Chapter IV: Part 4

She looked steadfastly into the luminous eyes of Crimson Tuft, that dilated with pleasurable exultation. She was evidently satisfied with the truth and sincerity she saw beaming there, for she proceeded:--

“I must go again to Mexico, but not alone. The Donna Leota will accompany me, for in the years to come I can not be separated from her. And you must go, as I shall need you. I am very rich, and must trust you with a great secret; but I have studied you well.”

“Señora,” said Crimson Tuft, eagerly, “I will be true to you; you shall never regret.”

“Swear it!” she said, fiercely.

So the young boy knelt, and pressed the good book to his lips, repeating after her a most solemn oath, to serve her faithfully, and keep sacred the great secret, which was to be revealed to Leota only, in case of the grandmother’s death.

“Now,” she said, “I am weary. To-morrow I will tell you all.” And she leaned back in the arm-chair, and shaded her eyes with her fan. Crimson Tuft went out, with his heart beating wild in a tumult of conflicting emotions.

On the morrow, again she called him to the library, and locked the door.

“I have made my will,” she said, “and you are handsomely provided for, in consideration of your proving faithful to the trust I repose in you. Besides this, while I live, you shall never want for gold. Is it all fully understood?”

Then Crimson Tuft said, “It is understood, señora, fully.” And she took from her desk a carefully sealed paper, which she wrapped in sheep-skin, and, again sealing it, gave it to the boy. “This paper,” she said, “describes the exact spot where a great treasure is hidden upon my hacienda, near the City of Mexico. There is no chance of your gaining this for yourself for there are two other persons living who have similar papers; indeed, precautions, that I shall not tell you of, have been taken, so that it must fall to the Donna Leota at last, for she is the only true heiress. You see I am cautious, very cautious,” she added, the old look of suspicion rising in her face.

From this day Crimson Tuft was her chief adviser. He and the dwarf made all preparations for the journey. In about a week all was ready, and they went to San Francisco in a carriage, which drove immediately down to the steamer, and they were soon comfortably settled on board.

“Now,” said Crimson Tuft, “there is still time, and I can walk about the city for half an hour.” But the señora grew excited, and exclaimed, “No! no! you might get lost; remember, you are a stranger.” And the Donna Leota said, softly, “Surely, you will not go away!”

So the dwarf performed all the commissions, and for an hour the señora was absent; but, before leaving, she had said to Crimson Tuft, “I leave the Donna Leota in your care.”

At length the ship sailed. Then came the long, sluggish, dreamy days at sea. Crimson Tuft and Leota were often together upon the deck, for the old señora would not allow her there alone. What golden days they were to the poor Crimson Tuft. More and more he was growing to love the pretty young señorita, and she could not resist the powerful spell of his luminous eyes.

One night she rushed wildly through the saloon to his state-room. The grandmother had been taken suddenly very ill, and must see Crimson Tuft.

She breathed with great difficulty, and her words came low and broken: “If I live to reach Mexico, you will not need this paper; but I am old,” she added, bitterly, “and the old must die.”

With great pain she went on: “If I should not live to reach the hacienda, you will see the child has her own. Dig up the treasure yourself, and do not defraud her of one single gold piece, or the curse of a dying woman will follow you, even from the darkness of the grave.” Then again Crimson Tuft promised, and, taking the paper, left her alone with “the child,” as she still fondly called the Donna Leota.

This attack passed away, but another soon followed, and again Crimson Tuft was summoned to her side. Her glazed eye brightened as she saw him. “Remember,” was all she could say, and again he made the solemn promise. It was the third and last time. With the old señora all was now over.

Leota trembled with fear, and wept bitterly. The grandmother had loved her, and now there was no one left, only Crimson Tuft, who sat by her side all through the silent hours.

The next evening, at sunset, the old señora was buried in the sea.

No one wept but the beautiful young maiden, as the steamer went on, leaving in its wake the cold, lifeless body, wrapped in its shroud of sparkling waters.

At length the good ship arrived safely in Mexico, and Crimson Tuft took the proud young heiress to the hacienda, where a crowd of friends and retainers awaited her.

The will was opened, and there was a large legacy left to Crimson Tuft. But it was as nothing to him. With so much ugliness, what had he to hope for!

In the last paper the señora had handed him, there was a still fuller description of the spot where the treasure was hidden, and a night appointed for him to seek it. It was the eighteenth birthnight of the Donna Leota. Till then, she was to be placed in a convent, and Crimson Tuft was to have the best tutors in the City of Mexico. This would make a man of him.

So the young people were separated for a time, but the two years soon rolled by, and Crimson Tuft returned to the hacienda with his papers.

What a change there was in him. His brown, dark face had grown every day more fair, and his stiff red hair more soft and silky, and of a rich brown color. It was really wonderful. The young man was transformed, day by day, from the ugly Crimson Tuft to the handsome Paul.

The Donna Leota had become the beautiful woman that her childhood promised, and when she met Paul after the two years of separation, she felt that the great mystery was solved, and knew that she could never love any one else. So they were betrothed, and she was to be made his wife on her eighteenth birthday.

At the appointed time, Paul sought and found the great treasure that had been hidden for so long. There were immense iron pots, full of shining gold pieces, that had been hidden during one of the many Mexican revolutions. Thus it was found that the Donna Leota was the richest maiden in all Mexico, and she had many suitors among the wealthy Spanish hidalgoes; but she cared only for Paul, for the spell of the wonderful eyes, which had been Crimson Tuft’s, was upon her.

At last, the joyous wedding-day came, and every one said, “What a tall, handsome señor is the bridegroom, and how very lovely the bride. The sun shines upon them and it will be a happy marriage.”

Soon after, they went to San Francisco, and Paul felt the old dream returning.

One day, as he walked through the market-place, he came to a vegetable stand. Behind it sat a sorrowful woman, with a sad, mild face, that woke the sleeping memories of his heart. “Mother!” he exclaimed, with a thrill of tenderness in his voice that raised the bowed head of the lonely one. She gave one look into the eyes that, once seen, could never be forgotten, and cried, “Paul! my son, my son!” and opening her arms, received upon her bosom the head of her long lost treasure.

How she wept, and smiled, and pressed him to her heart; then held him off, that she might gaze upon the dear handsome face.

Then they went home to the father, who was old and sick. He had lost strength and heart years ago, and they were very poor. “He has never held up his head,” so the mother said, “since our boy was taken from us.”

But that was all over; the lost was found; poverty, sorrow, and sickness fled with his presence.

He took the old father and mother home to Leota, who received them into her own heart; for, were they not his parents and hers?

At first the old vegetable woman stood a little in awe of her high-born daughter, but that soon melted away in the warmth of the dainty little Señora’s affection; and the father, mother, son, and daughter, lived all their lives together, a happy family, united in heart and mind by the silken bonds of a true, earnest affection.

SNOWDROP AND ROSEBUD.

A CALIFORNIA STORY.

Years ago, before the gold-seekers came to California, there lived at the Mission of San Gabriel, a Spaniard, whose beautiful vineyard was admired by all the country.

In early life he had been a great traveler, and while in Germany, he met a fair golden-haired maiden, whom he loved and married. After a few years he emigrated to America, and settled at the Mission of San Gabriel--near the town of Los Angeles.

There he prospered greatly, his cattle increased to great herds, covering the green hill-sides, and his vineyard was the pride of his heart. He built a pleasant house, and surrounded it with a garden filled with all kinds of fruit. In that delicious climate, fruits of the tropic and temperate zones grow together; while the white flowers of the North, and their crimson-hued sisters of the South, blossom side by side.

There seemed nothing wanting to make his happiness complete but children. The house was too silent; he wished for the silvery laughter of childish voices; he longed to press little ones to his heart, and call them his own.

At last, God gave him two little girls; but the fair, golden-haired mother lived only to bless them, and was then buried by the clear “Lake of the Tulés.” At first he was inconsolable, and for months refused to see his little ones; but one day, while he slept, the old Indian nurse took them into his room, and laid them on the bed by his side.

Little Snowdrop nestled in his bosom, but Rosebud ran her fingers into his beard, and pulled it so hard that she woke him. There she was, when he opened his eyes, crowing with delight--her little rosy lips close to his, and the fair Snowdrop in his bosom.

Then all the father’s love, which had only slept, awoke, and he pressed the little ones to his heart, weeping; but especially he loved the beautiful Snowdrop, she was so like her mother.

After this, although he still mourned greatly for his wife, he loved these little ones very dearly; and as years passed by, became happy in the absorbing devotion to them, which filled his whole heart.

He watched over them with the most jealous care. Even in childhood, he would not allow them to play with other children; and as they grew older, his fear was awakened lest some of the young señors of Los Angeles should see and fall in love with them. For his daughters to form a mèsalliance, he was quite sure would break his heart.

As he was obliged often to go from home on business, he employed an old Indian woman as duenna, and charged her never to allow the girls out of her sight for a moment.

Rosebud was a Spanish girl, with purple-tinged hair, soft black eyes, and clear olive complexion. Through the satin skin the warm blood flushed her cheeks, and her lips were more tempting than ripe cherries; but Snowdrop was a rare German maiden in complexion, clear and fair as the noonday. Her eyes were like violets. Her hair in the sunshine was like fine spun gold, and so long that it reached to her feet, and hung like a mantle of glory about her.

It was no wonder the old man guarded his daughters so carefully; for though so different, they were equally beautiful, and all the young men of good family were anxious to pay court to them.

Day by day they sat upon the piazza of the inner court, reading the fascinating romances of old Spain, which was to them the dreamland of delight. They longed very much to go out, and see something of life among the rich Spanish families about San Gabriel and Los Angeles, but their father would not allow it; and the old duenna was always near them; even when they walked through the vineyard or the orange orchard, she followed them.

One day, Rosebud called Snowdrop into the garden, and sitting under a large almond-tree, she said: “Look over this book of prints with me, while we talk softly, for the duenna must not hear every thing.”

Snowdrop rested her golden tresses upon her sister’s arm, and, turning over the leaves of the book, they talked together.

“Sister dear,” said Rosebud, “we lead a very dull life here. All young girls are gay and happy. What is the use of being beautiful, with no one to see us but servants and old women?” A look of conscious beauty gathered around her pouting lips, as she ran her dainty fingers through the silken meshes of her sister’s golden hair.

“Our dear papa loves us,” said Snowdrop, “but I do wish to be loved by others,” she added--her violet eyes softening, and a faint flush spreading over her fair cheeks and neck.

“And I to be admired! but how can we be either?” replied Rosebud, “shut up here, with the old duenna to watch every thing we do? God made us beautiful, and I’m sure he intended us to be seen. And for my part, I am determined to go to the consul’s grand ball, if I have to run away!” and her pretty dark eyes filled with tears.

“Oh! sister Rosebud, think of the dear papa!” said Snowdrop.

“He did not tell us not to go out of the garden alone; he only told the duenna to watch us. If we could only manage her,” said Rosebud, thoughtfully.

“I am afraid it would not be right,” replied Snowdrop, “but I want to go very much. We will make an altar-cloth, and embroider it with gold, as an offering to the Blessed Virgin. Perhaps she will pity our loneliness, and help us.”

So they wrought an altar-cloth of purple and gold, and spread it upon the altar, before the picture of the Blessed Mother, in their own chamber; putting vases of beautiful flowers upon it. When it was finished they were quite happy, and sat down with their guitars, and sang very sweetly together, till their father came home.

The next morning, an old Mexican woman, with baskets of trinkets for sale, knocked at the garden gate.

When she was admitted, she spread out her finery before the young señoritas. The duenna hastened to the piazza where they were sitting--for no one was more fond of looking over the _vendedora’s_ basket than she, always finding something she could not do without among its tempting stores--this time it was a gay-colored shawl, and she ran away for her purse.

As soon as she was out of sight, the old woman whispered:--

“Pretty señoritas, I have charms to sell. This will make you admired, and this loved,” she said, holding up two curious little bags--one tied with long pink ribbon, the other with blue--“and this,” pointing to a third, “will make you sleep. It contains a powder. You must drop one grain into a glass of water. It is perfectly tasteless, but it brings on a sleep so profound, that until the effect passes away, nothing could awaken you from pleasant dreams.”

The young girls bought the charms. Snowdrop took the one tied with blue ribbon, and placing it in her bosom, whispered, “Now I may be loved.”

“And I will be admired,” said Rosebud, taking the other; but the charm for sleep she concealed in her pocket, just as the old duenna returned, eager for her purchases.

“I have pretty slippers for little dancing feet,” said the old woman, holding up two pairs of the daintiest white satin slippers you could imagine.

“The señoritas have no use for them,” exclaimed the duenna, frowning; but the young girls found that they fitted so nicely, and looked so pretty, they bought them.

“Papa is rich enough to give us any thing we want, and we fancy these,” said Rosebud. They bought strings of beads, ribbons, and combs for their hair, until the old duenna was nearly frantic. What they could want of all these, shut up as they were, she could not tell.

Then Rosebud said:--“We will have some new dresses;” so they bought fine white muslin and lace. Snowdrop bought a bright-colored handkerchief, which she gave the duenna, who was so much pleased that she promised to help them make their dresses.

As soon as the old woman went away, they all sat upon the piazza, shaded with vines, and commenced cutting and stitching upon the delicate fabric so busily, that by evening the skirts of their dresses were quite finished.

The next morning they were early at work again.

“Why do you hurry so much,” said the duenna, who never liked to work very long at a time.

“To have it over the sooner, dear duenna,” answered Snowdrop, smiling so sweetly that the duenna took her needle again quite pleasantly.

Snowdrop’s dress was trimmed with blue ribbon, Rosebud’s with crimson and gold. The young girls wrought upon them all their pretty fancies, till, when they were finished, the duenna thought them beautiful enough for a queen.

At evening the work was all done; and the duenna, quite fatigued with her unaccustomed task, sat dozing in her arm-chair.

Suddenly she roused herself, exclaiming:--“How warm it is! I am very thirsty.”

Rosebud jumped up quickly, saying, “I will bring you fresh water;” so she ran down to the spring at the foot of the garden, and there she met the faithful old Miguel--who had been in the family for years before she was born, and loved the young señoritas as though they were his own children.

Rosebud caught him by the arm, and whispered:--“Have the horses at the back garden-gate to-night at nine o’clock, you dear old Miguel, for you shall take us to the consul’s ball.”

“But the señor?” said the old servant, in astonishment.

“Never mind the señor, you dear, careful man.”

“But the duenna?” he continued.

“Never mind! never mind! I tell you I will go! so be sure you are ready in time,” said Rosebud, laughing, and shaking her finger as she ran away.

Poor old Miguel was in a great dilemma. He loved the pretty señoritas, and wanted to help them; but he feared the señor.

“It may cost me my place; and in this family I have lived, and here I would die; but my pretty children are so lonely, it is too bad to shut them up--and old Miguel will not fail them.”

Thus his fond love for the fair girls he had carried in his arms in their helpless infancy, conquered his discretion; and he went to the stable to groom the horses.

Rosebud brought the water--clear, cool, and sparkling--to the old duenna, and she drank it eagerly in her thirst, little dreaming of the sleep-charm the gay young señorita had dropped into the cup.

Almost instantly she became very drowsy, and, closing her eyes, she fell asleep in her chair. In a short time her heavy breathing told how surely the charm had taken effect.

“Now for the ball!” said Rosebud. So the young girls dressed themselves quickly, but with great care--looping their sleeves with rare flowers from the garden, and tying their ribbons very tastefully.

“I think we shall do,” said Rosebud, looking at the beautiful girl reflected from her mirror, then at the softer beauty of her sister.

Snowdrop answered by a kiss, and they went out softly, and down the garden path to the gate, where the faithful Miguel waited for them.

An hour’s ride brought them to the brilliantly lighted mansion of the consul, and all the young señors were delighted at the arrival of the fair sisters.

No one was so much courted and admired, among all the fair señoritas at the ball that night, as Snowdrop and Rosebud; and none of the gay hidalgoes were more happy than old Miguel, who was peeping from behind the hall door, enjoying the triumph of his darlings. At last he became uneasy, and, approaching them with a respectful bow, told them it was time to go home.

Taking special leave of their host and hostess, bowing gracefully to the guests, they started for home--leaving all, admirers, and many lovers behind them.

When they entered their chamber, they found the duenna still sleeping soundly. They undressed themselves noiselessly, putting away all their clothes but their slippers, which they forgot.

In the morning, when the sun arose, the duenna awoke, and was much surprised to find herself sitting in a chair, instead of being in bed.

She had but a confused recollection of things, and began to think she must have taken a little more wine than she intended at dinner the day before. She thought she remembered Rosebud giving her a glass of water when she was very thirsty, but she was not sure that it might not have been wine.

She looked around, but could discover nothing to help her. The two girls were sleeping soundly, and upon the face of Rosebud there was a smile. She was dreaming of the ball--again surrounded by a crowd of admirers.

Snowdrop dreamed of the dear papa; he was angry with them for their disobedience, and her long eyelashes were wet with tears.

“How different they are in their ways, even in sleep!” said the duenna.

She turned away, and as her eye fell upon the forgotten slippers, her searching glance detected that they had been worn.

“What does this mean? So much worn, and bought yesterday! ’Tis very strange!” mused she, and put them in her pocket.

She woke the young girls, but they fell asleep again. They were so unused to dancing late at night, that they were very tired; and when the bell rang for breakfast, they did not appear.

“Where are my dear daughters?” said the father, with a clouded face.

She could only tell him that they were still asleep, and seemed very tired.

“So are my horses,” replied he, angrily; “but I will see about this.”

The duenna was afraid to show him the shoes, lest he should blame her; but in her confusion, as she drew her handkerchief from her pocket, one of them dropped out upon the floor.

“What is this?” said the señor, sternly; and she was obliged to tell him all she knew.

For some time the troubled father walked the floor with great agitation without speaking, while the duenna stood trembling before him. Then, turning to her quickly, he said:--

“Call my daughters;” and he rang the bell for Miguel.

All three came into the room with fearful hearts; but Snowdrop’s face was covered with her golden hair, and the tears were shining through it.

Turning to Miguel, he said, sternly, with a black frown covering his whole face:--

“Stand here, and tell me how it is, that this morning I find my horses reeking with foam?”

The old man only answered, “I alone am to blame, señor. Pardon your old servant, who loves you and yours!” and he clasped his hands, and looked imploringly at the dark, angry face that frowned upon him.

Then Snowdrop could bear it no longer, so she ran to the father--throwing her white arms around his neck, and resting her golden-crowned head upon his bosom, she said:--

“Dear papa, I will tell you all! Only do not blame dear, good old Miguel.”

Then she told him of all their loneliness, and eager longings for companions of their own age; about the altar-cloth and all, without reserving one thing. “And now we are sorry; it was wrong; but the dear papa will forgive!” and she raised her pretty face, all shining with tears, and begged him to kiss her.

How like her mother she was! and the father thought of the sunny days of his youth, when he had wandered on the banks of the Rhine with the fair German maiden, and wondered how he could forget that the young and ardent hearts of his children must be like the heart of his youth.

He kissed the innocent face upturned to his, and forgave them, saying, “I, too, have been to blame; and, in future, I will go with you to all places, my darlings, where it is proper, and right for you to go.”

Snowdrop and Rosebud were delighted, and willingly promised never again to deceive “the dear papa;” and from that day there was mutual confidence and love between the young girls and the father.

After a time, when two brave and gallant knights sought of the father the hands of the fair señoritas in marriage, he answered, “Let the hearts of my dear children decide for you. My only wish is to see them happy.”

There was a great feast made at their marriage; and the old Spanish house, so long wrapped in seclusion, resounded with joyous music and the merry laughter of light hearts. Again old Miguel stood behind the door, and rejoiced to see his darlings loved, admired, and happy.

LAZARUS AND BUMMER.

It was a dark rainy day in the land where the rain makes the winter, and the sunshine and blue sky the pleasant summer-time.

Through the Golden Gate, came the ship to the new city of hope, and all the people on board thought, “how happy and rich we shall become in the Gold Land. Though the city is now only a miserable place of tents and sand hills, one day how great it will be, and we shall live to see it. The fair Golden City.”

On the rude wharf stood the expectant crowd. To them the ship was the beautiful carrier-dove, with its white wings spread to bring them news of home.

“Perhaps there will be some one from the old home,” said a young man, with his brown eyes filled with eager longing. “The dark old Atlantic! how its breakers used to dash upon the rocks in sight of home. It was glorious. To-morrow will be Christmas! I wonder, will they remember all, as I do!”

By his side stood a great shaggy dog, who belonged to nobody.

He talked only in the dog language, but was very learned, and understood all the young man said. He was a wonderful dog, and had his thoughts. “I am my own master,” he said, “and that is pleasant--yet one likes to be cared for, and nobody cares for me. I shall get no news from home, and to-morrow will be Christmas. This is not as it should be; I must see to it.”

The great dog was getting quite out of temper, and, with a surly growl, he turned round so quickly, that he gave the young man a start.

“One would think the dog was mad,” said he, “only it is not the season.” Then he looked out again hopefully to the coming ship.

The great dog ran round the corner, and through the wet streets all day.

The steamer had arrived, and there were new faces looking eagerly about for old familiar ones, and the old were looking for the new; so there was altogether a great bustle such as was never seen, only in those early days when the ships came in from home. Thus the day passed, and the evening came on, raining dismally--yet it was Christmas eve.

In a dark alley sat the great dog. His shaggy coat kept him warm, yet it was very desolate there alone.

“One should have something to live for,” growled he, “something to take care of and protect, or there is no use in being strong and brave. One might as well be a puny poodle, and sit by the parlor fire,” and he gave an ugly bark, “bow, wow, wow! one should have an object in life.”

Just then he heard a low moan, and looking round, he saw a poor lame dog, very thin and sick, lying down in the mud, and ready to die of hunger.

It was really quite wretched, and all the great dog’s sympathies were aroused. “There _is_ an object, to be sure,” he said. “It is Christmas eve, and the good Santa Claus has taken pity on me, and given me this poor fellow, who needs me as much as I do him. What a zest life has, when one has something to live for.”

Without any useless ceremony, he raised the poor dog, and tenderly as the mother dog carries her little ones, he bore him to a warm, dry place, and made him a nice bed of clean straw.

“This is better, my friend,” said the noble creature, quite flushed and happy with the pleasure of doing a kind act. “What more can I do for you?”

“I am famishing with hunger,” replied the lame dog, with a feeble groan, and off went his great shaggy protector, through rain and mud, to a restaurant, and there the cook gave him a bone, saying, “take it, you Bummer.”

He caught the bone, and running off as fast as possible, in a few moments laid it before the lame dog.

It was a rich bone, and had a delicious smell that was quite reviving to the sick one.

It was so pleasant to see the poor hungry fellow eat, that Bummer could not leave him until he had finished. “I never enjoyed a bone so much in my life,” said Bummer, as he tucked the warm straw around his new friend, and saw him closing his eyes with a pleasant satisfied languor.

“This is something like living,” added he, with a lively bark, as he ran back to the restaurant for his own dinner.

“Coming again, Bummer?” said the jolly, red-faced cook, throwing him another bone, which he ate with a famous relish.

In the morning he went back again to the restaurant, serving the sick dog first, and again at night, and day after day, till he became the jolly cook’s regular pensioner.

At the restaurant they grew quite curious to know what became of the first bone, and sent some one to follow Bummer, who came back telling the strange story, and saying, “it is really quite wonderful.”

Then every one talked of it, and soon the whole town came to know the two dogs, and called them Bummer and Lazarus.

In the pleasant days they walked out together, Bummer always watching over Lazarus with the tenderest care. It was really a pleasant sight to see them, they were so happy together.

Thus time passed away, making no change in the protecting devotion of Bummer, nor the trusting love of Lazarus.

But there must be an end of all things, and at last Lazarus died.

This was a great sorrow to poor Bummer, and he grew so thin and wretched that the jolly cook was quite distressed.

“You must cheer up, my good Bummer; really it will never do; you _must_ cheer up.”

“It is all over now,” said the dog, “one must have something to live for. It is no use, one must have an object.”

He was no longer the Bummer of old, and he went away to the place where Lazarus rested.

“He forgot to eat his bone,” said the jolly cook; “poor fellow, we were getting used to him, and we shall miss him. He belonged to the town--he was ‘our dog.’”

This was the last time he went for his bone. It was all over, and Bummer and Lazarus became a remembrance which has passed into a tradition.

The skin of Bummer was carefully stuffed, and placed in a glass case. It may still be seen in some restaurant on Montgomery Street, where it is preserved as a precious relic of the olden time.

This is a true story, little ones, and no doubt the fathers will tell you, how, in the olden days, he has often seen Bummer and Lazarus.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_.

Superscripted characters are preceded by a carat character: C^o.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic spelling that may have been in use at the time of publication
has been retained.

Errors in the Table of Contents have been corrected.

End of Project Gutenberg's Fairy Tales from Gold Lands, by May Wentworth