Quick!
away!"

Then the four winds lifted their swift, beautiful wings and were gone.
Faster and faster they flew till none could tell how fast they flew.
Over the meadows they went and over the mountains. Each tried to
outwing the others until it became a fierce and careless game. So
blind and careless were they in their sport that they did not notice how
they whirled the sand, and broke the trees, and tossed the water.
Swiftly through the fishing village they tore, hurling its poor houses
to the ground and _crashing, dashing, slashing, smashing_ the waves
upon the fallen wrecks and the frightened and suffering folk.

Not until they were weary with their furious sport did they remember the
errand on which the King had sent them. They retraced their steps as
quickly as they could, but alas! to their shame and grief, the village
lay in ruins and the people wept for their loss.

Then the Earth King was very sad and angry. He brought the shameful
winds before his court. "False and faithless winds," he said, in stern
and awful voice, "ye did not do my errand; ye were traitors to your
trust; great shall be your punishment. Nevermore shall ye be my
messengers, evermore shall ye be my slaves. Away from my sight!"

Then the faithless winds departed from before the face of the King, and
in shame and sorrow went moaning among the caves and the rocks by the
seaside, and sighing among the lonely pine trees in the wilderness, and
even to this day you may hear the echoes of their moans and sighs.

The Earth King was sorrowful, but not discouraged. Again he seized the
great paint brush, as big as a church steeple, dipped it into the red
and golden sunset light, and wrote in big letters high on the sky that
every one far and near could read:

    WANTED! MESSENGERS!
    FLEETER THAN HORSES,
    SWIFTER THAN MEN,
    TO CARRY MY MESSAGES,
    A MILLION TIMES TEN.

Then he went into his rainbow house and laid himself down on his rainbow
bed. He scarcely had taken forty winks when he heard a _rat-tat-tatting_
on the rainbow window and a _rap-rap-rapping_ on the rainbow door.
Quickly he leaped from his great bed.

"Who be ye?" he asked.

"We be messengers," came a gentle voice through the keyhole, "come to
serve the King."

Then he opened the door, and there before him flitted and twittered a
company of the most curious little people that he ever had set eyes
upon. They had each a pair of beady eyes, a little pointed nose, a set
of little scratchy toes, and the softest kind of a coat, fitting as snug
as ever the tailor could make it.

"What are your names?" asked the King.

"We are the birds, and our names are many. We saw the King's sign in the
sky and have come--

    _Fleeter than horses, swifter than men,
    To carry your messages, a million times ten."_

Then the King, remembering the Winds, addressed them in very deep and
solemn tones: "The task is a great one. The King's business is exceeding
grave and important. My messengers must be swift and faithful, must
remember my commands and keep my secrets. Are ye able?"

Each bird laid his little scratchy toes on his little pointed nose and
vowed that he would remember the King's commands and keep the King's
secrets.

"Then," said the King, "make ready. Far to the north dwells a people
that I love. For many a month they have lived amid ice and snow and the
bitter frosts. Now they sigh for warmer days, and I have heard them. I
am planning a delightful surprise for them. I am going to carry spring
to them. Go, find the warm sunshine and the soft south wind and bid them
come at once to the King's court, that I may take them and the spring
days to my suffering and discouraged people. Then return with all speed
to the King, and remember --do not betray my secret."

The bird-messengers hastened away as fast as ever their wings could
carry them. They summoned the warm sunshine and the soft south wind and
bade them make haste to the Earth King. They, of course, turned back as
they were commanded, but before they reached home again, each one of
them was seized with a strange, restless, uneasy feeling right in the
middle of his feathers. It must have been the secret trying to get out.
One by one they stole past the King's house under cover of the night and
made their way to the north country. And when the morning came, there
they were, sitting on the fence posts and in the apple trees, just
bursting with the happy secret of the King.

    _Then the robin pipped, and the bluebird blew;
    The sparrow chipped, and the swallow, too:
    "We know something,--we won't tell,--
    Somebody's coming,--you know well.
    This is his name ('twixt you and me),
          S-P-R-I-N-G."_

The people were very happy when they heard what the birds said, and with
much excitement began to get ready for the springtime.

Now, of course, the King knew nothing about all this, and was very happy
in thinking of the surprise that he was to give the people. He took the
warm sunshine and the soft south wind for companions, and made his way
in all haste to the land of ice and snow. As he arrived, with his
delightful secret, as he thought, hidden in his heart, he was amazed to
find an old woman sitting in her doorway knitting.

"Why are you sitting here?" he asked. "Why are you not within, warming
your feet by the fire?"

"Why, don't you know?" she said, "spring is coming!"

"Spring?" he asked, almost roughly; "how do you know?"

"Oh," said she with a smile, trying not to look at a robin that turned
his back behind the picket fence, hoping that if the King saw him he
might think he was an English sparrow, "a little bird told me."

The King walked up the street, looking gloomy enough, and soon came
across a gardener with his rake, uncovering the crocuses and the
daffodils.

"Why do you do this, my good man? Surely your flowers will freeze. You
had much better be covering them up."

"Oh, no," he said, straightening his bent back, "spring is coming."

"Spring," said the King; "how do _you_ know?"

"Oh," said the gardener, with a grin, and a twinkle in his left eye, as
he caught sight of a bluebird peeking half-scared around the limb of a
near-by apple tree, "a little bird told me."

Then the disgraceful story all came out: that

    _The robin pipped, and the bluebird blew;
    The sparrow chipped, and the swallow, too:
    "We know something,--we won't tell,--
    Somebody's coming,--you know well.
    This is his name ('twixt you and me),
          S-P-R-I-N-G."_

My! but wasn't the Earth King disgusted! And weren't the bird-messengers
ashamed to come when he sternly called them! Each laid his little
pointed nose on his little scratchy toes, and dropped his eyes and
uttered never a word.

"Silly birds," he said in scornful voice. "You vowed to keep my secrets.
You have broken your vow. You obeyed my commands and called the south
wind and the sunshine; so I cannot be too harsh with you. But you cannot
keep my secrets, so I cannot keep you as my messengers. Now and then I
may use you as my servants. Adieu!"

Then the birds flew sadly away as quietly and quickly as ever they
could, and set to work building their nests in holes in the trees and
holes in the ground and in out-of-the-way places, making such a
chattering meantime that neither they, nor any one else, could hear
themselves think.

By this time the Earth King was nearly discouraged. He did not know what
in the world to do. He rested his elbow on his knee and his great head
in his hand and thought and wondered. Then once again he rose and took
the great brush and wrote the same big words on the sky. And for very
weariness he lay down on a great bank of clouds and soon was sound
asleep. As he slept, the cloud grew bigger and bigger and blacker and
blacker, and the thunder came nearer and nearer until, all at once,
CRASH-CRASH--the cloud seemed torn to pieces and the King leaped to his
feet half-scared to death, even if he was a King. There before him,
darting this way and that way, and up and down, and across-ways, was a
swarm of little red-hot creatures that hissed and buzzed and cracked
like the Fourth of July.

"Who are you?" he asked in half-fright as he rubbed his eyes, "and what
do you want?"

"Messengers, messengers, messengers," whispered they all at once, "and
we have come to serve the King."

"What are your names?"

"We are the Lightning Spirits; sometimes men call us Electricity--

    _The swiftest creatures that are known to men,
    To carry your messages, a million times ten."_

The King charged them gravely and solemnly, as he had done the winds and
the birds before them, that his messengers must be true and faithful and
must keep his secrets. But no matter how great the task nor how heavy
the oaths with which he bound them to be faithful, they were eager, all
of them, to serve the King. Only he must build road-ways for them. They
had not wings to fly, and their feet were not accustomed to the highways
of the land. They might lose their way. So the King decided to try them.
He called his laborers and ordered them to erect tall poles, and from
pole to pole to lay slender roadways of wire. Miles and miles of these
roadways he built, over the hills and through the valleys. And when all
was complete, he called the spirits to him and whispered to them his
secret messages. Quick as thought they ran over the little roadways,
hither and thither, and back again, doing faithfully and well the King's
errands and keeping the King's secrets. They whispered never so much as
a word of them. So the Earth King called a great assembly, and before
them all appointed the Lightning Spirits to be his trusted messengers
for ever and a day.

Of course the winds were very jealous when they heard of it, and they
determined to get revenge by stealing the messages from the spirits.
They dashed against the wires day after day, trying to break them and
get the secrets, but all to no purpose. All they could hear was
MUM-MUM-MUM-M-M; and the harder they blew, the louder they heard it.

The birds had all along been sorry that they had given away the great
secret, and had been hoping that the King would give them another
chance. They were much too gentle to do as the winds did. But they were
very curious to find out what the King's messages were. So day after day
they went to the wires and sat upon them and snuggled down as close to
them as they could get and listened hard, putting now the right ear down
and now the left--but all they could ever hear was MUM-MUM-MUM-M-M-M-M.

_And they seem never to have got over that habit!_ If you want to find
out for yourself the truth of this tale, _you go_ some day when the wind
is blowing against the wires and the birds are sitting upon them,
snuggled close, and put your ear to a telegraph pole and all _you_ will
hear is MUM-MUM-MUM-M-M-M.

[Illustration: CATHKA AND THE DEVIL]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: By permission of the publishers from _The City That Never
Was Reached,_ by Dr. Jay T. Stocking. Copyright by _The Pilgrim Press_.]

KATCHA AND THE DEVIL[5]

THE STORY OF A CLINGING VINE

THERE was once a woman named Katcha who lived in a village where she
owned her own cottage and garden. She had money besides but little good
it did her because she was such an ill-tempered vixen that nobody, not
even the poorest laborer, would marry her. Nobody would even work for
her, no matter what she paid, for she couldn't open her mouth without
scolding, and whenever she scolded she raised her shrill voice until you
could hear it a mile away. The older she grew the worse she became until
by the time she was forty she was as sour as vinegar.

Now as it always happens in a village, every Sunday afternoon there was
a dance either at the burgomaster's, or at the tavern. As soon as the
bagpipes sounded, the boys all crowded into the room and the girls
gathered outside and looked in the windows. Katcha was always the first
at the window. The music would strike up and the boys would beckon the
girls to come in and dance, but no one ever beckoned Katcha. Even when
she paid the piper no one ever asked her to dance. Yet she came Sunday
after Sunday just the same.

One Sunday afternoon as she was hurrying to the tavern she thought to
herself: "Here I am getting old and yet I've never once danced with a
boy! Plague take it, to-day I'd dance with the devil if he asked me!"

She was in a fine rage by the time she reached the tavern, where she sat
down near the stove and looked around to see what girls the boys had
invited to dance.

Suddenly a stranger in hunter's green came in. He sat down at a table
near Katcha and ordered drink. When the serving maid brought the beer,
he reached over to Katcha and asked her to drink with him. At first she
was much taken back at this attention, then she pursed her lips coyly
and pretended to refuse, but finally she accepted.

When they had finished drinking, he pulled a ducat from his pocket,
tossed it to the piper, and called out:

"Clear the floor, boys! This is for Katcha and me alone!"

The boys snickered and the girls giggled, hiding behind each other and
stuffing their aprons into their mouths so that Katcha wouldn't hear
them laughing. But Katcha wasn't noticing them at all. Katcha was
dancing with a fine young man! If the whole world had been laughing at
her, Katcha wouldn't have cared.

The stranger danced with Katcha all afternoon and all evening. Not once
did he dance with any one else. He bought her marzipan and sweet drinks
and, when the hour came to go home, he escorted her through the village.

"Ah," sighed Katcha when they reached her cottage and it was time to
part, "I wish I could dance with you forever!"

"Very well," said the stranger. "Come with me."

"Where do you live?"

"Put your arm around my neck and I'll tell you."

Katcha put both arms about his neck and instantly the man changed into a
devil and flew straight down to hell.

At the gates of hell he stopped and knocked.

His comrades came and opened the gates and when they saw that he was
exhausted, they tried to take Katcha off his neck. But Katcha held on
tight and nothing they could do or say would make her budge.

The devil finally had to appear before the Prince of Darkness himself
with Katcha still glued to his neck.

"What's that thing you've got around your neck?" the Prince asked.

So the devil told how as he was walking about on earth he had heard
Katcha say she would dance with the devil himself if he asked her. "So I
asked her to dance with me," the devil said. "Afterwards just to
frighten her a little I brought her down to hell. And now she won't let
go of me!"

"Serve you right, you dunce!" the Prince said. "How often have I told
you to use common sense when you go wandering around on earth! You might
have known Katcha would never let go of a man once she had him!"

"I beg your Majesty to make her let go!" the poor devil implored.

"I will not!" said the Prince. "You'll have to carry her back to earth
yourself and get rid of her as best you can. Perhaps this will be a
lesson to you."

So the devil, very tired and very cross, shambled back to earth with
Katcha still clinging to his neck. He tried every way to get her off. He
promised her wooded hills and rich meadows if she but let him go. He
cajoled her, he cursed her, but all to no avail. Katcha still held on.

Breathless and discouraged he came at last to a meadow where a
shepherd, wrapped in a great shaggy sheepskin coat, was tending his
flocks. The devil transformed himself into an ordinary looking man so
that the shepherd didn't recognize him.

"Hi, there," the shepherd said, "what's that you're carrying?"

"Don't ask me," the devil said with a sigh. "I'm so worn out I'm nearly
dead. I was walking yonder not thinking of anything at all when along
comes a woman and jumps on my back and won't let go. I'm trying to carry
her to the nearest village to get rid of her there, but I don't believe
I'm able. My legs are giving out."

The shepherd, who was a good-natured chap, said: "I tell you what: I'll
help you. I can't leave my sheep long, but I'll carry her halfway."

"Oh," said the devil, "I'd be very grateful if you did!"

So the shepherd yelled at Katcha: "Hi, there, you! Catch hold of me!"

When Katcha saw that the shepherd was a handsome youth, she let go of
the devil and leapt upon the shepherd's back, catching hold of the
collar of his sheepskin coat.

Now the young shepherd soon found that the long shaggy coat and Katcha
made a pretty heavy load for walking. In a few moments he was sick of
his bargain and began casting about for some way of getting rid of
Katcha.

Presently he came to a pond and he thought to himself that he'd like to
throw her in. He wondered how he could do it. Perhaps he could manage it
by throwing in his greatcoat with her. The coat was so loose that he
thought he could slip out of it without Katcha's discovering what he was
doing. Very cautiously he slipped out one arm. Katcha didn't move. He
slipped out the other arm. Still Katcha didn't move. He unlooped the
first button. Katcha noticed nothing. He unlooped the second button.
Still Katcha noticed nothing. He unlooped the third button and kerplunk!
he had pitched coat and Katcha and all into the middle of the pond!

When he got back to his sheep, the devil looked at him in amazement.

"Where's Katcha?" he gasped.

"Oh," the shepherd said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb, "I
decided to leave her up yonder in a pond."

"My dear friend," the devil cried, "I thank you! You have done me a
great favor. If it hadn't been for you I might be carrying Katcha till
dooms-day. I'll never forget you and some time I'll reward you. As you
don't know who it is you've helped, I must tell you I'm a devil."

With these words the devil vanished.

For a moment the shepherd was dazed. Then he laughed and said to
himself: "Well, if they're all as stupid as he is, we ought to be able
for them!"

The country where the shepherd lived was ruled over by a dissolute young
duke who passed his days in riotous living and his nights in carousing.
He gave over the affairs of state to two governors who were as bad as
he. With extortionate taxes and unjust fines they robbed the people
until the whole land was crying out against them.

Now one day for amusement the duke summoned an astrologer to court and
ordered him to read in the planets the fate of himself and his two
governors. When the astrologer had cast a horoscope for each of the
three reprobates, he was greatly disturbed and tried to dissuade the
duke from questioning him further.

"Such danger," he said, "threatens your life and the lives of your two
governors that I fear to speak."

"Whatever it is," said the duke, "speak. But I warn you to speak the
truth, for if what you say does not come to pass you will forfeit your
life."

The astrologer bowed and said: "Hear then, O Duke, what the planets
foretell: Before the second quarter of the moon, on such and such a day,
at such and such an hour, a devil will come and carry off the two
governors. At the full of the moon on such and such a day, at such and
such an hour, the same devil will come for your Highness and carry you
off to hell."

The duke pretended to be unconcerned but in his heart he was deeply
shaken. The voice of the astrologer sounded to him like the voice of
judgment and for the first time conscience began to trouble him.

As for the governors, they couldn't eat a bite of food and were carried
from the palace half dead with fright. They piled their ill-gotten
wealth into wagons and rode away to their castles, where they barred all
the doors and windows in order to keep the devil out.

The duke reformed. He gave up his evil ways and corrected the abuses of
state in the hope of averting if possible his cruel fate.

The poor shepherd had no inkling of any of these things. He tended his
flocks from day to day and never bothered his head about the happenings
in the great world.

Suddenly one day the devil appeared before him and said: "I have come,
my friend, to repay you for your kindness. When the moon is in its first
quarter, I was to carry off the former governors of this land because
they robbed the poor and gave the duke evil counsel. However, they're
behaving themselves now so they're to be given another chance. But they
don't know this. Now on such and such a day do you go to the first
castle where a crowd of people will be assembled. When a cry goes up and
the gates open and I come dragging out the governor, do you step up to
me and say: 'What do you mean by this? Get out of here or there'll be
trouble!' I'll pretend to be greatly frightened and make off. Then ask
the governor to pay you two bags of gold, and if he haggles just
threaten to call me back. After that go on to the castle of the second
governor and do the same thing and demand the same pay. I warn you,
though, be prudent with the money and use it only for good. When the
moon is full, I'm to carry off the duke himself, for he was so wicked
that he's to have no second chance. So don't try to save him, for if you
do you'll pay for it with your own skin. Don't forget!"

The shepherd remembered carefully everything the devil told him. When
the moon was in its first quarter he went to the first castle. A great
crowd of people was gathered outside waiting to see the devil carry away
the governor.

Suddenly there was a loud cry of despair, the gates of the castle
opened, and there was the devil, as black as night, dragging out the
governor. He, poor man, was half dead with fright.

The shepherd elbowed his way through the crowd, took the governor by the
hand, and pushed the devil roughly aside.

"What do you mean by this?" he shouted. "Get out of here or there'll be
trouble!"

Instantly the devil fled and the governor fell on his knees before the
shepherd and kissed his hands and begged him to state what he wanted in
reward. When the shepherd asked for two bags of gold, the governor
ordered that they be given him without delay.

Then the shepherd went to the castle of the second governor and went
through exactly the same performance.

It goes without saying that the duke soon heard of the shepherd, for he
had been anxiously awaiting the fate of the two governors. At once he
sent a wagon with four horses to fetch the shepherd to the palace and
when the shepherd arrived he begged him piteously to rescue him
likewise from the devil's clutches.

"Master," the shepherd answered, "I cannot promise you anything. I have
to consider my own safety. You have been a great sinner, but if you
really want to reform, if you really want to rule your people justly and
kindly and wisely as becomes a true ruler, then indeed I will help you
even if I have to suffer hellfire in your place."

The duke declared that with God's help he would mend his ways and the
shepherd promised to come back on the fatal day.

With grief and dread the whole country awaited the coming of the full
moon. In the first place the people had greeted the astrologer's
prophecy with joy, but since the duke had reformed their feelings for
him had changed.

Time sped fast as time does whether joy be coming or sorrow and all too
soon the fatal day arrived.

Dressed in black and pale with fright, the duke sat expecting the
arrival of the devil.

Suddenly the door flew open and the devil, black as night, stood before
him. He paused a moment and then he said, politely:

"Your time has come, Lord Duke, and I am here to get you!"

Without a word the duke arose and followed the devil to the courtyard,
which was filled with a great multitude of people.

At that moment the shepherd, all out of breath, came pushing his way
through the crowd, and ran straight at the devil, shouting out:

"What do you mean by this? Get out of here or there'll be trouble!"

"What do _you_ mean?" whispered the devil. "Don't you remember what I
told you?"

"Hush!" the shepherd whispered back. "I don't care anything about the
duke. This is to warn you! You know Katcha? She's alive and she's
looking for you!"

The instant the devil heard the name of Katcha he turned and fled.

All the people cheered the shepherd, while the shepherd himself laughed
in his sleeve to think that he had taken in the devil so easily.

As for the duke, he was so grateful to the shepherd that he made him his
chief counselor and loved him as a brother. And well he might, for the
shepherd was a sensible man and always gave him sound advice.

[Ilustration: THE WHITE DOGS OF ARRAN]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: From _Czechoslovak Fairy Tales_, by Parker Fillmore.
Copyright by Harcourt, Brace & Company.]

THE WHITE DOGS OF ARRAN[6]

FOR a long hour, on that November afternoon, my brother Ted had been
standing at the gate below the ranch house, waiting and waiting, while
the twilight filled the round hollow of the valley as water slowly fills
a cup. At last the figure of a rider, silhouetted against the
rose-colored sky, came into view along the crest of the rocky ridge. The
little cow pony was loping as swiftly as the rough trail would permit,
but to Ted's impatient eyes it seemed to crawl as slowly as a fly on a
window pane. Although the horseman looked like a cow puncher, at that
distance, with his slouch hat and big saddle, the eager boy knew that it
was the district doctor making his far rounds over the range. A swift
epidemic had been sweeping over Montana, passing from one ranch to
another and leaving much illness and suffering behind. Ted's uncle and
the cousin who was his own age had both been stricken two days before
and it seemed that the doctor would never come.

"I'm glad you are here," he said as the doctor's pony, covered with foam
and quivering with fatigue, passed through the open gate. "We have two
patients for you."

The man nodded.

"Fever, I suppose," he commented, "and aching bones, and don't know what
to make of themselves because they have never been sick before? I have
seen a hundred such cases in the last few days. It is bad at all the
ranches, but the sheep herders, off in their cabins by themselves, are
hit particularly hard."

He slipped from the saddle and strode into the house, leaving Ted to
take the tired pony around to the stables. It was very dark now and
growing cold, but he felt warm and comforted, somehow, since the doctor
had come. He heard running feet behind him and felt a dog's nose, cold
and wet, thrust into his hand. It was Pedro, the giant, six months' old
wolf hound puppy, long legged and shaggy haired, the pride of Ted's life
and the best beloved of all his possessions. The big dog followed his
master into the stable and sat down, blinking solemnly in the circle of
lantern light, while the boy was caring for the doctor's horse and
bedding it down. Ted's thoughts were very busy, now with his anxieties
about his uncle, now racing out over the range to wonder how those in
the stricken ranch houses and lonely cabins might be faring. There was
the ranch on Arran Creek--people there were numerous enough to care for
each other. It might be worse at Thompson's Crossing, and, oh, how would
it be with those shepherds who lived in tiny cottages here and there
along the Big Basin, so far from neighbors that often for months they
saw no other faces than the wooly vacant ones of their thousands of
sheep.

There was one, a big grizzled Irishman, whom Ted had seen only a few
times. Nevertheless, he was one of his closest friends. They had met on
a night when the boy was hunting, and he could remember still how they
had lain together by the tiny camp fire, with the coyotes yelping in the
distance, with the great plain stretching out into the dark, with the
slender curl of smoke rising straight upward and the big stars seeming
almost within reach of his hand in the thin air. The lonely Irishman had
opened his heart to his new friend and had told him much of his own
country, so unlike this big bare one, a dear green land where the
tumbledown cottages and little fields were crowded together in such
comforting comradeship.

"You could open your window of a summer night and give a call to the
neighbors," he sighed, "and you needn't to have the voice of the giant
Finn McCoul to make them hear. In this place a man could fall sick and
die alone and no one be the wiser."

His reminiscences had wandered farther and farther until he began to
tell the tales and legends familiar in his own countryside, stories of
the "Little People" and of Ireland in ancient times. Of them all Ted
remembered most clearly the story of the white grayhounds of the King of
Connemara, upon which his friend had dwelt long, showing that in spite
of its being a thousand years old, it was his favorite tale.

"Like those dogs on Arran Creek, they were perhaps," the Irishman said,
"only sleeker of coat and swifter of foot, I'm thinking."

"But they couldn't be faster," Ted had objected. "The Arran dogs can
catch coyotes and jack-rabbits and people have called those the quickest
animals that run."

"Ah," returned the other with true Irish logic, "those Arran dogs are
Russian, they tell me, and these I speak of were of Connemara, and what
comes out of Ireland, you may be sure, is faster and fairer than
anything else on earth."

Against such reasoning Ted had judged it impossible to argue and had
dropped into silence and finally into sleep with the voices of the
coyotes and the legend of the lean, white Irish grayhounds still running
like swift water through his dreams.

After that he had visited the lonely shepherd whenever he could find
time to travel so far. Together they had hunted deer and trapped beaver
in the foothills above the Big Basin or, when the sheep had to be moved
to new pasture, had spent hours in earnest talk, plodding patiently in
the dust after the slow-moving flock. The long habit of silence had
taken deep hold upon the Irishman, but with Ted alone he seemed willing
to speak freely. It was on one of these occasions that he had given the
boy the image of Saint Christopher, "For," he said, "you are like to be
a great roamer and a great traveler from the way you talk, and those who
carry the good Saint Christopher with them, always travel safely."

Now, as Ted thought of illness and pestilence spreading across the
thinly settled state, his first and keenest apprehension was for the
safety of his friend. His work done, he went quickly back to the house
where the doctor was already standing on the doorstep again.

"They are not bad cases, either of them," he was saying to Ted's aunt.
"If they have good care there is no danger, but if they don't--then
Heaven help them, I can't."

Ted came close and pulled his sleeve.

"Tell me," he questioned quickly, "Michael Martin isn't sick, is he?"

"Michael Martin?" repeated the doctor. "A big Irishman in the cabin at
the upper edge of Big Basin? Yes, he's down sick as can be, poor fellow,
with no one but a gray old collie dog, about the age of himself, I
should think, to keep him company."

He turned back to give a few last directions.

"I suppose you are master of the house with your uncle laid up," he said
to Ted again, "and I will have to apply to you to lend me a fresh horse
so that I can go on."

"You're never going on to-night?" exclaimed Ted; "why, you have been
riding for all you were worth, all day!"

"Yes, and all the night before," returned the doctor cheerfully, "but
this is no time to spare horses or doctors. Good gracious, boy, what's
that?" For Pedro, tall and white in the dark, standing on his hind legs
to insert an inquisitive puppy nose between the doctor's collar and his
neck, was an unexpected and startling apparition.

"That's my dog," Ted explained proudly; "Jim McKenzie, over on Arran
Creek, gave him to me; he has a lot of them, you know. Pedro is only
half grown now, he is going to be a lot bigger when he is a year old.
Yes, I'll bring you a horse right away, yours couldn't go another mile."

When, a few minutes later, the sound of hoofs came clattering up from
the stables it seemed certain that there were more than four of them.

"What's this?" the doctor inquired, seeing a second horse with
saddlebags and blanket roll strapped in place and observing Ted's boots
and riding coat.

"My aunt and the girls will take care of Uncle," the boy replied, "so I
am going out to see Michael Martin. You can tell me what to do for him
as we ride up the trail."

They could feel the sharp wind almost before they began climbing the
ridge. So far, summer had lingered into November, but the weather was
plainly changing now and there had been reports of heavy snowfalls in
the mountains. The stars shone dimly, as though through a veil of mist.

"You had better push on as fast as you can," advised the doctor as they
came to the parting of their ways. "When a man is as sick as Michael,
what ever is to happen, comes quickly." His horse jumped and snorted.
"There's that white puppy of yours again. What a ghost he is! He is
rather big to take with you to a sick man's cabin."

Pedro had come dashing up the trail behind them, in spite of his having
been ordered sternly to stay at home. At six months old the sense of
obedience is not quite so great as it should be, and the love of going
on an expedition is irresistible.

"It would take me forever to drive him home now," Ted admitted; "I will
take him along to Jim McKenzie's and leave him there with his brothers.
I can make Arran Creek by breakfast time and ought to get to Michael's
not long after noon. Well, so long!"

The stars grew more dim and the wind keener as he rode on through the
night. His pony cantered steadily with the easy rocking-horse motion
that came near to lulling him to sleep. Pedro paddled alongside, his
long legs covering the miles with untiring energy. They stopped at
midnight to drink from the stream they were crossing, to rest a little
and to eat some lunch from the saddlebags. Then they pressed on once
more, on and on, until gray and crimson began to show behind the
mountains to the eastward, and the big white house of Arran at last
came into sight.

Jim McKenzie's place was bigger than the ordinary ranch house, for there
were gabled roofs showing through the group of trees, there were tall
barns and a wide fenced paddock where lived the white Russian wolfhounds
for which the Arran ranch was famous. A deep-voiced chorus of welcome
was going up as Ted and Pedro came down the trail. The puppy responded
joyfully and went bounding headlong to the foot of the slope to greet
his brothers. It was a beautiful sight to see the band of great dogs,
their coats like silver in the early morning light, romping together
like a dozen kittens, pursuing each other in circles, checking,
wheeling, rolling one another over, leaping back and forth over the low
fences that divided the paddock, with the grace and free agility of
deer. Early as it was, Jim McKenzie was walking down to the stables and
stopped to greet Ted as, weary and dusty, he rode through the gate.

"Sure we'll keep Pedro," he said when he had heard the boy's errand.
"Yes, we've a good many sick here; I'd have sent out on the range myself
but there was nobody to spare. They tell me the herds of sheep are in
terrible confusion, and most of the herders are down. Poor old Michael
Martin, I hope you get there in time to help him. Turn your horse into
the corral, we'll give you another to go on with. Now come in to
breakfast." Ted snatched a hurried meal, threw his saddle upon a fresh
pony, and set off again. For a long distance he could hear the
lamentations of Pedro protesting loudly at the paddock gate. The way,
after he passed Arran Creek, led out into the flat country of the Big
Basin with the sagebrush-dotted plain stretching far ahead. It seemed
that he rode endlessly and arrived nowhere, so long was the way and so
unchanging the landscape. Once, as he crossed a stream, a deer rose,
stamping and snorting among the low bushes, and fled away toward the
hills, seeming scarcely to touch the ground as it went. Later, something
quick and silent, and looking like a reddish-brown collie, leaped from
the sagebrush and scudded across the trail almost under his horse's
feet.

"A coyote, out in the open in daylight," he reflected, somewhat
startled. "It must have been cold up in the mountains to make them so
bold. That looks bad for the sheep."

It was disturbing also to see how many scattered sheep he was beginning
to pass, little bands, solitary ewes with half-grown lambs trotting at
their heels, adventurous yearlings straying farther and farther from
their comrades. Once or twice he tried to drive them together, but owing
to his haste and his inexperience with their preposterous ways, he had
very little success.

"There is going to be bad weather, too," he observed as he saw the blue
sky disappear beneath an overcast of gray. "I had better get on to
Michael's as fast as I can."

He saw the little mud and log cabin at last, tucked away among some
stunted trees near the shoulder of a low ridge. It looked deceivingly
near, yet he rode and rode and could not reach it. White flakes were
flying now, fitfully at first, then thicker and thicker until he could
scarcely see. His growing misgivings gave place to greater and greater
anxiety concerning his friend, while there ran through his mind again
and again the doctor's words, "Whatever is to happen, comes quickly."

It was past noon and had begun to seem as though he had been riding
forever when he breasted the final slope at last, jumped from his horse,
and thundered at the cabin door. The whine of a dog answered him from
within, and a faint voice, broken but still audible, told him that
Michael was alive. The cabin, so it seemed to him as he entered, was a
good ten degrees colder than it was outside. Poor Michael, helpless and
shivering on the bunk in the corner, looked like the shrunken ghost of
the giant Irishman he had known before. Ted rekindled the fire, emptied
his saddlebags, piled his extra blankets upon the bed and, with a skill
bred of long practice in camp cookery, set about preparing a meal.
Michael was so hoarse as to be almost unable to speak and so weak that
his mind wandered in the midst of a sentence, yet all of his thoughts
were on the care of his sheep.

"When I felt the sickness coming on me I tried to drive them in," he
whispered, "but they broke and scattered and I fell beside the
trail--they must get in--snow coming--"

In an hour his fever rose again, he tossed and muttered with only
fleeting intervals of consciousness. Ted had found food and shelter for
his horse in the sheep shed, and had settled down to his task of anxious
watching. The snow fell faster and faster so that darkness came on by
mid-afternoon. He had tried to drive the old collie dog out to herd in
the sheep, but the poor old creature would not leave its master and,
even when pushed outside, remained whining beside the door.

"He couldn't do much anyway," sighed Ted as he let him in again. "How
those coyotes yelp! I wish, after all, that I had brought Pedro."

Michael had heard the coyotes too and was striving feebly to rise from
his bed.

"I must go out to them, my poor creatures," he gasped. "Those devil
beasts will have driven them over the whole country before morning."

But he fell back, too weak to move farther, and was silent a long time.
When he did speak it was almost aloud.

"With the cold and the snow, I'm thinking there will be worse things
abroad this night than just the coyotes."

He lay very still while Ted sat beside him, beginning to feel sleepy and
blinking at the firelight. Eleven o'clock, twelve, one, the slow hands
of his watch pointed to the crawling hours. Michael was not asleep but
he said nothing, he was listening too intently. It was after one and the
boy might have been dozing, when the old man spoke again.

"Hark," he said.

For a moment Ted could hear nothing save the pat-pat of the snow
against the window, but the collie dog bristled and growled as he lay
upon the hearth and pricked his ears sharply. Then the boy heard it
too, a faint cry and far off, not the sharp yelping of the coyotes,
though that was ominous enough, but the long hungry howl of a timber
wolf. Tears of weakness and terror were running down the Irishman's
face.

"My poor sheep, I must save them," he cried. "What's the value of a
man's life alongside of the creatures that's trusted him. Those
murderers will have every one of them killed for me."

Ted jumped up quickly and bundled on his coat.

"Where's your rifle, Michael?" he asked. "I don't know much about sheep,
but I will do what I can."

"The rifle?" returned Michael doubtfully. "Now, I had it on my shoulder
the day I went out with the sickness on me, and it is in my mind that I
did not bring it home again. But there is the little gun hanging on the
nail; there's no more shells for it but there's two shots still left in
the chamber."

The boy took down the rusty revolver and spun the cylinder with a
practised finger.

"Two shots is right," he said, "and you have no more shells? Well, two
shots may scare a wolf."

If Michael had been in his proper senses, Ted very well knew, he would
never have permitted, without protest, such an expedition as the boy
was planning. As it was, however, he lay back in his bunk again, his
mind wandering off once more into feverish dreams.

"If it was in the Old Country," he muttered, "the very Little People
themselves would rise up to help a man in such a plight. You could be
feeling the rush of their wings in the air and could hear the cry of the
fairy hounds across the hills. America is a good country, but, ah--it's
not the same!"

Hoping to quiet him, Ted took the little Saint Christopher from his
pocket and laid it in the sick man's hand. Then he finished strapping
his big boots, opened the door and slipped out quietly. Michael scarcely
noticed his going.

The snow had fallen without drifting much, nor was it yet very deep. He
hurried down the slope, not quite knowing what he was to do, thinking
that at least he would gather as many sheep as he could and drive them
homeward. But there were no sheep to be found. Where so many had been
scattered that afternoon there was now not one. The whole of the Big
Basin seemed suddenly to have emptied of them. Presently, however, he
found a broad trail of trampled snow which he followed, where it led
along a tiny stream at the foot of the bridge. As he turned, he heard
again that long, terrifying howl coming down the wind. The sheep,
perverse enough to scatter to the four winds when their master sought to
drive them in, had now, it seemed, gathered of their own will when so
great a danger threatened. Ted came upon them at last, huddled together
in a little ravine where the sparse undergrowth gave some shelter from
the snow. He could just see them in the dim light, their gray compact
bodies crowded close, their foolish black faces seeming to look
piteously to him for help. They were very quiet, although now and then
they would shift a little, stamp, and move closer. The cry of the wolf
was stilled at last, but not because the fierce marauder was not drawing
nearer.

Yes, as he stood watching, there slipped a swift dark shape over the
opposite edge of the hollow and flung itself upon a straggling ewe on
the outskirts of the flock. It was followed by a second silent shadow,
and a third. The poor sheep gave only one frantic bleat, then all was
still again save for the sound of a hideous snapping and tearing, of a
furious struggle muffled in the soft depths of the snow. Ted raised the
revolver and took careful aim, he pulled the trigger, but no explosion
followed. Michael's improvidence in letting his stock dwindle to only
two cartridges might be counted upon also to have let those two be damp.
Helplessly the boy spun the cylinder and snapped the hammer again and
again, but to no purpose.

The sheep was down now, with one of the savage hunters standing over it,
another tearing at its throat while the third was slipping along the
edge of the flock selecting a fresh victim. Ted's weapon was useless,
yet he must do something, he could not stand and see the whole herd
destroyed before his eyes. Perhaps he could frighten them away as one
could coyotes: he was so angry at this senseless, brutal slaughter that
he lost all sense of prudence. He waved his arms up and down and shouted
at the top of his lungs. He saw the creatures drop their prey and turn
to look up at him. He ran along the slope, still shouting, then, of a
sudden, stepped into an unexpected hollow, lost his balance and fell
headlong. One of the wolves left the flock and came creeping swiftly
toward him, its belly dragging in the snow.

His cry must have carried far in the quiet of the night for it was
answered from a great way off. A deep voice broke the stillness and
another, the call of coursing hounds who have winded their quarry but
have not yet found its trail. And mingled with the barking chorus there
rose high the joyful yelp of a puppy who seeks his beloved master.

Ted, slipping in the snow, struggled to his knees and called again and
again. The stealthy, approaching shadow crept a yard nearer, then paused
to lift a gray muzzle and sniff the air. The second wolf, with
slobbering bloody jaws, turned to listen, the flock of sheep snorted and
stamped in the snow.

A minute passed, then another. The boy managed to get to his feet. Then
across the edge of the hollow, white against the dark underbrush, he saw
the dogs coming, a line of swift, leaping forms, huge, shaggy and
beautiful, their great voices all giving tongue together. Down the slope
they came like an avalanche, only one separating himself from the others
for a moment to fling himself upon Ted, to lick his face in ecstatic
greeting and to rub a cold nose against his cheek. That nimble puppy
nose it was that had lifted the latch of a gate not too securely
fastened, and so set the whole pack free. Then Pedro ran to join his
brothers who were sweeping on to battle. Wolfhounds are taught to catch,
not to kill their quarry, but the thirst for blood was in the hearts of
the dogs of Arran that night. There was only a moment of struggle, a
few choking cries, and the fight was over.

Day broke next morning, clear and bright, with the chinook blowing, the
big warm wind that melts the snows and lays the white hills bare almost
in an hour. Michael Martin, fallen into a proper sleep at last, woke
suddenly and sat up in his bunk. He startled Ted, who, rather stiff and
sore from his night's adventures, was kneeling by the fire preparing
breakfast. The boy came quickly to his patient's side to inquire how he
did.

"It's better I am in body," the Irishman answered; "indeed I begin to
feel almost like a whole man again. But--" he shook his head sadly, "my
poor wits, they're gone away entirely."

Michael sighed deeply.

"After you were gone last night," he answered, "even my wandering senses
had an inkling of what a dangerous errand it was, and I got up from my
bed and stumbled to the window to call you back. Yes, the sickness has
made me daft entirely, for as sure as I live, I saw the white grayhounds
of Connemara go over the hill. But daft or no--" he sniffed at the odor
of frying bacon that rose from the hearth, "I am going to relish my
breakfast this day. Eh, glory me, if there isn't another of the
creatures now!"

For Pedro, once more applying a knowing muzzle to the clumsy latch, had
pushed open the door and stood upon the step, wagging and apologetic,
the morning sun shining behind him. Long-legged and awkward, he stepped
over the threshold and came to the bedside to sniff inquisitively at the
little silver image that lay on the blanket. Michael could never be
persuaded to believe otherwise than that Saint Christopher had brought
him.

[Illustration: WIND AN' WAVE AN' WANDHERIN' FLAME]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: Reprinted by permission of the publishers from _The Pool of
Stars_, by Cornelia Meigs. Copyright, 1915, by the Macmillan Company.]

WIND AN' WAVE AN' WANDHERIN' FLAME[7]

     ("'Tis mindin' somethin' that happened far an' back o' the times o'
     the Little People I am. Sure, 'tis meself had nigh on forgot it
     entirely, but when all's quiet I'll be afther tellin' it.")

THERE was always battlin' somewhere, back in those days; an' heroes that
fought with sword an' spear--forged far up an' under the rainbow by Len
the Smith, that was mighty in all sorts o' wisdom.

Now one time he was beatin' out a great shield o' gold; an' 'twas
wrought so cunnin' that who turned it over an' laid it on the wather
could step on it an' sail where he would. An' for a device on it he made
roses o' the fine gold, raised far out from it, as they'd been growin'
right there. Almost they seemed wavin' in the wind.

An' as he came to sthrikin' the last blows, his hand slipped, an' his
great hammer went flyin' downward through the air; an' his cry o'
command sent ringin' afther it was too late to hindher.

Now 'twas about toward sunset, an' the waves were beatin' high an' wild
afther storm on the west coast, that Artan, son o' Duallach, that was a
king's son, was huntin' along the coast. All day he'd been tryin' to
keep from the company o' Myrdu, his half-brother, but only by now had he
shaken him off; an' he was runnin' swiftly, for gladness o' bein' alone
with the breeze an' the flyin' spray.

Just as the sinkin' sun touched the sea, he heard the great cryin'-out
o' Len, out o' the North, an' looked up into the deep sky. An' there he
saw, whirlin' down toward him, somethin' first dark an' then bright. Not
a fearin' thought was in him; an' as it came nigh he sprang with hand
stretched out an' caught it --just savin' it from bein' buried in the
beach sand.

The force of its fallin' sent him to his knees, but in a breath he was
on his feet again, lookin' at what he held. Sure, 'twas nothin' less
than a great hammer, glowin' an' darkenin' by turns, as there had been
livin' fire within it.

"What'n ever are ye, then?" cried Artan, out o' the surprise, never
thinkin' on gettin' an answer. Yet thrue an' at once came a whisperin'
like wind in pine forests far off--

"The hammer o' Len."

"An' how'll I get ye back to him, not knowin' where to find him?" asked
Artan. "Sure, the winds must rise up an' blow me to the end o' the
rainbow, where he sits, or I'll never get there at all."

The words were scarce past his lips when down across the hills came a
warm gust o' south wind--the last o' the storm--an' caught him up, still
clingin' to the hammer, an' swept him upwards till he could see naught
for mist an' hurryin' clouds. Then came a feelin' o' sinkin', an' a
sudden jar; an' there he was standin' on green turf, lookin' at white
mountains, risin' higher nor aught he'd seen, an' between him an' them
shimmered the rainbow itself, glowin' all colors in the light o' sunset.

"Ay, 'tis aisy seein' where I am," laughed Artan, startin' toward it
bravely.

For a while he went on, an' at last he came nigh enough to see the
mighty shape o' Len, standin' waitin' at his forge. An' while night was
fast comin' on, an' the stars showin' out in the sky over all, yet the
sunfire was still flamin' up in his smithy, workin' his will at a
word.

If fear had had place in the heart of Artan, then was time for it, when
he saw the deep eyes o' Len, like dark sea-water in caves, lookin' far
an' through him. But never had that come to him, an' without speakin'
he raised the hammer toward the sthrong knotted hand that claimed it.

"Whist, then!" says Len, graspin' it quick for fear the metal was
coolin'. "Say naught till I'm done!" With that he beat an' turned the
shield, an' gave the endin' touches to it. Then, with another big shout,
he hung it on the rainbow, flashin' an' shinin' till men on earth below
saw it for Northern Lights in the night sky.

"How came ye here in me forge, Artan, son o' Duallach?" he cried.

"That I know not," spoke out Artan. "When I held yon hammer in hand, an'
cried on the wind for blowin' me to him that owned it--for no other road
there was for returnin' it--the warm blast came out o' the south an'
caught me up here."

"Ay," laughed Len, deep an' hearty. "The winds are at the will o' him
that handles it; but too great a power is that to be given careless to
mortal man. What reward will ye have, now? Whether gold, or power above
other men, or the fairest o' maids for yer wife?"

Then the blood reddened the face of Artan.

"Naught care I for gold," says he. "An' power over men should be for him
that wins it fair."

"Then 'tis the fairest o' maids ye'll be afther wantin'?" asked Len.
"Have ye seen such a one?"

"Nay," says Artan. "Dark are the faces in the house o' Duallach, an'
little to me likin'."

"Then shall ye have one fair as day," says Len. He turned to where the
shield was hangin', an' from the heart o' that same he plucked a rose o'
the beaten gold, an' gave it to Artan.

"Cast it in the sea surf at sunrise," says he, "callin'
'Darthuil!'--then shall ye have yer reward. But one thing mind. Safely
yer own is she not till first lost an' won back. When ye know not where
to seek aid in searchin', cry on me name at the sea-coast, an' aid will
there be for ye if ye come not too late--wind, wave, an' wandherin'
flame. Never does Len forget. Hold fast yer rose."

As he spoke, again came a gale, chill from the north this time, an'
whirled Artan past cloud an' above surgin' seas, an' left him on the
hilltop above the beach at the last hour before the dawnin'.

Quick Artan hastened down the cliff, still graspin' the golden rose, an'
stood where the little small waves curled over the stones, waitin' for
the first gleam o' the sun to touch the sea. Hours it seemed to him, but
minutes it was in truth, before he caught a long breath, raised the
rose high in air, an' tossed it swift an' sure into the snowy crest of a
green incomin' wave.

"Darthuil!" he cried, an' the cliff echo made a song of it.

As the drops flew upward in the red dawn an' the breaker swept in, there
by his side stood a maid with the gold o' the rose in her hair, an' the
white o' sea-foam in her fair skin, an' the color o' the sunrise in lips
an' cheek. Blither nor spring, he caught her hand an' led her over the
hills to the house o' Duallach, they two singin' for joy o' livin' as
they went.

Now not long had the two been wed (an' welcome were they under the roof
of Duallach), when Myrdu, that was half-brother to Artan, but older nor
him, came back from far huntin', ill-pleased at missin' Artan for his
companion, an' for helpin' him carry the red deer he'd shot.

"'Tis an ill youth," says he, "an' will get no good from lyin' on the
cliff edge an' lettin' the hunt go by."

"Nay," says Duallach, slow to anger. "Fair fortune has he won, an' the
favor o' the gods; an' has brought home a bride, fair as the sun at
noon."

Then was Myrdu half ragin' from bein' jealous; but not wishin' to show
that same, he called for meat an' dhrink to be brought him in the great
hall. An' Artan, wishin' to be friendly like, cried out for Darthuil to
serve his brother. Sure, when Myrdu saw her comin' toward him--shinin'
among the dark lasses o' Duallach's household like a star in the night
sky--fury was in his heart for thinkin' that Artan, bein' younger nor
him, had won what he had not, an' soon he laid plans for stealin' her
from his brother.

'Twas not many days before word o' this came to the ear o' Duallach; an'
he, hatin' strife, bade Artan an' Darthuil take horse an' ride swiftly
southward to the Lough o' the Lone Valley, to dwell on the little island
in it till evil wishes had passed from the heart o' Myrdu. So Artan,
mindin' what Len had foretold, yet thinkin' it wiser not to be afther
losin' Darthuil at all, rode away with her on his left hand when Myrdu
was sleepin' an' not knowin' what was bein' done.

When he roused an' found them gone, an' that none o' the house would say
whither, he was in a fine passion; but he made as if he was afther goin'
huntin', an' took his two fierce hounds an' went off to trace the road
they'd taken. An' sure enough, 'twas not many hours before he was on
their path.

Now safer would it have been had Artan told Darthuil the full raison why
he was takin' her far into the shelter o' forest an' lough o' the
wildherness; but she, trustin' him, asked naught, thinkin' no evil o'
livin' man. So scarce had Artan left her in the low cabin on the island
an' gone off to hunt, than Myrdu pushed through the bushes, leavin' the
hounds on the shore behind, an' floated himself out to the island on a
couple o' logs lashed with a thong o' deer-skin. Ay, but Darthuil was
startled, not dhreamin' why he'd come.

"'Tis Artan is hurt, an' afther sendin' me for ye," says Myrdu, lookin'
down unaisy like, from not wishin' to meet the rare clear eyes o' her.
"Come, an' I'll take ye where he lies."

Not waitin' a moment was Darthuil, then, but hurried doin' as she was
bid, never thinkin' what evil might be in store.

Afther a few hours Artan came back through the trees, an' game a plenty
he'd found. He pulled out his boat o' skins, an' quick paddled back to
the island. But there he found no Darthuil; no, nor any sign o' her save
the little print o' her sandal by the wather's edge.

Then came to his mind the promise o' Len. Never darin' to waste an hour
searchin' by himself, he ferried his horse across to the mainland,
mounted, an' pushed for the sea. Never once did he stop for restin'
till he was standin' where the waves beat over him, where he had cried
on Darthuil, an' she had come to him.

"Len!" he called. "Yer aidin', Len! Darthuil is stolen from me."

There came a rumblin' o' thunder, an' on the shore stood a great figure,
like a pillar o' cloud reachin' half to the sky.

"Never safe yer own till lost an' found, I said," came the deep voice.
"Now I give ye wild servants, a wind an' a wave an' a wandherin' flame
for helpin' ye to bring her safe again. Mind well that each will obey ye
but once, so call on them only when yer sharpest need comes. When ye've
again set the feet o' Darthuil safe in the hall o' Duallach, none can
take her from ye more. Now follow yer love. 'Tis to the Northland has
Myrdu carried her. Let him not pass the White Rocks, or wind an' wave
an' flame will lose power to aid ye. Use yer wit, now, an' use it well."

Artan would have spoken to thank him, but with the last word Len was no
more there; so he mounted again an' turned to the north; an' behind him
came the wind, whisperin' over the grass; an' the wave, runnin' up the
sthream near at hand; an' the flame, creepin' among dhry leaves, but
settin' fire to naught else, its time not bein' come.

Together they all thraveled the betther part of a long day, an' late on
Artan saw dust risin' ahead. 'Twas a cloud that Myrdu had raised to hide
the way he was goin', an' beyond it he was ridin', carryin' Darthuil
before him on his saddle o' skins, with the two hounds lopin' along
beside to fright her from tryin' to escape, an' to give warnin' of any
followin'; while not many miles ahead were the White Rocks, that he was
pushin' to reach.

On hurried Artan, but his horse was wearied, an' little head could he
make. Moreover, the cloud o' dust left him uncertain o' what was hid. So
he thought well, an' chose wind to serve him first.

"Go on, an' blow the dust far away, whisperin' courage to Darthuil the
while," says he. An' at once the wind sped far ahead, obeyin' his
command. When the two dogs felt it touch them, they cowered low; but
Darthuil took heart, knowin' that help was at hand. An' the dust was no
more hidin' her from Artan, so she waved her hand an' called aloud to
him to ride in haste.

Then Myrdu, fearin' that he might yet lose her, threw a handful o' twigs
behind him in the road; an' fallin' they turned into dead trees,
stoppin' the way on all sides. But Artan well knew the way to clear his
path.

"Go forward!" he cried to the wandherin' flame, "an' leave not a trace
o' them!" As he spoke, the flame swept up high in air, roarin' an'
smokin'; an' in half an instant naught remained o' the logs but a pile
o' smoldherin' ashes. But still was Myrdu fast nearin' his goal, an' had
one thing more for helpin'.

He dropped a little sharp knife in the roadway; an' as it fell, it cut
into the dust, an' there opened a wide, terrible chasm, not to be
crossed by horse nor man. Then Artan grew clear desperate.

"Wave!" he shouted, "bring Darthuil to me!"

Up then it rose, rollin' forward like flood-tide in spring; an' it
filled the gulf, an' swept away dogs an' horse an' Myrdu himself, that
none were heard of from that on; but Darthuil it floated gentle like, as
she had been a tuft o' thistle-down, back to Artan, waitin' for her.

He caught her an' clasped her close, an' turned his horse, an' never
halted till he led her safe into the hall o' Duallach, where none might
steal her from him again. An' there they lived happy all their lives.

But as for the wind an' the wave an' the wandherin' flame, so sweet an'
fair was Darthuil that ne'er would they go from her to return to Len. To
the last o' her life the wind blew soft for her when 'twas overly hot
elsewhere, an' clear cool wather flowed up from the ground to save her
dhrawin' any from the river, an' fire burned bright on her hearth
without need o' plenishin'; an' all that for the love o' Darthuil, that
was made by Len out o' the foam tossed by the wind from the sea-wave,
an' the wandherin' flame o' the sunrise.

[Illustration: THE KING, THE QUEEN, AND THE BEE]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: Reprinted by special permission from _The Sons O' Cormac_,
by Aldis Dunbar. Copyright, 1920, by E. P. Dutton & Company.]

THE KING, THE QUEEN, AND THE BEE[8]

ON a bright summer's day, when the sun beat down fiercely upon the heads
of the people, King Solomon sought the shade of one of his favorite
gardens. But even where the foliage on the trees was so thick that it
seemed the sun's rays could not penetrate, it was also hot. Not a breath
of air was there to fan the monarch's cheek, and he lay down on the
thick grass and gazed through the branches of the trees at the blue sky.

"This great heat makes me weary," said the King, and in a few minutes he
had quietly fallen into a deep sleep.

All was still in the beautiful garden, except for the sound of a few
humming birds, the twittering of the moths whose many-colored wings
looked more beautiful than ever in the bright sunshine, and the buzzing
of the bees. But even these sounds grew still as the fierce rays from
the sky grew hotter until all nature seemed hushed to rest. Only one
tiny bee was left moving in the garden. It flew steadily from flower to
flower, sipping the honey, until at length it began to feel overcome by
the heat.

"Oh, dear! I wonder what is the matter with me," buzzed the little bee.
"This is the first time I have come out of the hive, and I do feel
queer. I hope I am not going to faint."

The little bee felt giddy, and after flying round and round dizzily for
a few minutes it fell and dropped right on to King Solomon's nose.
Immediately the King awoke with such a start that the little bee was
frightened almost out of its wits and flew straight back to the hive.

King Solomon sat up and looked round to see what it was that had
awakened him so rudely. He felt a strange pain at the tip of his nose.
He rubbed it with his royal forefinger, but the pain increased.

Attendants came rushing towards him and asked him what was the matter.

"I must have been stung on the nose by a bee," said the King angrily.
"Send for the Lord High Physician and the Keeper of the Court Plaister
immediately. I cannot have a blister on the tip of my nose. To-morrow I
am to be visited by the Queen of Sheba, and it will not do to have a
swollen nose tied up in a sling."

The Lord High Physician came with his many assistants, each carrying a
box of ointment, or lint, or some other preparation which might be
required. King Solomon's nose, and especially the tip of it, was
examined most carefully through a microscope.

"It is almost nothing," said the Lord High Physician reassuringly. "It
is just a tiny sting from a very little bee which did not leave its
sting in the wound. It will be healed in an hour or two and the Queen of
Sheba will not be able to notice that anything at all is the matter
to-morrow."

"But meanwhile it smarts," said King Solomon. "I am seriously annoyed
with the little bee. How dared it sting me, King Solomon, monarch of all
living things on earth, in the air and in the waters. Knows it not that
I am its Royal Master to whom all homage and respect is due?"

The pain soon ceased, but His Majesty did not like the smell of the
greasy ointment which was put on his nose, and he determined that the
bee should be brought before him for trial.

"Place the impudent little bee under arrest at once," he commanded, "and
bring it before me so that I may hear what it has to say."

"But I know it not," returned the Lord High Chamberlain, to whom the
command was given.

"Then summon the Queen bee before me in an hour and bid her bring the
culprit," answered the monarch. "Tell her that I shall hold all the bees
guilty until the saucy little offender is produced before me."

The order was carried to the hive by one of the butterflies in
attendance on the King and spread consternation among the bees. Such a
buzzing there was that the butterfly said:

"Stop making that noise. If the King hears you, it will only make
matters worse."

The Queen bee promised to obey King Solomon's command, and in an hour
she made her appearance in state before the great throne. Slowly and
with much pomp, the Queen bee made her way to King Solomon. She was the
largest of the bees and was escorted by a bodyguard of twelve female
bees who cleared the way before her, walking backwards and bowing
constantly with their faces to her.

King Solomon was surrounded by all his Court which included living
beings, fairies, demons, spirits, goblins, animals, birds and insects.
All raised their voices in a loud hurrah when His Majesty took his seat
on the Throne, and a very strange noise the Court made. The lions
roared, the serpents hissed, the birds chirped, the fairies sang and the
demons howled. The goblins that had no voices could only grin.

"Silence!" cried a herald. "The Queen bee is requested to stand forth."

Still attended by her twelve guards, the Queen bee approached the foot
of the Throne and made obeisance to King Solomon.

"I, thy slave, the Queen bee," she buzzed, "am here at thy bidding,
mighty ruler, great and wise. Command and thou shalt be obeyed."

"It is well," replied Solomon. "Hast thou brought with thee the culprit,
the bee that did dare to attack my nose with its sting?"

"I have, your Majesty," answered the Queen bee. "It is a young bee that
this day did leave the hive for the first time. It has confessed to me.
It did not attack your Majesty wilfully, but by accident, owing to
giddiness caused by the heat, and it could not have injured your Majesty
seriously, because it left not its sting in the wound. Be merciful,
gracious King."

"Fear not my judgment," said the King. "Bid the bee stand forth."

Tremblingly, the little bee stood at the foot of the Throne and bowed
three times to King Solomon.

"Knowest thou not," said the King, "that I am thy royal master whose
person must be held sacred by all living things?"

"Yes, gracious Majesty," buzzed the bee. "Thy slave is aware of this. It
was but an accident, and it is the nature of thy slave, the bee, who is
in duty bound to obey thy laws, to thrust forth its sting when in
danger. I thought I was in danger when I fell."

"So was I, for I was beneath you," returned King Solomon.

"Punish me not," pleaded the bee. "I am but one of your Majesty's
smallest and humblest slaves, but even I may be of service to your
Majesty some day."

These words from the little bee made the whole Court laugh. Even the
goblins which could not speak grinned from ear to ear and rolled their
big eyes.

"Silence!" commanded the King sternly. "There is naught to laugh at in
the bee's answer. It pleases me well. Go, thou art free. Some day I may
need thee."

The little bee bowed its head three times before the King and flew away,
buzzing happily.

Next day it kept quite close to the Palace.

"I want to see the procession when the Queen of Sheba arrives," it
said, "and I also must be near the King in case His Majesty may want
me."

In great state, the beautiful Queen of Sheba, followed by hundreds of
handsomely robed attendants, approached King Solomon who was seated on
his Throne, surrounded by all his Court.

"Great and mighty King of Israel," she said, curtseying low, "I have
heard of thy great wisdom and would fain put it to the test. Hitherto
all questions put to thee hast thou answered without difficulty. But I
have sworn to puzzle thy wondrous wisdom with my woman's wit. Be
heedful."

"Beauteous Queen of Sheba," returned King Solomon, rising and bowing in
return to her curtsey, "thou art as witty as thou art fair, and if thou
art successful in puzzling me, thy triumph shall be duly rewarded. I
will load thee with rich presents and proclaim thy wit and wisdom to the
whole world."

"I accept thy challenge," replied the Queen, "and at once."

Behind Her Majesty stood two beautiful girl attendants, each holding a
bouquet of flowers. The Queen of Sheba took the flowers, and holding a
bouquet in each hand, said to King Solomon:

"Tell me, thou who art the wisest man on earth, which of these bunches
of flowers is real and which artificial."

"They are both beautiful and their fragrance delicious in the extreme,"
replied King Solomon.

"Ah," said the Queen, "but only one bunch has fragrance. Which is it?"

King Solomon looked at the flowers. Both bunches looked exactly alike.
From where he sat, it was impossible to detect any difference. He did
not answer at once, and he knit his brows as if perplexed. The courtiers
also looked troubled. Never before had they seen the King hesitate.

"Is it impossible for your Majesty to answer the question?" the Queen
asked.

Solomon shook his head and smiled.

"Never yet has a problem baffled me," he said. "Your Majesty shall be
answered, and correctly."

"And at once," said the Queen of Sheba imperiously.

"So be it," answered King Solomon, gazing thoughtfully round and raising
his magic scepter.

Immediately he heard what no one else did, the faint buzzing of the tiny
wings of the little bee which had settled on one of the window panes of
the Palace.

"Bid that window be opened," he commanded, pointing to it with his
scepter, "and let the bee enter to obey my wish."

The window was promptly opened, and in flew the little bee. Straight
towards the Queen of Sheba it flew, and now its buzzing could be heard
by all the courtiers, who eagerly watched its flight through the air.
Without any hesitation, it settled on the bouquet in the Queen's left
hand.

"Thou hast my answer, fair Queen of Sheba," said King Solomon, rising,
"given to thee by one of the tiniest of my subjects. It has settled on
the flowers that are natural. The bouquet in your right hand is made by
human hands."

The whole Court applauded the monarch's wisdom in bidding the little bee
help him out of his difficulty.

"Your Majesty is indeed the wisest man on earth," said the Queen.

"Thanks, my little friend," said the King to the bee, and it flew away,
buzzing merrily.

[Illustration: THE WELL OF THE WORLD'S END]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 8: From _Jewish Fairy Tales and Fables,_ by Aunt Naomi. Robert
Scott, London.]

THE WELL OF THE WORLD'S END[9]

ONCE upon a time, and a very good time it was, though it wasn't in my
time, nor in your time, nor in any one else's time, there was a girl
whose mother had died, and her father married again. And her stepmother
hated her because she was more beautiful than herself, and she was very
cruel to her. She used to make her do all the servant's work, and never
let her have any peace.

At last, one day, the stepmother thought to get rid of her altogether;
so she handed her a sieve and said to her: "Go, fill it at the Well of
the World's End and bring it home to me full, or woe betide you." For
she thought she would never be able to find the Well of the World's End,
and, if she did, how could she bring home a sieve full of water?

Well, the girl started off, and asked every one she met to tell her
where was the Well of the World's End. But nobody knew, and she didn't
know what to do, when a queer little old woman, all bent double, told
her where it was, and how she could get to it. So she did what the old
woman told her, and at last arrived at the Well of the World's End. But
when she dipped the sieve in the cold, cold water, it all ran out again.
She tried and she tried again, but every time it was the same; and at
last she sat down and cried as if her heart would break.

Suddenly she heard a croaking voice, and she looked up and saw a great
frog with goggle eyes looking at her and speaking to her.

"What's the matter, dearie?" it said.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," she said, "my stepmother has sent me all this long
way to fill this sieve with water from the Well of the World's End, and
I can't fill it no how at all."

"Well," said the frog, "if you promise me to do whatever I bid you for a
whole night long, I'll tell you how to fill it."

So the girl agreed, and the frog said:

    "Stop it with moss and daub it with clay,
    And then it will carry the water away";

and then it gave a hop, skip, and a jump, and went flop into the Well of
the World's End.

So the girl looked about for some moss, and lined the bottom of the
sieve with it, and over that she put some clay, and then she dipped it
once again into the Well of the World's End; and this time the water
didn't run out, and she turned to go away.

Just then the frog popped up its head out of the Well of the World's
End, and said: "Remember your promise."

"All right," said the girl; for, thought she, "what harm can a frog do
me?"

So she went back to her stepmother, and brought the sieve full of water
from the Well of the World's End. The stepmother was angry as angry, but
she said nothing at all.

That very evening they heard something tap-tapping at the door low down,
and a voice cried out:

    "Open the door, my hinny, my heart,
      Open the door, my own darling;
    Mind you the words that you and I spoke,
      Down in the meadow, at the World's End Well."

"Whatever can that be?" cried out the stepmother, and the girl had to
tell her all about it, and what she had promised the frog.

"Girls must keep their promises," said the stepmother. "Go and open the
door this instant." For she was glad the girl would have to obey a nasty
frog.

So the girl went and opened the door, and there was the frog from the
Well of the World's End. And it hopped, and it hopped, and it jumped,
till it reached the girl, and then it said:

    "Lift me to your knee, my hinny, my heart;
      Lift me to your knee, my own darling;
    Remember the words you and I spake,
      Down in the meadow by the World's End Well."

But the girl didn't like to, till her stepmother said: "Lift it up this
instant, you hussy! Girls must keep their promises!"

So at last she lifted the frog up on to her lap, and it lay there for a
time, till at last it said:

    "Give me some supper, my hinny, my heart,
      Give me some supper, my darling;
    Remember the words you and I spake,
      In the meadow, by the Well of the World's End."

Well, she didn't mind doing that, so she got it a bowl of milk and
bread, and fed it well. And when the frog had finished, it said:

    "Go with me to bed, my hinny, my heart,
      Go with me to bed, my own darling;
    Mind you the words you spake to me,
      Down by the cold well, so weary."

But that the girl wouldn't do, till her stepmother said: "Do what you
promised, girl; girls must keep their promises. Do what you're bid, or
out you go, you and your froggie."

So the girl took the frog with her to bed, and kept it as far away from
her as she could. Well, just as the day was beginning to break what
should the frog say but:

    "Chop off my head, my hinny, my heart,
      Chop off my head, my own darling;
    Remember the promise you made to me,
      Down by the cold well so weary."

At first the girl wouldn't, for she thought of what the frog had done
for her at the Well of the World's End. But when the frog said the words
over again, she went and took an ax and chopped off its head, and lo!
and behold, there stood before her a handsome young prince, who told her
that he had been enchanted by a wicked magician, and he could never be
unspelled till some girl would do his bidding for a whole night, and
chop off his head at the end of it.

The stepmother was surprised indeed when she found the young prince
instead of the nasty frog, and she wasn't best pleased, you may be sure,
when the prince told her that he was going to marry her stepdaughter
because she had unspelled him. But married they were, and went away to
live in the castle of the king, his father, and all the stepmother had
to console her was, that it was all through her that her stepdaughter
was married to a prince.

[Illustration: WINGS]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 9: From _English Fairy Tales,_ by Joseph Jacobs. Courtesy of
G. P. Putnam's Sons, Publishers, New York and London.]

WINGS[10]

A PEASANT girl was feeding geese, and she wept. The farmer's daughter
came by and asked, "What are you blubbering about?"

"I haven't got any wings," cried the peasant girl. "Oh, I wish I could
grow some wings."

"You stupid!" said the farmer's daughter. "Of course you haven't got
wings. What do you want wings for?"

"I want to fly up into the sky and sing my little songs there," answered
the little peasant girl.

Then the farmer's daughter was angry, and said again, "You stupid! How
can you ever expect to grow wings? Your father's only a farm-laborer.
They might grow on me, but not on you."

When the farmer's daughter had said that, she went away to the well,
sprinkled some water on her shoulders, and stood out among the
vegetables in the garden, waiting for her wings to sprout. She really
believed the sun would bring them out quite soon.

But in a little while a merchant's daughter came along the road and
called out to the girl who was trying to grow wings in the garden, "What
are you doing standing out there, red face?"

"I am growing wings," said the farmer's daughter. "I want to fly."

Then the merchant's daughter laughed loudly, and cried out, "You stupid
farm-girl; if you had wings they would only be a weight on your back."

The merchant's daughter thought she knew who was most likely to grow
wings. And when she went back to the town where she lived she bought
some olive-oil and rubbed it on her shoulders, and went out into the
garden and waited for her wings to grow.

By and by a young lady of the Court came along, and said to her, "What
are you doing out there, my child?"

When the tradesman's daughter said that she was growing wings, the young
lady's face flushed and she looked quite vexed.

"That's not for you to do," she said. "It is only real ladies who can
grow wings."

And she went on home, and when she got indoors she filled a tub with
milk and bathed herself in it, and then went into her garden and stood
in the sun and waited for her wings to come out. Presently a princess
passed by the garden, and when she saw the young lady standing there she
sent a servant to inquire what she was doing. The servant came back and
told her that as the young lady had wanted to be able to fly she had
bathed herself in milk and was waiting for her wings to grow.

The princess laughed scornfully and exclaimed, "What a foolish girl!
She's giving herself trouble for nothing. No one who is not a princess
can ever grow wings."

The princess turned the matter over in her mind, and when she arrived at
her father's palace she went into her chamber, anointed herself with
sweet-smelling perfumes, and then went down into the palace garden to
wait for her wings to come.

Very soon all the young girls in the country round about went out into
their gardens and stood among the vegetables so that they might get
wings.

The Fairy of the Wings heard about this strange happening and she flew
down to earth, and, looking at the waiting girls, she said, "If I give
you all wings and let you all go flying into the sky, who will want to
stay at home to cook the porridge and look after the children? I had
better give wings only to one of you, namely, to her who wanted them
first of all."

So wings grew from the little peasant girl's shoulders, and she was able
to fly up into the sky and sing.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 10: From _The Sweet-Scented Name,_ by Fedor Sologub. Edited by
Stephen Graham. Constable & Company, London.]

CHRISTMAS STORIES

[Illustration: THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO]

THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO[11]

IN an old time, long ago, when the fairies were in the world, there
lived a little girl so uncommonly fair and pleasant of look, that they
called her Snowflower. This girl was good as well as pretty. No one had
ever seen her frown or heard her say a cross word, and young and old
were glad when they saw her coming.

Snowflower had no relation in the world but a very old grandmother. . . .
Every evening, when the fire was heaped with the sticks she had
gathered till it blazed and crackled up the cottage chimney, Dame
Frostyface set aside her wheel, and told her a new story. Often did the
little girl wonder where her grandmother had gathered so many stories,
but she soon learned that. One sunny morning, at the time of the
swallows' coming, the dame rose up, put on the gray hood and mantle in
which she carried her yarn to the fairs, and said, "My child, I am going
a long journey to visit an aunt of mine, who lives far in the north
country. I cannot take you with me, because my aunt is the crossest
woman alive, and never liked young people: but the hens will lay eggs
for you; there is barley-meal in the barrel; and, as you have been a
good girl, I'll tell you what to do when you feel lonely. Lay your head
gently down on the cushion of the arm-chair, and say, 'Chair of my
grandmother, tell me a story.' It was made by a cunning fairy, who lived
in the forest when I was young, and she gave it to me because she knew
nobody could keep what they got hold of better. Remember, you must never
ask a story more than once in the day; and if there be any occasion to
travel, you have only to seat yourself in it, and say, 'Chair of my
grandmother, take me such a way.' It will carry you wherever you wish;
but mind to oil the wheels before you set out, for I have sat on it
these forty years in that same corner."

Having said this, Dame Frostyface set forth to see her aunt in the north
country. Snowflower gathered firing and looked after the hens and cat as
usual. She baked herself a cake or two of the barley-meal; but when the
evening fell the cottage looked lonely. Then Snowflower remembered her
grandmother's words, and, laying her head gently down, she said, "Chair
of my grandmother, tell me a story."

Scarce were the words spoken, when a clear voice from under the velvet
cushion . . . said: _"Listen to the story of the Christmas Cuckoo!"_

"Once upon a time there stood in the midst of a bleak moor, in the north
country, a certain village; all its inhabitants were poor, for their
fields were barren, and they had little trade, but the poorest of them
all were two brothers called Scrub and Spare, who followed the cobbler's
craft, and had but one stall between them. It was a hut built of clay
and wattles. The door was low and always open, for there was no window.
The roof did not entirely keep out the rain, and the only thing
comfortable about it was a wide hearth, for which the brothers could
never find wood enough to make a sufficient fire. There they worked in
most brotherly friendship, though with little encouragement.

"The people of that village were not extravagant in shoes, and better
cobblers than Scrub and Spare might be found. Spiteful people said there
were no shoes so bad that they would not be worse for their mending.
Nevertheless Scrub and Spare managed to live between their own trade, a
small barley field, and a cottage garden, till one unlucky day when a
new cobbler arrived in the village. He had lived in the capital city of
the kingdom, and, by his own account, cobbled for the queen and the
princesses. His awls were sharp, his lasts were new; he set up his stall
in a neat cottage with two windows. The villagers soon found out that
one patch of his would wear two of the brothers'. In short, all the
mending left Scrub and Spare, and went to the new cobbler. The season
had been wet and cold, their barley did not ripen well, and the cabbages
never half closed in the garden. So the brothers were poor that winter,
and when Christmas came they had nothing to feast on but a barley loaf,
a piece of rusty bacon, and some small beer of their own brewing. Worse
than that, the snow was very deep, and they could get no firewood. Their
hut stood at the end of the village, beyond it spread the bleak moor,
now all white and silent; but that moor had once been a forest, great
roots of old trees were still to be found in it, loosened from the soil
and laid bare by the winds and rains--one of these, a rough gnarled log,
lay hard by their door, the half of it above the snow, and Spare said to
his brother:

"'Shall we sit here cold on Christmas while the great root lies yonder?
Let us chop it up for firewood, the work will make us warm.'

"'No,' said Scrub; 'it's not right to chop wood on Christmas; besides,
that root is too hard to be broken with any hatchet.'

"'Hard or not we must have a fire,' replied Spare. 'Come, brother, help
me in with it. Poor as we are, there is nobody in the village will have
such a yule log as ours.'

"Scrub liked a little grandeur, and in hopes of having a fine yule log,
both brothers strained and strove with all their might till, between
pulling and pushing, the great old root was safe on the hearth, and
beginning to crackle and blaze with the red embers. In high glee, the
cobblers sat down to their beer and bacon. The door was shut, for there
was nothing but cold moonlight and snow outside; but the hut, strewn
with fir boughs, and ornamented with holly, looked cheerful as the ruddy
blaze flared up and rejoiced their hearts.

"'Long life and good fortune to ourselves, brother!' said Spare. 'I hope
you will drink that toast, and may we never have a worse fire on
Christmas--but what is that?'

"Spare set down the drinking-horn, and the brothers listened astonished,
for out of the blazing root they heard, 'Cuckoo! cuckoo!' as plain as
ever the spring-bird's voice came over the moor on a May morning.

"'It is something bad,' said Scrub, terribly frightened.

"'May be not,' said Spare; and out of the deep hole at the side which
the fire had not reached flew a large gray cuckoo, and lit on the table
before them. Much as the cobblers had been surprised, they were still
more so when it said:

"'Good gentlemen, what season is this?'

"'It's Christmas,' said Spare.

"'Then a merry Christmas to you!' said the cuckoo. 'I went to sleep in
the hollow of that old root one evening last summer, and never woke till
the heat of your fire made me think it was summer again; but now since
you have burned my lodging, let me stay in your hut till the spring
comes around--I only want a hole to sleep in, and when I go on my
travels next summer be assured I will bring you some present for your
trouble.'

"'Stay, and welcome,' said Spare, while Scrub sat wondering if it were
something bad or not; 'I'll make you a good warm hole in the thatch. But
you must be hungry after that long sleep?--here is a slice of barley
bread. Come help us to keep Christmas!'

"The cuckoo ate up the slice, drank water from the brown jug, for he
would take no beer, and flew into a snug hole which Spare scooped for
him in the thatch of the hut.

"Scrub said he was afraid it wouldn't be lucky; but as it slept on and
the days passed he forgot his fears. So the snow melted, the heavy rains
came, the cold grew less, the days lengthened, and one sunny morning the
brothers were awakened by the cuckoo shouting its own cry to let them
know the spring had come.

"'Now I'm going on my travels,' said the bird, 'over the world to tell
men of the spring. There is no country where trees bud or flowers bloom,
that I will not cry in before the year goes round. Give me another slice
of barley bread to keep me on my journey, and tell me what present I
shall bring you at the twelvemonth's end.'

"Scrub would have been angry with his brother for cutting so large a
slice, their store of barley-meal being low; but his mind was occupied
with what present would be most prudent to ask: at length a lucky
thought struck him.

"'Good master cuckoo,' said he, 'if a great traveler who sees all the
world like you, could know of any place where diamonds or pearls were to
be found, one of a tolerable size brought in your beak would help such
poor men as my brother and I to provide something better than barley
bread for your next entertainment.'

"'I know nothing of diamonds or pearls,' said the cuckoo; 'they are in
the hearts of rocks and the sands of rivers. My knowledge is only of
that which grows on the earth. But there are two trees hard by the well
that lies at the world's end--one of them is called the golden tree, for
its leaves are all of beaten gold: every winter they fall into the well
with a sound like scattered coin and I know not what becomes of them. As
for the other, it is always green like a laurel. Some call it the wise,
and some the merry tree. Its leaves never fall, but they that get one of
them keep a blithe heart in spite of all misfortunes, and can make
themselves as merry in a hut as in a palace.'

"'Good master cuckoo, bring me a leaf off that tree,' cried Spare.

"'Now, brother, don't be a fool!' said Scrub. 'Think of the leaves of
beaten gold! Dear master cuckoo, bring me one of them!'

"Before another word could be spoken, the cuckoo had flown out of the
open door, and was shouting its spring cry over moor and meadow. The
brothers were poorer than ever that year; nobody would send them a
single shoe to mend. The new cobbler said, in scorn, they should come to
be his apprentices; and Scrub and Spare would have left the village but
for their barley field, their cabbage garden, and a certain maid called
Fairfeather, whom both the cobblers had courted for seven years without
even knowing which she meant to favor.

"Sometimes Fairfeather seemed inclined to Scrub, sometimes she smiled on
Spare; but the brothers never disputed for that. They sowed their
barley, planted their cabbage, and now that their trade was gone, worked
in the rich villagers' fields to make out a scanty living. So the
seasons came and passed: spring, summer, harvest, and winter followed
each other as they have done from the beginning. At the end of the
latter, Scrub and Spare had grown so poor and ragged that Fairfeather
thought them beneath her notice. Old neighbors forgot to invite them to
wedding feasts or merrymaking; and they thought the cuckoo had forgotten
them too, when at daybreak, on the first of April, they heard a hard
beak knocking at their door, and a voice crying:

"'Cuckoo! cuckoo! Let me in with my presents.'

"Spare ran to open the door, and in came the cuckoo, carrying on one
side of his bill a golden leaf larger than that of any tree in the north
country; and in the other, one like that of the common laurel, only it
had a fresher green.

"'Here,' it said, giving the gold to Scrub and the green to Spare, 'it
is a long carriage from the world's end. Give me a slice of barley
bread, for I must tell the north country that the spring has come.'

"Scrub did not grudge the thickness of that slice, though it was cut
from their last loaf. So much gold had never been in the cobbler's hands
before, and he could not help exulting over his brother.

"'See the wisdom of my choice!' he said, holding up the large leaf of
gold. 'As for yours, as good might be plucked from any hedge. I wonder a
sensible bird would carry the like so far.'

"'Good master cobbler,' cried the cuckoo, finishing the slice, 'your
conclusions are more hasty than courteous. If your brother be
disappointed this time, I go on the same journey every year, and for
your hospitable entertainment will think it no trouble to bring each of
you whichever leaf you desire.'

"'Darling cuckoo!' cried Scrub, 'bring me a golden one;' and Spare,
looking up from the green leaf on which he gazed as though it were a
crown-jewel, said:

"'Be sure to bring me one from the merry tree,' and away flew the
cuckoo.

"'This is the Feast of All Fools, and it ought to be your birthday,'
said Scrub. 'Did ever man fling away such an opportunity of getting
rich! Much good your merry leaves will do in the midst of rags and
poverty!' So he went on, but Spare laughed at him, and answered with
quaint old proverbs concerning the cares that come with gold, till
Scrub, at length getting angry, vowed his brother was not fit to live
with a respectable man; and, taking his lasts, his awls, and his golden
leaf, he left the wattle hut, and went to tell the villagers.

"They were astonished at the folly of Spare and charmed with Scrub's
good sense, particularly when he showed them the golden leaf, and told
that the cuckoo would bring him one every spring. The new cobbler
immediately took him into partnership; the greatest people sent him
their shoes to mend; Fairfeather smiled graciously upon him, and in the
course of that summer they were married, with a grand wedding feast, at
which the whole village danced, except Spare, who was not invited,
because the bride could not bear his low-mindedness, and his brother
thought him a disgrace to the family.

"Indeed, all who heard the story concluded that Spare must be mad, and
nobody would associate with him but a lame tinker, a beggar-boy, and a
poor woman reputed to be a witch because she was old and ugly. As for
Scrub, he established himself with Fairfeather in a cottage close by
that of the new cobbler, and quite as fine. There he mended shoes to
everybody's satisfaction, had a scarlet coat for holidays, and a fat
goose for dinner every wedding-day. Fairfeather, too, had a crimson gown
and fine blue ribands; but neither she nor Scrub were content, for to
buy this grandeur the golden leaf had to be broken and parted with piece
by piece, so the last morsel was gone before the cuckoo came with
another.

"Spare lived on in the old hut, and worked in the cabbage garden. (Scrub
had got the barley field because he was the eldest.) Every day his coat
grew more ragged, and the hut more weatherbeaten; but people remarked
that he never looked sad nor sour; and the wonder was, that from the
time they began to keep his company, the tinker grew kinder to the poor