The Bee-Man of Orn and Other Fanciful Tales
by
Frank R. Stockton
Part 1 out of 4
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FRANK R. STOCKTON'S WRITINGS.
* * * * *
New Uniform Edition.
THE BEE-MAN OF ORN, and Other Fanciful Tales.
THE LADY OR THE TIGER? and Other Stories.
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK, and Other Stories.
THE LATE MRS NULL.
RUDDER GRANGE.
The set, five vols., $6.25; each, $1.25.
* * * * *
RUDDER GRANGE. New Illustrated Edition. With over 100 Illustrations
by A.B. Frost. Square 12mo, $2.00.
* * * * *
THE LADY OR THE TIGER? and Other Stories. 12mo, paper, 50 cents.
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK, and Other Stories. 12mo, paper, 50 cents.
RUDDER GRANGE. 12mo, paper, 60 cents.
* * * * *
A JOLLY FRIENDSHIP. Illustrated, 12mo, $1.50.
THE STORY OF VITEAU. Illustrated, 12mo, $1.50.
THE TING-A-LING TALES. Illustrated, 12mo, $1.00.
THE FLOATING PRINCE, and Other Fairy Tales. Illustrated, 4to, cloth,
$2.50; boards, $1.50.
ROUNDABOUT RAMBLERS IN LANDS OF FACT AND FANCY. Illustrated. 4to,
boards, $1.50.
TALES OUT OF SCHOOL. Illustrated. 4to, boards, $1.50.
THE BEE-MAN OF ORN
AND
OTHER FANCIFUL TALES
BY
FRANK R. STOCKTON
New York
1887
Charles Scribner's Sons.
Rand Avery Company,
Electrotypers and Printers,
Boston.
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
I. THE BEE-MAN OF ORN
II. THE GRIFFIN AND THE MINOR CANON
III. OLD PIPES AND THE DRYAD
IV. THE QUEEN'S MUSEUM
V. CHRISTMAS BEFORE LAST; OR, THE FRUIT OF THE FRAGILE PALM
VI. PRINCE HASSAK'S MARCH
VII. THE BATTLE OF THE THIRD COUSINS
VIII. THE BANISHED KING
IX. THE PHILOPENA
THE BEE-MAN OF ORN.
* * * * *
In the ancient country of Orn, there lived an old man who was called
the Bee-man, because his whole time was spent in the company of bees.
He lived in a small hut, which was nothing more than an immense
bee-hive, for these little creatures had built their honeycombs in
every corner of the one room it contained, on the shelves, under the
little table, all about the rough bench on which the old man sat, and
even about the head-board and along the sides of his low bed. All day
the air of the room was thick with buzzing insects, but this did not
interfere in any way with the old Bee-man, who walked in among them,
ate his meals, and went to sleep, without the slightest fear of being
stung. He had lived with the bees so long, they had become so
accustomed to him, and his skin was so tough and hard, that the bees
no more thought of stinging him than they would of stinging a tree or
a stone. A swarm of bees had made their hive in a pocket of his old
leathern doublet; and when he put on this coat to take one of his
long walks in the forest in search of wild bees' nests, he was very
glad to have this hive with him, for, if he did not find any wild
honey, he would put his hand in his pocket and take out a piece of a
comb for a luncheon. The bees in his pocket worked very
industriously, and he was always certain of having something to eat
with him wherever he went. He lived principally upon honey; and when
he needed bread or meat, he carried some fine combs to a village not
far away and bartered them for other food. He was ugly, untidy,
shrivelled, and brown. He was poor, and the bees seemed to be his
only friends. But, for all that, he was happy and contented; he had
all the honey he wanted, and his bees, whom he considered the best
company in the world, were as friendly and sociable as they could be,
and seemed to increase in number every day.
One day, there stopped at the hut of the Bee-man a Junior Sorcerer.
This young person, who was a student of magic, necromancy, and the
kindred arts, was much interested in the Bee-man, whom he had
frequently noticed in his wanderings, and he considered him an
admirable subject for study. He had got a great deal of useful
practice by endeavoring to find out, by the various rules and laws of
sorcery, exactly why the old Bee-man did not happen to be something
that he was not, and why he was what he happened to be. He had
studied a long time at this matter, and had found out something.
"Do you know," he said, when the Bee-man came out of his hut, "that
you have been transformed?"
"What do you mean by that?" said the other, much surprised.
"You have surely heard of animals and human beings who have been
magically transformed into different kinds of creatures?"
"Yes, I have heard of these things," said the Bee-man; "but what have
I been transformed from?"
"That is more than I know," said the Junior Sorcerer. "But one thing
is certain--you ought to be changed back. If you will find out what
you have been transformed from, I will see that you are made all
right again. Nothing would please me better than to attend to such a
case."
And, having a great many things to study and investigate, the Junior
Sorcerer went his way.
This information greatly disturbed the mind of the Bee-man. If he had
been changed from something else, he ought to be that other thing,
whatever it was. He ran after the young man, and overtook him.
"If you know, kind sir," he said, "that I have been transformed, you
surely are able to tell me what it is that I was."
"No," said the Junior Sorcerer, "my studies have not proceeded far
enough for that. When I become a senior I can tell you all about it.
But, in the meantime, it will be well for you to try to discover for
yourself your original form, and when you have done that, I will get
some of the learned masters of my art to restore you to it. It will
be easy enough to do that, but you could not expect them to take the
time and trouble to find out what it was."
And, with these words, he hurried away, and was soon lost to view.
Greatly disquieted, the Bee-man retraced his steps, and went to his
hut. Never before had he heard any thing which had so troubled him.
"I wonder what I was transformed from?" he thought, seating himself
on his rough bench. "Could it have been a giant, or a powerful
prince, or some gorgeous being whom the magicians or the fairies
wished to punish? It may be that I was a dog or a horse, or perhaps a
fiery dragon or a horrid snake. I hope it was not one of these. But,
whatever it was, every one has certainly a right to his original
form, and I am resolved to find out mine. I will start early
to-morrow morning, and I am sorry now that I have not more pockets to
my old doublet, so that I might carry more bees and more honey for my
journey."
He spent the rest of the day in making a hive of twigs and straw,
and, having transferred to this a number of honey-combs and a colony
of bees which had just swarmed, he rose before sunrise the next day,
and having put on his leathern doublet, and having bound his new hive
to his back, he set forth on his quest; the bees who were to
accompany him buzzing around him like a cloud.
As the Bee-man passed through the little village the people greatly
wondered at his queer appearance, with the hive upon his back. "The
Bee-man is going on a long expedition this time," they said; but no
one imagined the strange business on which he was bent. About noon he
sat down under a tree, near a beautiful meadow covered with blossoms,
and ate a little honey. Then he untied his hive and stretched himself
out on the grass to rest. As he gazed upon his bees hovering about
him, some going out to the blossoms in the sunshine, and some
returning laden with the sweet pollen, he said to himself, "They know
just what they have to do, and they do it; but alas for me! I know
not what I may have to do. And yet, whatever it may be, I am
determined to do it. In some way or other I will find out what was my
original form, and then I will have myself changed back to it."
And now the thought came to him that perhaps his original form might
have been something very disagreeable, or even horrid.
"But it does not matter," he said sturdily. "Whatever I was that
shall I be again. It is not right for any one to retain a form which
does not properly belong to him. I have no doubt I shall discover my
original form in the same way that I find the trees in which the wild
bees hive. When I first catch sight of a bee-tree I am drawn towards
it, I know not how. Something says to me: 'That is what you are
looking for.' In the same way I believe that I shall find my original
form. When I see it, I shall be drawn towards it. Something will say
to me: 'That is it.'"
When the Bee-man was rested he started off again, and in about an
hour he entered a fair domain. Around him were beautiful lawns, grand
trees, and lovely gardens; while at a little distance stood the
stately palace of the Lord of the Domain. Richly dressed people were
walking about or sitting in the shade of the trees and arbors;
splendidly caparisoned horses were waiting for their riders; and
everywhere were seen signs of opulence and gayety.
"I think," said the Bee-man to himself, "that I should like to stop
here for a time. If it should happen that I was originally like any
of these happy creatures it would please me much."
He untied his hive, and hid it behind some bushes, and taking off his
old doublet, laid that beside it. It would not do to have his bees
flying about him if he wished to go among the inhabitants of this
fair domain.
For two days the Bee-man wandered about the palace and its grounds,
avoiding notice as much as possible, but looking at every thing. He
saw handsome men and lovely ladies; the finest horses, dogs, and
cattle that were ever known; beautiful birds in cages, and fishes in
crystal globes, and it seemed to him that the best of all living
things were here collected.
At the close of the second day, the Bee-man said to himself: "There
is one being here toward whom I feel very much drawn, and that is the
Lord of the Domain. I cannot feel certain that I was once like him,
but it would be a very fine thing if it were so; and it seems
impossible for me to be drawn toward any other being in the domain
when I look upon him, so handsome, rich, and powerful. But I must
observe him more closely, and feel more sure of the matter, before
applying to the sorcerers to change me back into a lord of a fair
domain."
The next morning, the Bee-man saw the Lord of the Domain walking in
his gardens. He slipped along the shady paths, and followed him so as
to observe him closely, and find out if he were really drawn toward
this noble and handsome being. The Lord of the Domain walked on for
some time, not noticing that the Bee-man was behind him. But suddenly
turning, he saw the little old man.
"What are you doing here, you vile beggar?" he cried; and he gave him
a kick that sent him into some bushes that grew by the side of the
path.
The Bee-man scrambled to his feet, and ran as fast as he could to the
place where he had hidden his hive and his old doublet.
"If I am certain of any thing," he thought, "it is that I was never a
person who would kick a poor old man. I will leave this place. I was
transformed from nothing that I see here."
He now travelled for a day or two longer, and then he came to a great
black mountain, near the bottom of which was an opening like the
mouth of a cave.
This mountain he had heard was filled with caverns and under-ground
passages, which were the abodes of dragons, evil spirits, horrid
creatures of all kinds.
"Ah me!" said the Bee-man with a sigh, "I suppose I ought to visit
this place. If I am going to do this thing properly, I should look on
all sides of the subject, and I may have been one of those horrid
creatures myself."
Thereupon he went to the mountain, and as he approached the opening
of the passage which led into its inmost recesses he saw, sitting
upon the ground, and leaning his back against a tree, a Languid
Youth.
"Good-day," said this individual when he saw the Bee-man. "Are you
going inside?"
"Yes," said the Bee-man, "that is what I intend to do."
"Then," said the Languid Youth, slowly rising to his feet, "I think I
will go with you. I was told that if I went in there I should get my
energies toned up, and they need it very much; but I did not feel
equal to entering by myself, and I thought I would wait until some
one came along. I am very glad to see you, and we will go in
together."
So the two went into the cave, and they had proceeded but a short
distance when they met a very little creature, whom it was easy to
recognize as a Very Imp. He was about two feet high, and resembled in
color a freshly polished pair of boots. He was extremely lively and
active, and came bounding toward them.
"What did you two people come here for?" he asked.
"I came," said the Languid Youth, "to have my energies toned up."
"You have come to the right place," said the Very Imp. "We will tone
you up. And what does that old Bee-man want?"
"He has been transformed from something, and wants to find out what
it is. He thinks he may have been one of the things in here."
"I should not wonder if that were so," said the Very Imp, rolling his
head on one side, and eying the Bee-man with a critical gaze.
"All right," said the Very Imp; "he can go around, and pick out his
previous existence. We have here all sorts of vile creepers,
crawlers, hissers, and snorters. I suppose he thinks any thing will
be better than a Bee-man."
"It is not because I want to be better than I am," said the Bee-man,
"that I started out on this search. I have simply an honest desire to
become what I originally was."
"Oh! that is it, is it?" said the other. "There is an idiotic
moon-calf here with a clam head, which must be just like what you
used to be."
"Nonsense," said the Bee-man. "You have not the least idea what an
honest purpose is. I shall go about, and see for myself."
"Go ahead," said the Very Imp, "and I will attend to this fellow who
wants to be toned up." So saying he joined the Languid Youth.
"Look here," said that individual, regarding him with interest, "do
you black and shine yourself every morning?"
"No," said the other, "it is water-proof varnish. You want to be
invigorated, don't you? Well, I will tell you a splendid way to
begin. You see that Bee-man has put down his hive and his coat with
the bees in it. Just wait till he gets out of sight, and then catch a
lot of those bees, and squeeze them flat. If you spread them on a
sticky rag, and make a plaster, and put it on the small of your back,
it will invigorate you like every thing, especially if some of the
bees are not quite dead."
"Yes," said the Languid Youth, looking at him with his mild eyes,
"but if I had energy enough to catch a bee I would be satisfied.
Suppose you catch a lot for me."
"The subject is changed," said the Very Imp. "We are now about to
visit the spacious chamber of the King of the Snap-dragons."
"That is a flower," said the Languid Youth.
"You will find him a gay old blossom," said the other. "When he has
chased you round his room, and has blown sparks at you, and has
snorted and howled, and cracked his tail, and snapped his jaws like a
pair of anvils, your energies will be toned up higher than ever
before in your life."
"No doubt of it," said the Languid Youth; "but I think I will begin
with something a little milder."
"Well then," said other, "there is a flat-tailed Demon of the Gorge
in here. He is generally asleep, and, if you say so, you can slip
into the farthest corner of his cave, and I'll solder his tail to the
opposite wall. Then he will rage and roar, but he can't get at you,
for he doesn't reach all the way across his cave; I have measured
him. It will tone you up wonderfully to sit there and watch him."
"Very likely," said the Languid Youth; "but I would rather stay
outside and let you go up in the corner. The performance in that way
will be more interesting to me."
"You are dreadfully hard to please," said the Very Imp. "I have
offered them to you loose, and I have offered them fastened to a
wall, and now the best thing I can do is to give you a chance at one
of them that can't move at all. It is the Ghastly Griffin and is
enchanted. He can't stir so much as the tip of his whiskers for a
thousand years. You can go to his cave and examine him just as if he
were stuffed, and then you can sit on his back and think how it would
be if you should live to be a thousand years old, and he should wake
up while you are sitting there. It would be easy to imagine a lot of
horrible things he would do to you when you look at his open mouth
with its awful fangs, his dreadful claws, and his horrible wings all
covered with spikes."
"I think that might suit me," said the Languid Youth. "I would much
rather imagine the exercises of these monsters than to see them
really going on."
"Come on, then," said the Very Imp, and he led the way to the cave of
the Ghastly Griffin.
The Bee-man went by himself through a great part of the mountain, and
looked into many of its gloomy caves and recesses, recoiling in
horror from most of the dreadful monsters who met his eyes. While he
was wandering about, an awful roar was heard resounding through the
passages of the mountain, and soon there came flapping along an
enormous dragon, with body black as night, and wings and tail of
fiery red. In his great fore-claws he bore a little baby.
"Horrible!" exclaimed the Bee-man. "He is taking that little creature
to his cave to devour it."
He saw the dragon enter a cave not far away, and following looked in.
The dragon was crouched upon the ground with the little baby lying
before him. It did not seem to be hurt, but was frightened and
crying. The monster was looking upon it with delight, as if he
intended to make a dainty meal of it as soon as his appetite should
be a little stronger.
"It is too bad!" thought the Bee-man. "Somebody ought to do
something." And turning around, he ran away as fast as he could.
He ran through various passages until he came to the spot where he
had left his bee-hive. Picking it up, he hurried back, carrying the
hive in his two hands before him. When he reached the cave of the
dragon, he looked in and saw the monster still crouched over the
weeping child. Without a moment's hesitation, the Bee-man rushed into
the cave and threw his hive straight into the face of the dragon. The
bees, enraged by the shock, rushed out in an angry crowd and
immediately fell upon the head, mouth, eyes, and nose of the dragon.
The great monster, astounded by this sudden attack, and driven almost
wild by the numberless stings of the bees, sprang back to the
farthest portion of his cave, still followed by his relentless
enemies, at whom he flapped wildly with his great wings and struck
with his paws. While the dragon was thus engaged with the bees, the
Bee-man rushed forward, and, seizing the child, he hurried away. He
did not stop to pick up his doublet, but kept on until he reached the
entrance of the caves. There he saw the Very Imp hopping along on one
leg, and rubbing his back and shoulders with his hands, and stopped
to inquire what was the matter, and what had become of the Languid
Youth.
"He is no kind of a fellow," said the Very Imp. "He disappointed me
dreadfully. I took him up to the Ghastly Griffin, and told him the
thing was enchanted, and that he might sit on its back and think
about what it could do if it was awake; and when he came near it the
wretched creature opened its eyes, and raised its head, and then you
ought to have seen how mad that simpleton was. He made a dash at me
and seized me by the ears; he kicked and beat me till I can scarcely
move."
"His energies must have been toned up a good deal," said the Bee-man.
"Toned up! I should say so!" cried the other. "I raised a howl, and a
Scissor-jawed Clipper came out of his hole, and got after him; but
that lazy fool ran so fast that he could not be caught."
The Bee-man now ran on and soon overtook the Languid Youth.
"You need not be in a hurry now," said the latter, "for the rules of
this institution don't allow the creatures inside to come out of this
opening, or to hang around it. If they did, they would frighten away
visitors. They go in and out of holes in the upper part of the
mountain."
The two proceeded on their way.
"What are you going to do with that baby?" said the Languid Youth.
"I shall carry it along with me," said the Bee-man, "as I go on with
my search, and perhaps I may find its mother. If I do not, I shall
give it to somebody in that little village yonder. Any thing would be
better than leaving it to be devoured by that horrid dragon."
"Let me carry it. I feel quite strong enough now to carry a baby."
"Thank you," said the Bee-man, "but I can take it myself. I like to
carry something, and I have now neither my hive nor my doublet."
"It is very well that you had to leave them behind," said the Youth,
"for the bees would have stung the baby."
"My bees never sting babies," said the other.
"They probably never had a chance," remarked his companion.
They soon entered the village, and after walking a short distance the
youth exclaimed: "Do you see that woman over there sitting at the
door of her house? She has beautiful hair and she is tearing it all
to pieces. She should not be allowed to do that."
"No," said the Bee-man. "Her friends should tie her hands."
"Perhaps she is the mother of this child," said the Youth, "and if
you give it to her she will no longer think of tearing her hair."
"But," said the Bee-man, "you don't really think this is her child?"
"Suppose you go over and see," said the other.
The Bee-man hesitated a moment, and then he walked toward the woman.
Hearing him coming, she raised her head, and when she saw the child
she rushed towards it, snatched it into her arms, and screaming with
joy she covered it with kisses. Then with happy tears she begged to
know the story of the rescue of her child, whom she never expected to
see again; and she loaded the Bee-man with thanks and blessings. The
friends and neighbors gathered around and there was great rejoicing.
The mother urged the Bee-man and the Youth to stay with her, and rest
and refresh themselves, which they were glad to do as they were tired
and hungry.
They remained at the cottage all night, and in the afternoon of the
next day the Bee-man said to the Youth: "It may seem an odd thing to
you, but never in all my life have I felt myself drawn towards any
living being as I am drawn towards this baby. Therefore I believe
that I have been transformed from a baby."
"Good!" cried the Youth. "It is my opinion that you have hit the
truth. And now would you like to be changed back to your original
form?"
"Indeed I would!" said the Bee-man, "I have the strongest yearning to
be what I originally was."
The Youth, who had now lost every trace of languid feeling, took a
great interest in the matter, and early the next morning started off
to inform the Junior Sorcerer that the Bee-man had discovered what he
had been transformed from, and desired to be changed back to it.
The Junior Sorcerer and his learned Masters were filled with
enthusiasm when they heard this report, and they at once set out for
the mother's cottage. And there by magic arts the Bee-man was changed
back into a baby. The mother was so grateful for what the Bee-man had
done for her that she agreed to take charge of this baby, and to
bring it up as her own.
"It will be a grand thing for him," said the Junior Sorcerer, "and I
am glad that I studied his case. He will now have a fresh start in
life, and will have a chance to become something better than a
miserable old man living in a wretched hut with no friends or
companions but buzzing bees."
The Junior Sorcerer and his Masters then returned to their homes,
happy in the success of their great performance; and the Youth went
back to his home anxious to begin a life of activity and energy.
Years and years afterward, when the Junior Sorcerer had become a
Senior and was very old indeed, he passed through the country of Orn,
and noticed a small hut about which swarms of bees were flying. He
approached it, and looking in at the door he saw an old man in a
leathern doublet, sitting at a table, eating honey. By his magic art
he knew this was the baby which had been transformed from the
Bee-man.
"Upon my word!" exclaimed the Sorcerer, "He has grown into the same
thing again!"
THE GRIFFIN AND THE MINOR CANON.
* * * * *
Over the great door of an old, old church which stood in a quiet town
of a far-away land there was carved in stone the figure of a large
griffin. The old-time sculptor had done his work with great care, but
the image he had made was not a pleasant one to look at. It had a
large head, with enormous open mouth and savage teeth; from its back
arose great wings, armed with sharp hooks and prongs; it had stout
legs in front, with projecting claws; but there were no legs
behind,--the body running out into a long and powerful tail, finished
off at the end with a barbed point. This tail was coiled up under
him, the end sticking up just back of his wings.
The sculptor, or the people who had ordered this stone figure, had
evidently been very much pleased with it, for little copies of it,
also in stone, had been placed here and there along the sides of the
church, not very far from the ground, so that people could easily
look at them, and ponder on their curious forms. There were a great
many other sculptures on the outside of this church,--saints,
martyrs, grotesque heads of men, beasts, and birds, as well as those
of other creatures which cannot be named, because nobody knows
exactly what they were; but none were so curious and interesting as
the great griffin over the door, and the little griffins on the sides
of the church.
A long, long distance from the town, in the midst of dreadful wilds
scarcely known to man, there dwelt the Griffin whose image had been
put up over the church-door. In some way or other, the old-time
sculptor had seen him, and afterward, to the best of his memory, had
copied his figure in stone. The Griffin had never known this, until,
hundreds of years afterward, he heard from a bird, from a wild
animal, or in some manner which it is not now easy to find out, that
there was a likeness of him on the old church in the distant town.
Now, this Griffin had no idea how he looked. He had never seen a
mirror, and the streams where he lived were so turbulent and violent
that a quiet piece of water, which would reflect the image of any
thing looking into it, could not be found. Being, as far as could be
ascertained, the very last of his race, he had never seen another
griffin. Therefore it was, that, when he heard of this stone image of
himself, he became very anxious to know what he looked like, and at
last he determined to go to the old church, and see for himself what
manner of being he was. So he started off from the dreadful wilds,
and flew on and on until he came to the countries inhabited by men,
where his appearance in the air created great consternation; but he
alighted nowhere, keeping up a steady flight until he reached the
suburbs of the town which had his image on its church. Here, late in
the afternoon, he alighted in a green meadow by the side of a brook,
and stretched himself on the grass to rest. His great wings were
tired, for he had not made such a long flight in a century, or more.
The news of his coming spread quickly over the town, and the people,
frightened nearly out of their wits by the arrival of so
extraordinary a visitor, fled into their houses, and shut themselves
up. The Griffin called loudly for some one to come to him, but the
more he called, the more afraid the people were to show themselves.
At length he saw two laborers hurrying to their homes through the
fields, and in a terrible voice he commanded them to stop. Not daring
to disobey, the men stood, trembling.
"What is the matter with you all?" cried the Griffin. "Is there not a
man in your town who is brave enough to speak to me?"
"I think," said one of the laborers, his voice shaking so that his
words could hardly be understood, "that--perhaps--the Minor
Canon--would come."
"Go, call him, then!" said the Griffin; "I want to see him."
The Minor Canon, who filled a subordinate position in the old church,
had just finished the afternoon services, and was coming out of a
side door, with three aged women who had formed the week-day
congregation. He was a young man of a kind disposition, and very
anxious to do good to the people of the town. Apart from his duties
in the church, where he conducted services every week-day, he visited
the sick and the poor, counselled and assisted persons who were in
trouble, and taught a school composed entirely of the bad children in
the town with whom nobody else would have any thing to do. Whenever
the people wanted something difficult done for them, they always went
to the Minor Canon. Thus it was that the laborer thought of the young
priest when he found that some one must come and speak to the
Griffin.
The Minor Canon had not heard of the strange event, which was known
to the whole town except himself and the three old women, and when he
was informed of it, and was told that the Griffin had asked to see
him, he was greatly amazed, and frightened.
"Me!" he exclaimed. "He has never heard of me! What should he want
with me?"
"Oh! you must go instantly!" cried the two men. "He is very angry now
because he has been kept waiting so long; and nobody knows what may
happen if you don't hurry to him."
The poor Minor Canon would rather have had his hand cut off than go
out to meet an angry griffin; but he felt that it was his duty to go,
for it would be a woful thing if injury should come to the people of
the town because he was not brave enough to obey the summons of the
Griffin. So, pale and frightened, he started off.
"Well," said the Griffin, as soon as the young man came near, "I am
glad to see that there is some one who has the courage to come to
me."
The Minor Canon did not feel very courageous, but he bowed his head.
"Is this the town," said the Griffin, "where there is a church with a
likeness of myself over one of the doors?"
The Minor Canon looked at the frightful creature before him and saw
that it was, without doubt, exactly like the stone image on the
church. "Yes," he said, "you are right."
"Well, then," said the Griffin, "will you take me to it? I wish very
much to see it."
The Minor Canon instantly thought that if the Griffin entered the
town without the people knowing what he came for, some of them would
probably be frightened to death, and so he sought to gain time to
prepare their minds.
"It is growing dark, now," he said, very much afraid, as he spoke,
that his words might enrage the Griffin, "and objects on the front of
the church can not be seen clearly. It will be better to wait until
morning, if you wish to get a good view of the stone image of
yourself."
"That will suit me very well," said the Griffin. "I see you are a man
of good sense. I am tired, and I will take a nap here on this soft
grass, while I cool my tail in the little stream that runs near me.
The end of my tail gets red-hot when I am angry or excited, and it is
quite warm now. So you may go, but be sure and come early to-morrow
morning, and show me the way to the church."
The Minor Canon was glad enough to take his leave, and hurried into
the town. In front of the church he found a great many people
assembled to hear his report of his interview with the Griffin. When
they found that he had not come to spread ruin and devastation, but
simply to see his stony likeness on the church, they showed neither
relief nor gratification, but began to upbraid the Minor Canon for
consenting to conduct the creature into the town.
"What could I do?" cried the young man. "If I should not bring him he
would come himself and, perhaps, end by setting fire to the town with
his red-hot tail."
Still the people were not satisfied, and a great many plans were
proposed to prevent the Griffin from coming into the town. Some
elderly persons urged that the young men should go out and kill him;
but the young men scoffed at such a ridiculous idea. Then some one
said that it would be a good thing to destroy the stone image so that
the Griffin would have no excuse for entering the town; and this
proposal was received with such favor that many of the people ran for
hammers, chisels, and crowbars, with which to tear down and break up
the stone griffin. But the Minor Canon resisted this plan with all
the strength of his mind and body. He assured the people that this
action would enrage the Griffin beyond measure, for it would be
impossible to conceal from him that his image had been destroyed
during the night. But the people were so determined to break up the
stone griffin that the Minor Canon saw that there was nothing for him
to do but to stay there and protect it. All night he walked up and
down in front of the church-door, keeping away the men who brought
ladders, by which they might mount to the great stone griffin, and
knock it to pieces with their hammers and crowbars. After many hours
the people were obliged to give up their attempts, and went home to
sleep; but the Minor Canon remained at his post till early morning,
and then he hurried away to the field where he had left the Griffin.
The monster had just awakened, and rising to his fore-legs and
shaking himself, he said that he was ready to go into the town. The
Minor Canon, therefore, walked back, the Griffin flying slowly
through the air, at a short distance above the head of his guide. Not
a person was to be seen in the streets, and they proceeded directly
to the front of the church, where the Minor Canon pointed out the
stone griffin.
The real Griffin settled down in the little square before the church
and gazed earnestly at his sculptured likeness. For a long time he
looked at it. First he put his head on one side, and then he put it
on the other; then he shut his right eye and gazed with his left,
after which he shut his left eye and gazed with his right. Then he
moved a little to one side and looked at the image, then he moved the
other way. After a while he said to the Minor Canon, who had been
standing by all this time:
"It is, it must be, an excellent likeness! That breadth between the
eyes, that expansive forehead, those massive jaws! I feel that it
must resemble me. If there is any fault to find with it, it is that
the neck seems a little stiff. But that is nothing. It is an
admirable likeness,--admirable!"
The Griffin sat looking at his image all the morning and all the
afternoon. The Minor Canon had been afraid to go away and leave him,
and had hoped all through the day that he would soon be satisfied
with his inspection and fly away home. But by evening the poor young
man was utterly exhausted, and felt that he must eat and sleep. He
frankly admitted this fact to the Griffin, and asked him if he would
not like something to eat. He said this because he felt obliged in
politeness to do so, but as soon as he had spoken the words, he was
seized with dread lest the monster should demand half a dozen babies,
or some tempting repast of that kind.
"Oh, no," said the Griffin, "I never eat between the equinoxes. At
the vernal and at the autumnal equinox I take a good meal, and that
lasts me for half a year. I am extremely regular in my habits, and do
not think it healthful to eat at odd times. But if you need food, go
and get it, and I will return to the soft grass where I slept last
night and take another nap."
The next day the Griffin came again to the little square before the
church, and remained there until evening, steadfastly regarding the
stone griffin over the door. The Minor Canon came once or twice to
look at him, and the Griffin seemed very glad to see him; but the
young clergyman could not stay as he had done before, for he had many
duties to perform. Nobody went to the church, but the people came to
the Minor Canon's house, and anxiously asked him how long the Griffin
was going to stay.
"I do not know," he answered, "but I think he will soon be satisfied
with regarding his stone likeness, and then he will go away."
But the Griffin did not go away. Morning after morning he came to the
church, but after a time he did not stay there all day. He seemed to
have taken a great fancy to the Minor Canon, and followed him about
as he pursued his various avocations. He would wait for him at the
side door of the church, for the Minor Canon held services every day,
morning and evening, though nobody came now. "If any one should
come," he said to himself, "I must be found at my post." When the
young man came out, the Griffin would accompany him in his visits to
the sick and the poor, and would often look into the windows of the
school-house where the Minor Canon was teaching his unruly scholars.
All the other schools were closed, but the parents of the Minor
Canon's scholars forced them to go to school, because they were so
bad they could not endure them all day at home,--griffin or no
griffin. But it must be said they generally behaved very well when
that great monster sat up on his tail and looked in at the
school-room window.
When it was perceived that the Griffin showed no sign of going away,
all the people who were able to do so left the town. The canons and
the higher officers of the church had fled away during the first day
of the Griffin's visit, leaving behind only the Minor Canon and some
of the men who opened the doors and swept the church. All the
citizens who could afford it shut up their houses and travelled to
distant parts, and only the working people and the poor were left
behind. After some days these ventured to go about and attend to
their business, for if they did not work they would starve. They were
getting a little used to seeing the Griffin, and having been told
that he did not eat between equinoxes, they did not feel so much
afraid of him as before.
Day by day the Griffin became more and more attached to the Minor
Canon. He kept near him a great part of the time, and often spent the
night in front of the little house where the young clergyman lived
alone. This strange companionship was often burdensome to the Minor
Canon; but, on the other hand, he could not deny that he derived a
great deal of benefit and instruction from it. The Griffin had lived
for hundreds of years, and had seen much; and he told the Minor Canon
many wonderful things.
"It is like reading an old book," said the young clergyman to
himself; "but how many books I would have had to read before I would
have found out what the Griffin has told me about the earth, the air,
the water, about minerals, and metals, and growing things, and all
the wonders of the world!"
Thus the summer went on, and drew toward its close. And now the
people of the town began to be very much troubled again.
"It will not be long," they said, "before the autumnal equinox is
here, and then that monster will want to eat. He will be dreadfully
hungry, for he has taken so much exercise since his last meal. He
will devour our children. Without doubt, he will eat them all. What
is to be done?"
To this question no one could give an answer, but all agreed that the
Griffin must not be allowed to remain until the approaching equinox.
After talking over the matter a great deal, a crowd of the people
went to the Minor Canon, at a time when the Griffin was not with him.
"It is all your fault," they said, "that that monster is among us.
You brought him here, and you ought to see that he goes away. It is
only on your account that he stays here at all, for, although he
visits his image every day, he is with you the greater part of the
time. If you were not here, he would not stay. It is your duty to go
away and then he will follow you, and we shall be free from the
dreadful danger which hangs over us."
"Go away!" cried the Minor Canon, greatly grieved at being spoken to
in such a way. "Where shall I go? If I go to some other town, shall I
not take this trouble there? Have I a right to do that?"
"No," said the people, "you must not go to any other town. There is
no town far enough away. You must go to the dreadful wilds where the
Griffin lives; and then he will follow you and stay there."
They did not say whether or not they expected the Minor Canon to stay
there also, and he did not ask them any thing about it. He bowed his
head, and went into his house, to think. The more he thought, the
more clear it became to his mind that it was his duty to go away, and
thus free the town from the presence of the Griffin.
That evening he packed a leathern bag full of bread and meat, and
early the next morning he set out on his journey to the dreadful
wilds. It was a long, weary, and doleful journey, especially after he
had gone beyond the habitations of men, but the Minor Canon kept on
bravely, and never faltered. The way was longer than he had expected,
and his provisions soon grew so scanty that he was obliged to eat but
a little every day, but he kept up his courage, and pressed on, and,
after many days of toilsome travel, he reached the dreadful wilds.
When the Griffin found that the Minor Canon had left the town he
seemed sorry, but showed no disposition to go and look for him. After
a few days had passed, he became much annoyed, and asked some of the
people where the Minor Canon had gone. But, although the citizens had
been so anxious that the young clergyman should go to the dreadful
wilds, thinking that the Griffin would immediately follow him, they
were now afraid to mention the Minor Canon's destination, for the
monster seemed angry already, and, if he should suspect their trick
he would, doubtless, become very much enraged. So every one said he
did not know, and the Griffin wandered about disconsolate. One
morning he looked into the Minor Canon's school-house, which was
always empty now, and thought that it was a shame that every thing
should suffer on account of the young man's absence.
"It does not matter so much about the church," he said, "for nobody
went there; but it is a pity about the school. I think I will teach
it myself until he returns."
It was the hour for opening the school, and the Griffin went inside
and pulled the rope which rang the school-bell. Some of the children
who heard the bell ran in to see what was the matter, supposing it to
be a joke of one of their companions; but when they saw the Griffin
they stood astonished, and scared.
"Go tell the other scholars," said the monster, "that school is about
to open, and that if they are not all here in ten minutes, I shall
come after them."
In seven minutes every scholar was in place.
Never was seen such an orderly school. Not a boy or girl moved, or
uttered a whisper. The Griffin climbed into the master's seat, his
wide wings spread on each side of him, because he could not lean back
in his chair while they stuck out behind, and his great tail coiled
around, in front of the desk, the barbed end sticking up, ready to
tap any boy or girl who might misbehave. The Griffin now addressed
the scholars, telling them that he intended to teach them while their
master was away. In speaking he endeavored to imitate, as far as
possible, the mild and gentle tones of the Minor Canon, but it must
be admitted that in this he was not very successful. He had paid a
good deal of attention to the studies of the school, and he
determined not to attempt to teach them any thing new, but to review
them in what they had been studying; so he called up the various
classes, and questioned them upon their previous lessons. The
children racked their brains to remember what they had learned. They
were so afraid of the Griffin's displeasure that they recited as they
had never recited before. One of the boys, far down in his class,
answered so well that the Griffin was astonished.
"I should think you would be at the head," said he. "I am sure you
have never been in the habit of reciting so well. Why is this?"
"Because I did not choose to take the trouble," said the boy,
trembling in his boots. He felt obliged to speak the truth, for all
the children thought that the great eyes of the Griffin could see
right through them, and that he would know when they told a
falsehood.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said the Griffin. "Go down to
the very tail of the class, and if you are not at the head in two
days, I shall know the reason why."
The next afternoon this boy was number one.
It was astonishing how much these children now learned of what they
had been studying. It was as if they had been educated over again.
The Griffin used no severity toward them, but there was a look about
him which made them unwilling to go to bed until they were sure they
knew their lessons for the next day.
The Griffin now thought that he ought to visit the sick and the poor;
and he began to go about the town for this purpose. The effect upon
the sick was miraculous. All, except those who were very ill indeed,
jumped from their beds when they heard he was coming, and declared
themselves quite well. To those who could not get up, he gave herbs
and roots, which none of them had ever before thought of as
medicines, but which the Griffin had seen used in various parts of
the world; and most of them recovered. But, for all that, they
afterward said that no matter what happened to them, they hoped that
they should never again have such a doctor coming to their bed-sides,
feeling their pulses and looking at their tongues.
As for the poor, they seemed to have utterly disappeared. All those
who had depended upon charity for their daily bread were now at work
in some way or other; many of them offering to do odd jobs for their
neighbors just for the sake of their meals,--a thing which before had
been seldom heard of in the town. The Griffin could find no one who
needed his assistance.
The summer had now passed, and the autumnal equinox was rapidly
approaching. The citizens were in a state of great alarm and anxiety.
The Griffin showed no signs of going away, but seemed to have settled
himself permanently among them. In a short time, the day for his
semi-annual meal would arrive, and then what would happen? The
monster would certainly be very hungry, and would devour all their
children.
Now they greatly regretted and lamented that they had sent away the
Minor Canon; he was the only one on whom they could have depended in
this trouble, for he could talk freely with the Griffin, and so find
out what could be done. But it would not do to be inactive. Some step
must be taken immediately. A meeting of the citizens was called, and
two old men were appointed to go and talk to the Griffin. They were
instructed to offer to prepare a splendid dinner for him on equinox
day,--one which would entirely satisfy his hunger. They would offer
him the fattest mutton, the most tender beef, fish, and game of
various sorts, and any thing of the kind that he might fancy. If none
of these suited, they were to mention that there was an orphan asylum
in the next town.
"Anything would be better," said the citizens, "than to have our dear
children devoured."
The old men went to the Griffin, but their propositions were not
received with favor.
"From what I have seen of the people of this town," said the monster,
"I do not think I could relish any thing which was prepared by them.
They appear to be all cowards, and, therefore, mean and selfish. As
for eating one of them, old or young, I could not think of it for a
moment. In fact, there was only one creature in the whole place for
whom I could have had any appetite, and that is the Minor Canon, who
has gone away. He was brave, and good, and honest, and I think I
should have relished him."
"Ah!" said one of the old men very politely, "in that case I wish we
had not sent him to the dreadful wilds!"
"What!" cried the Griffin. "What do you mean? Explain instantly what
you are talking about!"
The old man, terribly frightened at what he had said, was obliged to
tell how the Minor Canon had been sent away by the people, in the
hope that the Griffin might be induced to follow him.
When the monster heard this, he became furiously angry. He dashed
away from the old men and, spreading his wings, flew backward and
forward over the town. He was so much excited that his tail became
red-hot, and glowed like a meteor against the evening sky. When at
last he settled down in the little field where he usually rested, and
thrust his tail into the brook, the steam arose like a cloud, and the
water of the stream ran hot through the town. The citizens were
greatly frightened, and bitterly blamed the old man for telling about
the Minor Canon.
"It is plain," they said, "that the Griffin intended at last to go
and look for him, and we should have been saved. Now who can tell
what misery you have brought upon us."
The Griffin did not remain long in the little field. As soon as his
tail was cool he flew to the town-hall and rang the bell. The
citizens knew that they were expected to come there, and although
they were afraid to go, they were still more afraid to stay away; and
they crowded into the hall. The Griffin was on the platform at one
end, flapping his wings and walking up and down, and the end of his
tail was still so warm that it slightly scorched the boards as he
dragged it after him.
When everybody who was able to come was there, the Griffin stood
still and addressed the meeting.
"I have had a contemptible opinion of you," he said, "ever since I
discovered what cowards you are, but I had no idea that you were so
ungrateful, selfish, and cruel, as I now find you to be. Here was
your Minor Canon, who labored day and night for your good, and
thought of nothing else but how he might benefit you and make you
happy; and as soon as you imagine yourselves threatened with a
danger,--for well I know you are dreadfully afraid of me,--you send
him off, caring not whether he returns or perishes, hoping thereby to
save yourselves. Now, I had conceived a great liking for that young
man, and had intended, in a day or two, to go and look him up. But I
have changed my mind about him. I shall go and find him, but I shall
send him back here to live among you, and I intend that he shall
enjoy the reward of his labor and his sacrifices. Go, some of you, to
the officers of the church, who so cowardly ran away when I first
came here, and tell them never to return to this town under penalty
of death. And if, when your Minor Canon comes back to you, you do not
bow yourselves before him, put him in the highest place among you,
and serve and honor him all his life, beware of my terrible
vengeance! There were only two good things in this town: the Minor
Canon and the stone image of myself over your church-door. One of
these you have sent away, and the other I shall carry away myself."
With these words he dismissed the meeting, and it was time, for the
end of his tail had become so hot that there was danger of its
setting fire to the building.
The next morning, the Griffin came to the church, and tearing the
stone image of himself from its fastenings over the great door, he
grasped it with his powerful fore-legs and flew up into the air.
Then, after hovering over the town for a moment, he gave his tail an
angry shake and took up his flight to the dreadful wilds. When he
reached this desolate region, he set the stone Griffin upon a ledge
of a rock which rose in front of the dismal cave he called his home.
There the image occupied a position somewhat similar to that it had
had over the church-door; and the Griffin, panting with the exertion
of carrying such an enormous load to so great a distance, lay down
upon the ground, and regarded it with much satisfaction. When he felt
somewhat rested he went to look for the Minor Canon. He found the
young man, weak and half starved, lying under the shadow of a rock.
After picking him up and carrying him to his cave, the Griffin flew
away to a distant marsh, where he procured some roots and herbs which
he well knew were strengthening and beneficial to man, though he had
never tasted them himself. After eating these the Minor Canon was
greatly revived, and sat up and listened while the Griffin told him
what had happened in the town.
"Do you know," said the monster, when he had finished, "that I have
had, and still have, a great liking for you?"
"I am very glad to hear it," said the Minor Canon, with his usual
politeness.
"I am not at all sure that you would be," said the Griffin, "if you
thoroughly understood the state of the case, but we will not consider
that now. If some things were different, other things would be
otherwise. I have been so enraged by discovering the manner in which
you have been treated that I have determined that you shall at last
enjoy the rewards and honors to which you are entitled. Lie down and
have a good sleep, and then I will take you back to the town."
As he heard these words, a look of trouble came over the young man's
face.
"You need not give yourself any anxiety," said the Griffin, "about my
return to the town. I shall not remain there. Now that I have that
admirable likeness of myself in front of my cave, where I can sit at
my leisure, and gaze upon its noble features and magnificent
proportions, I have no wish to see that abode of cowardly and selfish
people."
The Minor Canon, relieved from his fears, lay back, and dropped into
a doze; and when he was sound asleep the Griffin took him up, and
carried him back to the town. He arrived just before daybreak, and
putting the young man gently on the grass in the little field where
he himself used to rest, the monster, without having been seen by any
of the people, flew back to his home.
When the Minor Canon made his appearance in the morning among the
citizens, the enthusiasm and cordiality with which he was received
were truly wonderful. He was taken to a house which had been occupied
by one of the banished high officers of the place, and every one was
anxious to do all that could be done for his health and comfort. The
people crowded into the church when he held services, so that the
three old women who used to be his week-day congregation could not
get to the best seats, which they had always been in the habit of
taking; and the parents of the bad children determined to reform them
at home, in order that he might be spared the trouble of keeping up
his former school. The Minor Canon was appointed to the highest
office of the old church, and before he died, he became a bishop.
During the first years after his return from the dreadful wilds, the
people of the town looked up to him as a man to whom they were bound
to do honor and reverence; but they often, also, looked up to the sky
to see if there were any signs of the Griffin coming back. However,
in the course of time, they learned to honor and reverence their
former Minor Canon without the fear of being punished if they did not
do so.
But they need never have been afraid of the Griffin. The autumnal
equinox day came round, and the monster ate nothing. If he could not
have the Minor Canon, he did not care for any thing. So, lying down,
with his eyes fixed upon the great stone griffin, he gradually
declined, and died. It was a good thing for some of the people of the
town that they did not know this.
If you should ever visit the old town, you would still see the little
griffins on the sides of the church; but the great stone griffin that
was over the door is gone.
OLD PIPES AND THE DRYAD.
* * * * *
A mountain brook ran through a little village. Over the brook there
was a narrow bridge, and from the bridge a foot-path led out from the
village and up the hill-side, to the cottage of Old Pipes and his
mother. For many, many years, Old Pipes had been employed by the
villagers to pipe the cattle down from the hills. Every afternoon, an
hour before sunset, he would sit on a rock in front of his cottage
and play on his pipes. Then all the flocks and herds that were
grazing on the mountains would hear him, wherever they might happen
to be, and would come down to the village--the cows by the easiest
paths, the sheep by those not quite so easy, and the goats by the
steep and rocky ways that were hardest of all.
But now, for a year or more, Old Pipes had not piped the cattle home.
It is true that every afternoon he sat upon the rock and played upon
his familiar instrument; but the cattle did not hear him. He had
grown old, and his breath was feeble. The echoes of his cheerful
notes, which used to come from the rocky hill on the other side of
the valley, were heard no more; and twenty yards from Old Pipes one
could scarcely tell what tune he was playing. He had become somewhat
deaf, and did not know that the sound of his pipes was so thin and
weak, and that the cattle did not hear him. The cows, the sheep, and
the goats came down every afternoon as before, but this was because
two boys and a girl were sent up after them. The villagers did not
wish the good old man to know that his piping was no longer of any
use, so they paid him his little salary every month, and said nothing
about the two boys and the girl.
Old Pipes's mother was, of course, a great deal older then he was,
and was as deaf as a gate,--posts, latch, hinges, and all,--and she
never knew that the sound of her son's pipe did not spread over all
the mountainside, and echo back strong and clear from the opposite
hills. She was very fond of Old Pipes, and proud of his piping; and
as he was so much younger than she was, she never thought of him as
being very old. She cooked for him, and made his bed, and mended his
clothes; and they lived very comfortably on his little salary.
One afternoon, at the end of the month, when Old Pipes had finished
his piping, he took his stout staff and went down the hill to the
village to receive the money for his month's work. The path seemed a
great deal steeper and more difficult than it used to be; and Old
Pipes thought that it must have been washed by the rains and greatly
damaged. He remembered it as a path that was quite easy to traverse
either up or down. But Old Pipes had been a very active man, and as
his mother was so much older than he was, he never thought of himself
as aged and infirm.
When the Chief Villager had paid him, and he had talked a little with
some of his friends, Old Pipes started to go home. But when he had
crossed the bridge over the brook, and gone a short distance up the
hill-side, he became very tired, and sat down upon a stone. He had
not been sitting there half a minute, when along came two boys and a
girl.
"Children," said Old Pipes, "I'm very tired tonight, and I don't
believe I can climb up this steep path to my home. I think I shall
have to ask you to help me."
"We will do that," said the boys and the girl, quite cheerfully; and
one boy took him by the right hand, and the other by the left, while
the girl pushed him in the back. In this way he went up the hill
quite easily, and soon reached his cottage door. Old Pipes gave each
of the three children a copper coin, and then they sat down for a few
minutes' rest before starting back to the village.
"I'm sorry that I tired you so much," said Old Pipes.
"Oh, that would not have tired us," said one of the boys, "if we had
not been so far to-day after the cows, the sheep, and the goats. They
rambled high up on the mountain, and we never before had such a time
in finding them."
"Had to go after the cows, the sheep, and the goats!" exclaimed Old
Pipes. "What do you mean by that?"
The girl, who stood behind the old man, shook her head, put her hand
on her mouth, and made all sorts of signs to the boy to stop talking
on this subject; but he did not notice her, and promptly answered Old
Pipes.
"Why, you see, good sir," said he, "that as the cattle can't hear
your pipes now, somebody has to go after them every evening to drive
them down from the mountain, and the Chief Villager has hired us
three to do it. Generally it is not very hard work, but to-night the
cattle had wandered far."
"How long have you been doing this?" asked the old man.
The girl shook her head and clapped her hand on her mouth more
vigorously than before, but the boy went on.
"I think it is about a year now," he said, "since the people first
felt sure that the cattle could not hear your pipes; and from that
time we've been driving them down. But we are rested now, and will go
home. Good-night, sir."
The three children then went down the hill, the girl scolding the boy
all the way home. Old Pipes stood silent a few moments, and then he
went into his cottage.
"Mother," he shouted; "did you hear what those children said?"
"Children!" exclaimed the old woman; "I did not hear them. I did not
know there were any children here."
Then Old Pipes told his mother, shouting very loudly to make her
hear, how the two boys and the girl had helped him up the hill, and
what he had heard about his piping and the cattle.
"They can't hear you?" cried his mother. "Why, what's the matter with
the cattle?"
"Ah, me!" said Old Pipes; "I don't believe there's any thing the
matter with the cattle. It must be with me and my pipes that there is
something the matter. But one thing is certain, if I do not earn the
wages the Chief Villager pays me, I shall not take them. I shall go
straight down to the village and give back the money I received
to-day."
"Nonsense!" cried his mother. "I'm sure you've piped as well as you
could, and no more can be expected. And what are we to do without the
money?"
"I don't know," said Old Pipes; "but I'm going down to the village to
pay it back."
The sun had now set; but the moon was shining very brightly on the
hill-side, and Old Pipes could see his way very well. He did not take
the same path by which he had gone before, but followed another,
which led among the trees upon the hill-side, and, though longer, was
not so steep.
When he had gone about half-way, the old man sat down to rest,
leaning his back against a great oak-tree. As he did so, he heard a
sound like knocking inside the tree, and then a voice distinctly
said:
"Let me out! let me out!"
Old Pipes instantly forgot that he was tired, and sprang to his feet.
"This must be a Dryad-tree!" he exclaimed. "If it is, I'll let her
out."
Old Pipes had never, to his knowledge, seen a Dryad-tree, but he knew
there were such trees on the hill-sides and the mountains, and that
Dryads lived in them. He knew, too, that in the summer-time, on those
days when the moon rose before the sun went down, a Dryad could come
out of her tree if any one could find the key which locked her in,
and turn it. Old Pipes closely examined the trunk of the tree, which
stood in the full moonlight. "If I see that key," he said, "I shall
surely turn it." Before long he perceived a piece of bark standing
out from the tree, which appeared to him very much like the handle of
a key. He took hold of it, and found he could turn it quite around.
As he did so, a large part of the side of the tree was pushed open,
and a beautiful Dryad stepped quickly out.
For a moment she stood motionless, gazing on the scene before
her,--the tranquil valley, the hills, the forest, and the
mountain-side, all lying in the soft clear light of the moon. "Oh,
lovely! lovely!" she exclaimed. "How long it is since I have seen any
thing like this!" And then, turning to Old Pipes, she said: "How good
of you to let me out! I am so happy and so thankful, that I must kiss
you, you dear old man!" And she threw her arms around the neck of Old
Pipes, and kissed him on both cheeks. "You don't know," she then went
on to say, "how doleful it is to be shut up so long in a tree. I
don't mind it in the winter, for then I am glad to be sheltered, but
in summer it is a rueful thing not to be able to see all the beauties
of the world. And it's ever so long since I've been let out. People
so seldom come this way; and when they do come at the right time they
either don't hear me, or they are frightened, and run away. But you,
you dear old man, you were not frightened, and you looked and looked
for the key, and you let me out, and now I shall not have to go back
till winter has come, and the air grows cold. Oh, it is glorious!
What can I do for you, to show you how grateful I am?"
"I am very glad," said Old Pipes, "that I let you out, since I see
that it makes you so happy; but I must admit that I tried to find the
key because I had a great desire to see a Dryad. But if you wish to
do something for me, you can, if you happen to be going down toward
the village."
"To the village!" exclaimed the Dryad. "I will go anywhere for you,
my kind old benefactor."
"Well, then," said Old Pipes, "I wish you would take this little bag
of money to the Chief Villager and tell him that Old Pipes cannot
receive pay for the services which he does not perform. It is now
more than a year that I have not been able to make the cattle hear
me, when I piped to call them home. I did not know this until
to-night; but now that I know it, I cannot keep the money, and so I
send it back." And, handing the little bag to the Dryad, he bade her
good-night, and turned toward his cottage.
"Good-night," said the Dryad. "And I thank you over, and over, and
over again, you good old man!"
Old Pipes walked toward his home, very glad to be saved the fatigue
of going all the way down to the village and back again. "To be
sure," he said to himself, "this path does not seem at all steep, and
I can walk along it very easily; but it would have tired me
dreadfully to come up all the way from the village, especially as I
could not have expected those children to help me again." When he
reached home, his mother was surprised to see him returning so soon.
"What!" she exclaimed; "have you already come back? What did the
Chief Villager say? Did he take the money?"
Old Pipes was just about to tell her that he had sent the money to
the village by a Dryad, when he suddenly reflected that his mother
would be sure to disapprove such a proceeding, and so he merely said
he had sent it by a person whom he had met.
"And how do you know that the person will ever take it to the Chief
Villager?" cried his mother. "You will lose it, and the villagers
will never get it. Oh, Pipes! Pipes! when will you be old enough to
have ordinary common sense?"
Old Pipes considered that as he was already seventy years of age he
could scarcely expect to grow any wiser, but he made no remark on
this subject; and, saying that he doubted not that the money would go
safely to its destination, he sat down to his supper. His mother
scolded him roundly, but he did not mind it; and after supper he went
out and sat on a rustic chair in front of the cottage to look at the
moonlit village, and to wonder whether or not the Chief Villager
really received the money. While he was doing these two things, he
went fast asleep.
When Old Pipes left the Dryad, she did not go down to the village
with the little bag of money. She held it in her hand, and thought
about what she had heard. "This is a good and honest old man," she
said; "and it is a shame that he should lose this money. He looked as
if he needed it, and I don't believe the people in the village will
take it from one who has served them so long. Often, when in my tree,
have I heard the sweet notes of his pipes. I am going to take the
money back to him." She did not start immediately, because there were
so many beautiful things to look at; but after a while she went up to
the cottage, and, finding Old Pipes asleep in his chair, she slipped
the little bag into his coat-pocket, and silently sped away.
The next day, Old Pipes told his mother that he would go up the
mountain and cut some wood. He had a right to get wood from the
mountain, but for a long time he had been content to pick up the dead
branches which lay about his cottage. To-day, however, he felt so
strong and vigorous that he thought he would go and cut some fuel
that would be better than this. He worked all the morning, and when
he came back he did not feel at all tired, and he had a very good
appetite for his dinner.
Now, Old Pipes knew a good deal about Dryads, but there was one thing
which, although he had heard, he had forgotten. This was, that a kiss
from a Dryad made a person ten years younger. The people of the
village knew this, and they were very careful not to let any child of
ten years or younger, go into the woods where the Dryads were
supposed to be; for, if they should chance to be kissed by one of
these tree-nymphs, they would be set back so far that they would
cease to exist. A story was told in the village that a very bad boy
of eleven once ran away into the woods, and had an adventure of this
kind; and when his mother found him he was a little baby of one year
old. Taking advantage of her opportunity, she brought him up more
carefully than she had done before; and he grew to be a very good boy
indeed.
Now, Old Pipes had been kissed twice by the Dryad, once on each
cheek, and he therefore felt as vigorous and active as when he was a
hale man of fifty. His mother noticed how much work he was doing, and
told him that he need not try in that way to make up for the loss of
his piping wages; for he would only tire himself out, and get sick.
But her son answered that he had not felt so well for years, and that
he was quite able to work. In the course of the afternoon, Old Pipes,
for the first time that day, put his hand in his coat-pocket, and
there, to his amazement, he found the little bag of money. "Well,
well!" he exclaimed, "I am stupid, indeed! I really thought that I
had seen a Dryad; but when I sat down by that big oak-tree I must
have gone to sleep and dreamed it all; and then I came home thinking
I had given the money to a Dryad, when it was in my pocket all the
time. But the Chief Villager shall have the money. I shall not take
it to him to-day, but to-morrow I wish to go to the village to see
some of my old friends; and then I shall give up the money."
Toward the close of the afternoon, Old Pipes, as had been his custom
for so many years, took his pipes from the shelf on which they lay,
and went out to the rock in front of the cottage.
"What are you going to do?" cried his mother. "If you will not
consent to be paid, why do you pipe?"
"I am going to pipe for my own pleasure," said her son. "I am used to
it, and I do not wish to give it up. It does not matter now whether
the cattle hear me or not, and I am sure that my piping will injure
no one."
When the good man began to play upon his favorite instrument he was
astonished at the sound that came from it. The beautiful notes of the
pipes sounded clear and strong down into the valley, and spread over
the hills, and up the sides of the mountain beyond, while, after a
little interval, an echo came back from the rocky hill on the other
side of the valley.
"Ha! ha!" he cried, "what has happened to my pipes? They must have
been stopped up of late, but now they are as clear and good as ever."
Again the merry notes went sounding far and wide. The cattle on the
mountain heard them, and those that were old enough remembered how
these notes had called them from their pastures every evening, and so
they started down the mountain-side, the others following.
The merry notes were heard in the village below, and the people were
much astonished thereby. "Why, who can be blowing the pipes of Old
Pipes?" they said. But, as they were all very busy, no one went up to
see. One thing, however, was plain enough: the cattle were coming
down the mountain. And so the two boys and the girl did not have to
go after them, and had an hour for play, for which they were very
glad.
The next morning Old Pipes started down to the village with his
money, and on the way he met the Dryad. "Oh, ho!" he cried, "is that
you? Why, I thought my letting you out of the tree was nothing but a
dream."
"A dream!" cried the Dryad; "if you only knew how happy you have made
me, you would not think it merely a dream. And has it not benefited
you? Do you not feel happier? Yesterday I heard you playing
beautifully on your pipes."
"Yes, yes," cried he. "I did not understand it before, but I see it
all now. I have really grown younger. I thank you, I thank you, good
Dryad, from the bottom of my heart. It was the finding of the money
in my pocket that made me think it was a dream."
"Oh, I put it in when you were asleep," she said, laughing, "because
I thought you ought to keep it. Good-by, kind, honest man. May you
live long, and be as happy as I am now."
Old Pipes was greatly delighted when he understood that he was really
a younger man; but that made no difference about the money, and he
kept on his way to the village. As soon as he reached it, he was
eagerly questioned as to who had been playing his pipes the evening
before, and when the people heard that it was himself, they were very
much surprised. Thereupon, Old Pipes told what had happened to him,
and then there was greater wonder, with hearty congratulations and
hand-shakes; for Old Pipes was liked by every one. The Chief Villager
refused to take his money, and, although Old Pipes said that he had
not earned it, every one present insisted that, as he would now play
on his pipes as before, he should lose nothing, because, for a time,
he was unable to perform his duty.
So Old Pipes was obliged to keep his money, and after an hour or two
spent in conversation with his friends, he returned to his cottage.
There was one individual, however, who was not at all pleased with
what had happened to Old Pipes. This was an Echo-dwarf, who lived on
the hills on the other side of the valley, and whose duty it was to
echo back the notes of the pipes whenever they could be heard. There
were a great many other Echo-dwarfs on these hills, some of whom
echoed back the songs of maidens, some the shouts of children, and
others the music that was often heard in the village. But there was
only one who could send back the strong notes of the pipes of Old
Pipes, and this had been his sole duty for many years. But when the
old man grew feeble, and the notes of his pipes could not be heard on
the opposite hills, this Echo-dwarf had nothing to do, and he spent
his time in delightful idleness; and he slept so much and grew so fat
that it made his companions laugh to see him walk.
On the afternoon on which, after so long an interval, the sound of
the pipes was heard on the echo hills, this dwarf was fast asleep
behind a rock. As soon as the first notes reached them, some of his
companions ran to wake him. Rolling to his feet, he echoed back the
merry tune of Old Pipes. Naturally, he was very much annoyed and
indignant at being thus obliged to give up his life of comfortable
leisure, and he hoped very much that this pipe-playing would not
occur again. The next afternoon he was awake and listening, and, sure
enough, at the usual hour, along came the notes of the pipes as clear
and strong as they ever had been; and he was obliged to work as long
as Old Pipes played. The Echo-dwarf was very angry. He had supposed,
of course, that the pipe-playing had ceased forever, and he felt that
he had a right to be indignant at being thus deceived. He was so much
disturbed that he made up his mind to go and try to find out whether
this was to be a temporary matter or not. He had plenty of time, as
the pipes were played but once a day, and he set off early in the
morning for the hill on which Old Pipes lived. It was hard work for
the fat little fellow, and when he had crossed the valley and had
gone some distance into the woods on the hill-side, he stopped to
rest, and, in a few minutes, the Dryad came tripping along.
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the dwarf; "what are you doing here? and how did
you get out of your tree?"
"Doing!" cried the Dryad; "I am being happy; that's what I am doing.
And I was let out of my tree by the good old man who plays the pipes
to call the cattle down from the mountain. And it makes me happier to
think that I have been of service to him. I gave him two kisses of
gratitude, and now he is young enough to play his pipes as well as
ever."
The Echo-dwarf stepped forward, his face pale with passion. "Am I to
believe," he said, "that you are the cause of this great evil that
has come upon me? and that you are the wicked creature who has again
started this old man upon his career of pipe-playing? What have I
ever done to you that you should have condemned me for years and
years to echo back the notes of those wretched pipes?"
At this the Dryad laughed loudly.
"What a funny little fellow you are!" she said. "Any one would think
you had been condemned to toil from morning till night; while what
you really have to do is merely to imitate for half an hour every day
the merry notes of Old Pipes's piping. Fie upon you, Echo-dwarf! You
are lazy and selfish; and that is what is the matter with you.
Instead of grumbling at being obliged to do a little wholesome work,
which is less, I am sure, than that of any other echo-dwarf upon the
rocky hill-side, you should rejoice at the good fortune of the old
man who has regained so much of his strength and vigor. Go home and
learn to be just and generous; and then, perhaps, you may be happy.
Good-by."
"Insolent creature!" shouted the dwarf, as he shook his fat little
fist at her. "I'll make you suffer for this. You shall find out what
it is to heap injury and insult upon one like me, and to snatch from
him the repose that he has earned by long years of toil." And,
shaking his head savagely, he hurried back to the rocky hill-side.
Every afternoon the merry notes of the pipes of Old Pipes sounded
down into the valley and over the hills and up the mountain-side; and
every afternoon when he had echoed them back, the little dwarf grew
more and more angry with the Dryad. Each day, from early morning till
it was time for him to go back to his duties upon the rocky
hill-side, he searched the woods for her. He intended, if he met her,
to pretend to be very sorry for what he had said, and he thought he
might be able to play a trick upon her which would avenge him well.
One day, while thus wandering among the trees, he met Old Pipes. The
Echo-dwarf did not generally care to see or speak to ordinary people;
but now he was so anxious to find the object of his search, that he
stopped and asked Old Pipes if he had seen the Dryad. The piper had
not noticed the little fellow, and he looked down on him with some
surprise.
"No," he said; "I have not seen her, and I have been looking
everywhere for her."
"You!" cried the dwarf, "what do you wish with her?"
Old Pipes then sat down on a stone, so that he should be nearer the
ear of his small companion, and he told what the Dryad had done for
him.
When the Echo-dwarf heard that this was the man whose pipes he was
obliged to echo back every day, he would have slain him on the spot
had he been able; but, as he was not able, he merely ground his teeth
and listened to the rest of the story.
"I am looking for the Dryad now," Old Pipes continued, "on account of
my aged mother. When I was old myself, I did not notice how very old
my mother was; but now it shocks me to see how feeble and decrepit
her years have caused her to become; and I am looking for the Dryad
to ask her to make my mother younger, as she made me."
The eyes of the Echo-dwarf glistened. Here was a man who might help
him in his plans.
"Your idea is a good one," he said to Old Pipes, "and it does you
honor. But you should know that a Dryad can make no person younger
but one who lets her out of her tree. However, you can manage the
affair very easily. All you need do is to find the Dryad, tell her
what you want, and request her to step into her tree and be shut up
for a short time. Then you will go and bring your mother to the tree;
she will open it, and every thing will be as you wish. Is not this a
good plan?"
"Excellent!" cried Old Pipes; "and I will go instantly and search
more diligently for the Dryad."
"Take me with you," said the Echo-dwarf. "You can easily carry me on
your strong shoulders; and I shall be glad to help you in any way
that I can."
"Now, then," said the little fellow to himself, as Old Pipes carried
him rapidly along, "if he persuades the Dryad to get into a
tree,--and she is quite foolish enough to do it,--and then goes away
to bring his mother, I shall take a stone or a club and I will break
off the key of that tree, so that nobody can ever turn it again. Then
Mistress Dryad will see what she has brought upon herself by her
behavior to me."
Before long they came to the great oak-tree in which the Dryad had
lived, and, at a distance, they saw that beautiful creature herself
coming toward them.
"How excellently well every thing happens!" said the dwarf. "Put me
down, and I will go. Your business with the Dryad is more important
than mine; and you need not say any thing about my having suggested
your plan to you. I am willing that you should have all the credit of
it yourself."
Old Pipes put the Echo-dwarf upon the ground, but the little rogue
did not go away. He concealed himself between some low, mossy rocks,
and he was so much of their color that you would not have noticed him
if you had been looking straight at him.
When the Dryad came up, Old Pipes lost no time in telling her about
his mother, and what he wished her to do. At first, the Dryad
answered nothing, but stood looking very sadly at Old Pipes.
"Do you really wish me to go into my tree again?" she said. "I should
dreadfully dislike to do it, for I don't know what might happen. It
is not at all necessary, for I could make your mother younger at any
time if she would give me the opportunity. I had already thought of
making you still happier in this way, and several times I have waited
about your cottage, hoping to meet your aged mother, but she never
comes outside, and you know a Dryad cannot enter a house. I cannot
imagine what put this idea into your head. Did you think of it
yourself?"
"No, I cannot say that I did," answered Old Pipes. "A little dwarf
whom I met in the woods proposed it to me."
"Oh!" cried the Dryad; "now I see through it all. It is the scheme of
that vile Echo-dwarf--your enemy and mine. Where is he? I should like
to see him."
"I think he has gone away," said Old Pipes.
"No he has not," said the Dryad, whose quick eyes perceived the
Echo-dwarf among the rocks. "There he is. Seize him and drag him out,
I beg of you."
Old Pipes perceived the dwarf as soon as he was pointed out to him,
and, running to the rocks, he caught the little fellow by the arm and
pulled him out.
"Now, then," cried the Dryad, who had opened the door of the great
oak, "just stick him in there, and we will shut him up. Then I shall
be safe from his mischief for the rest of the time I am free."
Old Pipes thrust the Echo-dwarf into the tree; the Dryad pushed the
door shut; there was a clicking sound of bark and wood, and no one
would have noticed that the big oak had ever had an opening in it.
"There," said the Dryad; "now we need not be afraid of him. And I
assure you, my good piper, that I shall be very glad to make your
mother younger as soon as I can. Will you not ask her to come out and
meet me?"
"Of course I will," cried Old Pipes; "and I will do it without
delay."
And then, the Dryad by his side, he hurried to his cottage. But when
he mentioned the matter to his mother, the old woman became very
angry indeed. She did not believe in Dryads; and, if they really did
exist, she knew they must be witches and sorceresses, and she would
have nothing to do with them. If her son had ever allowed himself to
be kissed by one of them, he ought to be ashamed of himself. As to
its doing him the least bit of good, she did not believe a word of
it. He felt better than he used to feel, but that was very common.
She had sometimes felt that way herself, and she forbade him ever to
mention a Dryad to her again.
That afternoon, Old Pipes, feeling very sad that his plan in regard
to his mother had failed, sat down upon the rock and played upon his
pipes. The pleasant sounds went down the valley and up the hills and
mountain, but, to the great surprise of some persons who happened to
notice the fact, the notes were not echoed back from the rocky
hill-side, but from the woods on the side of the valley on which Old
Pipes lived. The next day many of the villagers stopped in their work
to listen to the echo of the pipes coming from the woods. The sound
was not as clear and strong as it used to be when it was sent back
from the rocky hill-side, but it certainly came from among the trees.
Such a thing as an echo changing its place in this way had never been
heard of before, and nobody was able to explain how it could have
happened. Old Pipes, however, knew very well that the sound came from
the Echo-dwarf shut up in the great oak-tree. The sides of the tree
were thin, and the sound of the pipes could be heard through them,
and the dwarf was obliged by the laws of his being to echo back those
notes whenever they came to him. But Old Pipes thought he might get
the Dryad in trouble if he let any one know that the Echo-dwarf was
shut up in the tree, and so he wisely said nothing about it.
One day the two boys and the girl who had helped Old Pipes up the
hill were playing in the woods. Stopping near the great oak-tree,
they heard a sound of knocking within it, and then a voice plainly
said:
"Let me out! let me out!"
For a moment the children stood still in astonishment, and then one
of the boys exclaimed:
"Oh, it is a Dryad, like the one Old Pipes found! Let's let her out!"
"What are you thinking of?" cried the girl. "I am the oldest of all,
and I am only thirteen. Do you wish to be turned into crawling
babies? Run! run! run!"
And the two boys and the girl dashed down into the valley as fast as
their legs could carry them. There was no desire in their youthful
hearts to be made younger than they were. And for fear that their
parents might think it well that they should commence their careers
anew, they never said a word about finding the Dryad-tree.
As the summer days went on, Old Pipes's mother grew feebler and
feebler. One day when her son was away, for he now frequently went
into the woods to hunt or fish, or down into the valley to work, she
arose from her knitting to prepare the simple dinner. But she felt so
weak and tired that she was not able to do the work to which she had
been so long accustomed. "Alas! alas!" she said, "the time has come
when I am too old to work. My son will have to hire some one to come
here and cook his meals, make his bed, and mend his clothes. Alas!
alas! I had hoped that as long as I lived I should be able to do
these things. But it is not so. I have grown utterly worthless, and
some one else must prepare the dinner for my son. I wonder where he
is." And tottering to the door, she went outside to look for him. She
did not feel able to stand, and reaching the rustic chair, she sank
into it, quite exhausted, and soon fell asleep.
The Dryad, who had often come to the cottage to see if she could find
an opportunity of carrying out old Pipes's affectionate design, now
happened by; and seeing that the much-desired occasion had come, she
stepped up quietly behind the old woman and gently kissed her on each
cheek, and then as quietly disappeared.
In a few minutes the mother of old Pipes awoke, and looking up at the
sun, she exclaimed: "Why, it is almost dinner-time! My son will be
here directly, and I am not ready for him." And rising to her feet,
she hurried into the house, made the fire, set the meat and
vegetables to cook, laid the cloth, and by the time her son arrived
the meal was on the table.
"How a little sleep does refresh one," she said to herself, as she
was bustling about. She was a woman of very vigorous constitution,
and at seventy had been a great deal stronger and more active than
her son was at that age. The moment Old Pipes saw his mother, he knew
that the Dryad had been there; but, while he felt as happy as a king,
he was too wise to say any thing about her.
"It is astonishing how well I feel to-day," said his mother; "and
either my hearing has improved or you speak much more plainly than
you have done of late."
The summer days went on and passed away, the leaves were falling from
the trees, and the air was becoming cold.
"Nature has ceased to be lovely," said the Dryad, "and the
night-winds chill me. It is time for me to go back into my
comfortable quarters in the great oak. But first I must pay another
visit to the cottage of Old Pipes."
She found the piper and his mother sitting side by side on the rock
in front of the door. The cattle were not to go to the mountain any
more that season, and he was piping them down for the last time. Loud
and merrily sounded the pipes of Old Pipes, and down the
mountain-side came the cattle, the cows by the easiest paths, the
sheep by those not quite so easy, and the goats by the most difficult
ones among the rocks; while from the great oak-tree were heard the
echoes of the cheerful music.
"How happy they look, sitting there together," said the Dryad; "and I
don't believe it will do them a bit of harm to be still younger." And
moving quietly up behind them, she first kissed Old Pipes on his
cheek and then his mother.
Old Pipes, who had stopped playing, knew what it was, but he did not
move, and said nothing. His mother, thinking that her son had kissed
her, turned to him with a smile and kissed him in return. And then
she arose and went into the cottage, a vigorous woman of sixty,
followed by her son, erect and happy, and twenty years younger than
herself.
The Dryad sped away to the woods, shrugging her shoulders as she felt
the cool evening wind.
When she reached the great oak, she turned the key and opened the
door. "Come out," she said to the Echo-dwarf, who sat blinking
within. "Winter is coming on, and I want the comfortable shelter of
my tree for myself. The cattle have come down from the mountain for
the last time this year, the pipes will no longer sound, and you can
go to your rocks and have a holiday until next spring."
Upon hearing these words the dwarf skipped quickly out, and the Dryad
entered the tree and pulled the door shut after her. "Now, then," she
said to herself, "he can break off the key if he likes. It does not
matter to me. Another will grow out next spring. And although the
good piper made me no promise, I know that when the warm days arrive
next year, he will come and let me out again."
The Echo-dwarf did not stop to break the key of the tree. He was too
happy to be released to think of any thing else, and he hastened as
fast as he could to his home on the rocky hill-side.
* * * * *
The Dryad was not mistaken when she trusted in the piper. When the
warm days came again he went to the oak-tree to let her out. But, to
his sorrow and surprise, he found the great tree lying upon the
ground. A winter storm had blown it down, and it lay with its trunk
shattered and split. And what became of the Dryad, no one ever knew.
THE QUEEN'S MUSEUM.
* * * * *
There was once a Queen who founded, in her capital city, a grand
museum. This institution was the pride of her heart, and she devoted
nearly all her time to overseeing the collection of objects for it,
and their arrangement in the spacious halls. This museum was intended
to elevate the intelligence of her people, but the result was quite
disappointing to the Queen. For some reason, and what it was she
could not imagine, the people were not interested in her museum. She
considered it the most delightful place in the world, and spent hours
every day in examining and studying the thousands of objects it
contained; but although here and there in the city there was a person
who cared to visit the collection, the great body of the people found
it impossible to feel the slightest interest in it. At first this
grieved the Queen, and she tried to make her museum better; but as
this did no good, she became very angry, and she issued a decree that
all persons of mature age who were not interested in her museum
should be sent to prison.
This decree produced a great sensation in the city. The people
crowded to the building, and did their very best to be interested;
but, in the majority of cases, the attempt was an utter failure. They
could not feel any interest whatever. The consequence was that
hundreds and thousands of the people were sent to prison, and as
there was not room enough for them in the ordinary jails, large
temporary prisons were erected in various parts of the city. Those
persons who were actually needed for work or service which no one
else could do were allowed to come out in the day-time on parole; but
at night they had to return to their prisons.
It was during this deplorable state of affairs that a stranger
entered the city one day. He was surprised at seeing so many prisons,
and approaching the window in one of them, behind the bars of which
he saw a very respectable-looking citizen, he asked what all this
meant. The citizen informed him how matters stood, and then, with
tears mounting to his eyes, he added:
"Oh, sir, I have tried my best to be interested in that museum; but
it is impossible; I cannot make myself care for it in the slightest
degree! And, what is more, I know I shall never be able to do so; and
I shall languish here for the rest of my days."
Passing on, the Stranger met a mother coming out of her house. Her
face was pale, and she was weeping bitterly. Filled with pity, he
stopped and asked her what was the matter. "Oh, sir," she said, "for
a week I have been trying, for the sake of my dear children, to take
an interest in that museum. For a time I thought I might do it, but
the hopes proved false. It is impossible. I must leave my little
ones, and go to prison."
The Stranger was deeply affected by these cases and many others of a
similar character, which he soon met with. "It is too bad! too bad!"
he said to himself. "I never saw a city in so much trouble. There is
scarcely a family, I am told, in which there is not some uninterested
person--I must see the Queen and talk to her about it," and with this
he wended his way to the palace.
He met the Queen just starting out on her morning visit to the
museum. When he made it known that he was a stranger, and desired a
short audience, she stopped and spoke to him.
"Have you visited my museum yet?" she said. "There is nothing in the
city so well worth your attention as that. You should go there before
seeing any thing else. You have a high forehead, and an intelligent
expression, and I have no doubt that it will interest you greatly. I
am going there myself, and I shall be glad to see what effect that
fine collection has upon a stranger."
This did not suit the Stranger at all. From what he had heard he felt
quite sure that if he went to the museum, he would soon be in jail;
and so he hurried to propose a plan which had occurred to him while
on his way to the palace.
"I came to see your Majesty on the subject of the museum," he said,
"and to crave permission to contribute to the collection some objects
which shall be interesting to every one. I understand that it is
highly desirable that every one should be interested."
"Of course it is," said the Queen, "and although I think that there
is not the slightest reason why every one should not feel the keenest
interest in what the museum already contains, I am willing to add to
it whatever may make it of greater value."
"In that case," said the Stranger, "no time should be lost in
securing what I wish to present."
"Go at once," said the Queen. "But how soon can you return?"
"It will take some days, at least," said the Stranger.
"Give me your parole to return in a week," said the Queen, "and start
immediately."
The Stranger gave his parole and left the palace. Having filled a
leathern bag with provisions from a cook's shop, he went out of the
city gates. As he walked into the open country, he said to himself:
"I have certainly undertaken a very difficult enterprise. Where I am
to find any thing that will interest all the people in that city, I
am sure I do not know; but my heart is so filled with pity for the
great number of unfortunate persons who are torn from their homes and
shut up in prison, that I am determined to do something for them, if
I possibly can. There must be some objects to be found in this vast
country that will interest every one."
About noon he came to a great mountain-side covered with a forest.
Thinking that he was as likely to find what he sought in one place as
another, and preferring the shade to the sun, he entered the forest,
and walked for some distance along a path which gradually led up the
mountain. Having crossed a brook with its edges lined with
water-cresses, he soon perceived a large cave, at the entrance of
which sat an aged hermit. "Ah," said the Stranger to himself, "this
is indeed fortunate! This good and venerable man, who passes his life
amid the secrets of nature, can surely tell me what I wish to know."
Saluting the Hermit, he sat down and told the old man the object of
his quest.
"I am afraid you are looking for what you will not find," said the
Hermit. "Most people are too silly to be truly interested in any
thing. They herd together like cattle, and do not know what is good
for them. There are now on this mountain-side many commodious and
comfortable caves, all of which would be tenanted if people only knew
how improving and interesting it is to live apart from their
fellow-men. But, so far as it can be done, I will help you in your
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