Chapter III: Part 3

In the tavern the laborers ordered food and drink to be set before Michel, and clothed him out of the landlord’s chests and trunks, so that he no longer looked like a tramp. When he was fitted out and had eaten, he glanced around the room. In one corner he saw at a table three fellows, who sat there silently, pledging each other from time to time in large glasses of brandy. One had squint eyes, the second a nose twisted completely on one side, the third was disfigured by a hare-lip. They looked so evil, that Michel was horrified, and quickly seized the dwarf’s spectacles. He was curious to learn what kind of thoughts lurked behind such ugly faces. What he read in their heads made him shudder. They were all three thinking of nothing except that that night they would break into an old castle near the inn, murder the old countess, her young daughter, and two maid-servants, who were living there alone, while the old count was in attendance at court, and steal all their gold and silver. Behind these thoughts, which he saw with terrible distinctness, he read others a little less clearly. The squint-eyed man was imagining how he would stab the women with his dagger, while they knelt before him begging for mercy. The crooked-nosed man fancied he had a pile of gold, into which he was plunging his blood-stained hands. The hare-lipped man meant to attack his two comrades in their sleep, after the crime had been committed, kill them, and rob them of their share of the booty.

Michel asked himself in horror what he could do to prevent the crime and deliver the wicked fellows to punishment. Tell the laborers what he read in the heads of the three monsters? They would not believe him and perhaps think he was crazy. Go to the police and denounce the scoundrels? But how could he prove what they meant to do? If they denied it, he would stand there like a simpleton, and the police would perhaps take him for a rascal who wanted to fool them. After thinking over the matter for a long time, it seemed to him that he could do nothing except deal with the three rogues all alone.

He agreed to meet the laborers the next morning, at the same inn, to go with them to a place to work, took leave of them, and hurried off in the direction that he supposed the castle stood. After questioning all the shepherds and market women he met on the way, he at last reached a thick forest, and there, in a clearing, was the old castle with its solid walls and small windows.

He knocked at the heavy oak door until it slowly opened a little, and in the crack appeared an aged maid-servant, who asked what he wanted. He begged to see the countess, for whom he had an important message.

He was kept waiting a long while outside the door, but at last the maid came back and sulkily invited him to follow her. Michel went behind her to a little tower room, where the old countess received him. Beside her sat her daughter, a young girl, as beautiful as an angel, whose blue eyes were as friendly as the bright day. Michel felt his heart grow as warm as if sunbeams had entered it, and he could not make up his mind to frighten this lovely creature by his story. He told the countess that he must speak to her alone, and, after a little hesitation, she sent her daughter and the servant out and ordered Michel to deliver his message at once.

“Your ladyship,” he said, “three murderers intend to attack your castle to-night, kill you all, and steal your treasures.” Seeing her turn pale, he added quickly: “Have no fear, I will remain to defend you and, so long as I have a drop of blood in my body, no one shall harm a hair of your heads.”

“One against three—” sighed the countess, anxiously.

“I would fight with five, if I only had weapons.”

“There is no lack of arms here,” said the countess. “But would it not be wiser for us to fly to the city at once?”

“The road is long, it is almost dark, and the forest is not safe,” replied Michel. “Besides, your flight would not prevent the robbery of the castle.”

The countess saw this. She was naturally a brave woman, and Michel’s presence somewhat soothed her. She gave him from her husband’s weapons a gun, two pistols, and a dagger, ordered a dainty supper to be served for him, sent her daughter and the two maids to bed early, and then kept watch with him in the castle hall. No persuasion from Michel could induce her to go into her tower and protect herself behind locks and bolts. “If I am warned, I can defend myself,” she said firmly, and so it was settled. Just before midnight the countess and Michel, who were listening behind the oak door, heard soft, stealing steps approaching and whispering voices consulting about the best way of breaking into the castle. Various plans were refused, and at last they agreed that the most nimble robber should climb, by projecting stones, to a window on the second story, fasten a rope wound about his waist to the cross-bars, and drag the others up.

“Now we have the rascals,” Michel whispered into the countess’s ear, and ran before her up the stairs into the room whose window the scoundrel meant to enter. With his gun ready to fire, he waited in the dark until a head appeared above the sill, and then pressed the trigger. A flash, a report, a shriek, a fall, followed one another in an instant. The two robbers who had remained below saw, with terror, their comrade drop at their feet, and turned to fly. Michel and the countess fired at the same time, and saw both fall.

“Hurrah!” shouted Michel, joyously, and, without listening to the countess’s warning, he ran down the stairs, seized a lantern, unbolted the door, and rushed out. At the foot of the castle wall he saw the man with a crooked nose lying with a broken skull, and the one with a hare-lip had a bleeding wound in his breast. The squint-eyed man was not dead. He had received a bullet in the leg, and had fallen, but rose again, and was limping off. Michel pursued him like the wind. But the vagabond suddenly turned and struck fiercely at him with a knife. Michel fired a pistol which stretched the murderer in the grass; then he, too, with the blade in his breast, fell to the earth.

Meanwhile the countess’s daughter and the two maids, roused from their sleep by the firing, came hurrying down. The countess called to them that the danger was over, and all four carried the wounded Michel into the castle, without heeding the three ruffians, who lay dead or senseless.

Michel, too, became unconscious after the four women had laid him on a couch. When he came to himself again, many hours had passed since the adventure of the night. A maid had brought a doctor from the city at dawn, and now the count, who had been informed by a messenger of what had happened, also arrived. Michel heard the doctor tell the count that he would recover, and the countess speak with the highest praise of his courage, to which they all owed their lives. He wanted to raise himself and say that he did not deserve so much honor, but they all ordered him in the same breath to say nothing and keep quiet.

It was many days before Michel’s wound healed. The countess and her daughter nursed him tenderly, and he was always happy whenever he saw the lovely girl beside his bed. His eyes rested constantly upon her, and when they met hers, a faint flush mounted into her cheeks. He longed to know what was passing through her little head, and asked for his blue spectacles. The countess and her daughter wondered at this desire, and wished to know what use he could have for blue spectacles in a darkened sick room. But he only repeated the request, until they yielded and brought the spectacles. He hastily seized them, put them on with trembling hands, and gazed with all his soul at the white brow of the young countess. He read: “Why does he stare at me so strangely? Has the poor young fellow gone crazy?” And beyond were many half-distinct thoughts, which were something like, “That would be a great pity, for he is such a dear, brave fellow, and I am so fond of him that I wish he would stay here with me till the end of my life.”

When he had read this, tears filled his eyes. He took off the glasses, which were dimmed, and did not utter a word. But when the countess left him alone with her daughter, he suddenly seized the lovely girl’s hand and said in a trembling voice: “Beautiful Countess, I am only a poor peasant boy, but I love you very, very dearly, and I know that you love me, too, so I dare to ask you, Will you be my wife?”

“Yes, I will,” she answered softly, sinking into his arms. So the countess found the young couple when she entered. At first she was very angry, and would not consent to have her only daughter marry a peasant lad. But the young lady said: “I will have him or no one. And if you will not let me marry him, it will break my heart.” Then, whether willing or not, the mother was obliged to consent, and even beg the count to give his blessing to the union. Michel was now almost well, so he was again allowed to talk, and the count inquired how he had discovered the plans of the three murderers, two of whom were dead and buried, and the third lay wounded in prison. Michel did not wish to have any secrets from his future father-in-law. He told him about his meeting with the dwarf, who had given him the blue spectacles, and what power these spectacles possessed. The count wanted to try their wonderful magic himself, and was convinced that Michel had not attempted to deceive him.

“You must show the dwarf’s spectacles to the king,” said the count and, when Michel was allowed to rise, he took him to court with him and presented him to the king, who heard his story with amazement. He, too, put on the spectacles, and looked a long while at the courtiers who surrounded his throne.

“Your most gracious Majesty, I will gladly give you the dwarf’s spectacles, if you will accept them from me.”

The king slowly shook his head, took them off, and returned them to Michel. “No,” he said, “I do not want them. I would rather not be compelled to read the thoughts of men. It does not give happiness. I will even try to forget what I have read. I will appoint you the chief judge of my kingdom. Then you can apply the dwarf’s spectacles to a useful purpose.”

Michel was now a person of importance, whom even a count would willingly accept for a son-in-law. He brought his mother from the carpenter’s home in the village, married the beautiful young countess, moved into a splendid palace in the capital, and performed his duties as chief justice, with the blue spectacles on his nose.

Nobody among the people knew their power, but soon all trembled before it. For through them Michel read the truth in the head of the most hardened criminal and most skilful sharper; no lie could stand before him, and no injustice remained concealed. No innocent person was condemned, and no guilty one escaped punishment; henceforward law and justice reigned throughout the kingdom. Michel was feared by the bad, honored by the good, and praised by all as the wisest man in the whole country, and so it remained to the end of his long life.

THE GOLDEN BEETLE THAT WENT ON HIS TRAVELS

Once upon a time there lived in Brazil an Atlas butterfly that was far more beautiful than any which had ever been seen before. Her large wings shimmered with green and pale blue, and when she was flying about in the sunshine one could not tell whether it was a wonderful flower, a jewel set with precious stones and pearls, or the flame of a will-o’-the-wisp fluttering through the air.

In the same forest there lived also brilliant little humming-birds, magnificent large beetles, and friendly parrots. They formed a very haughty society, and associated only with one another and the most aristocratic orchids, around which they daily gathered for a little gossip with the most delicious refreshments. Among them was also a golden beetle of the richest species, that seemed to be made entirely of the precious metal. This golden beetle had been a playmate of the Atlas butterfly, a young lady of noble birth, from her childhood. The two had loved each other very dearly, flew about with each other a great deal, danced together in the sunshine, and charmed every one who saw them by their brilliancy and play of colors. It was generally believed in the forest that the golden beetle and the Atlas butterfly were engaged to each other and would be married some day, and there was only one opinion about it,—that they would make a glorious pair.

Then one day it happened that a European appeared in the primeval forest, searching for rare orchids. In his rambles he, too, saw the Atlas butterfly, and at sight of her he neglected the valuable flowers and had eyes only for the marvellously beautiful butterfly. He was on the watch for her at all hours of the day, and eagerly pursued her when he saw her flying by. The monkeys noticed and chattered about it; it came also to the ears of the parrots, who shook their heads, saying that the matter would come to no good end. The humming-birds thought it advisable to warn the Atlas butterfly that she might be on her guard. But they delayed too long; one noon the butterfly was missing from the meeting; the golden beetle at once flew to the palm tree where the beauty lived, but did not find her at home; all the animals in the forest helped him search, but all was in vain—the Atlas butterfly had vanished.

The golden beetle was not to be comforted. He withdrew into a hollow tree, would neither eat nor drink, and saw no one. The humming-birds came and, to rouse him from his grief, told him that all sorts of things were being said in the forest. It was reported that the Atlas butterfly had eloped with the European orchid hunter, so he need not grieve for the vain creature. The humming-birds meant kindly. They thought such speeches would console his sorrow, but they only increased his grief. “You lie!” cried the golden beetle violently; “my bride is as good and true as she is beautiful. She would never have left me of her own free will. A scoundrel has certainly captured and dragged her away by force, perhaps even killed her. You are slandering her. Go! I wish to be alone.”

An honest but rough Hercules beetle had heard all this. “You are a weak fellow,” said the rude giant to the delicate golden beetle. “If you care for your betrothed bride and believe in her faithfulness, don’t creep into your hole. Stir yourself. Do something. Search for your Atlas butterfly. Perhaps you will find her.”

These words roused the golden beetle a little from his depression. At the next meeting of the fashionable society of the forest, he again appeared, and received proofs of sympathy for his misfortune from all sides. He told a clever parrot what the Hercules beetle had said, and asked what he thought of it.

“The rude fellow is right,” said the parrot; “there is really no sense in giving yourself up idly to your despair. You are young, you have your life before you, you are immensely rich; if you make a proper use of your advantages, you can recover your happiness again.”

“What is the use of my wealth?” complained the golden beetle; “I cannot buy with my gold my Atlas butterfly if I have lost her.”

“No,” replied the parrot; “but you can search the world, follow the traces of your betrothed bride, and become united to her again. I’ll tell you something. One of our handsomest lories is soon going to Europe. He has obtained a splendid position in one of the zoölogical gardens of the Old World. Put yourself into communication with him. Perhaps you can travel with him. When you are once over there, the rest will take care of itself.”

According to the custom of all talkative people, the parrot had considerably exaggerated the truth. The lory had no brilliant position, but had simply been captured and placed in a cage, to be sold to a European zoölogical garden. This bird-cage was hung in the porch of a farm-house at the edge of the forest, until there should be an opportunity to send the valuable bird to the nearest seaport. The golden beetle easily found him, and creeping through the wires of the cage, he asked if he would take him to Europe as a travelling companion?

The lory consented with great pleasure, for now he would have a countryman with whom he could talk all day long. But he advised him to travel incognito, to avoid the plundering to which he would certainly be exposed if he displayed his wealth. The advice was good, though the parrot had given it solely from vanity. He was afraid that the magnificence of the golden beetle would cast his own rich colors into the shade. The golden beetle cared nothing for appearances. He bought from a spider a gray overcoat, which covered him from his feelers to the end of his body, and allowed no glimpse of his shining gold to be seen. In this plain travelling costume he was perfectly unpretending and attracted no one’s eyes. When the lory was taken to the seaport in its cage, it was not noticed that he had a travelling companion, and even the sailors who carried the cage with the gay-plumaged, chattering bird to the ship and stowed it away under the deck, did not notice or did not see the beetle sitting modestly in a corner.

On the journey he fared badly. He was terribly seasick, and a seasick beetle is a sorry spectacle, even if he is a golden beetle. The ship was swarming with cockroaches, which made their way into the cage, carried on the most careless housekeeping in it, and, in spite of his proud reserve, treated the golden beetle with the most unpleasant familiarity, as if he were one of themselves. But he patiently endured the vulgarity of the coarse, dirty brown, evil-smelling fellows, thinking constantly of his beautiful Atlas butterfly, for whose sake he exposed himself to all this discomfort.

The sea voyage lasted three weeks, then the steamer ran into the harbor, the parrot was taken out and carried to the zoölogical garden, where henceforth, with a thin metal chain fastened to one foot, attached to a shining brass ring, he was to live in the midst of a noisy throng of lories, cockatoos, and other parrots. When he was taken out of his cage, the lory said to the golden beetle: “Now we must take leave of each other, for I shall enter upon the duties of my new office. You are now in Europe and can set out on the search for your betrothed bride. I wish you much success in it. And if you need advice or anything else, come to this garden, and ask for the Brazilian ambassador in the parrot-house.”

The golden beetle left his countryman and continued his search alone. At first he liked the foreign country very well. He had left his Brazilian forest in the winter, and supposed it was now winter in Europe. So he was surprised to find himself in the midst of summer, for he did not know that it is summer in Europe when it is winter in Brazil, and vice versa. He wandered about on the soft turf in the garden for a while, until he met a running beetle.

“Holloa, comrade,” he called to him; “are there any golden beetles around here?”

The running beetle was in a hurry as usual. Without stopping in his career, he called over his shoulder: “Look for the rose-bushes. But nothing will be given there to-day,” for he thought the gray-coated stranger was a tramp seeking alms from the rich.

The golden beetle followed the directions, and after some little search, found the rose-bushes. He was going to make his way through the branches, still covered with thick leaves, when a stag beetle met him and with his horns raised threateningly, shouted roughly: “Halt! Where do you want to go?”

“I want to pay my respects to the golden beetles and make their acquaintance.”

“Oho!” replied the stag beetle, insolently, “do you suppose that a shabby fellow like you can be introduced to their lordships, the golden beetles, so unceremoniously? Move on.”

“But I am a relative of the golden beetles, a near relative,” said the golden beetle, much embarrassed.

“Of course,” sneered the stag beetle; “rich gentlemen have a great many relatives. Off with you, and quickly, or I’ll make you find your legs!”

As the golden beetle lingered, the stag beetle seized him roughly with his horns, to throw him out. The gray overcoat tore under the rude grasp, and an end of the shining gold cover of his wings appeared. The stag beetle let him go in astonishment, stared at him with his big black eyes, shook his feelers doubtfully, and said: “If you will kindly excuse me—I could not know—I will announce your lordship at once—” after which he hurried away.

The golden beetle perceived that he must make it easy for his kinsmen to recognize him, and stripped off his spider-web overcoat entirely. When several of the golden beetles, summoned by the stag beetle, appeared to welcome their cousin, they stood still, fairly dazzled. Never had they seen such magnificence. The European golden beetles were small, and had only a few modest gold spots, streaks, and rings on their backs and wings, while this South American cousin was probably four times as large, and his whole body, without a single break, was covered with glistening gold. In Europe they were considered immensely rich, but, in comparison with this American millionaire, they seemed to themselves poor. He aroused their secret envy, but they did not allow it to be seen, received him very cordially, begged him to come in, set rose dew before him, and inquired about, his affairs.

He told them that he had come from the Brazilian forest to Europe to find his future wife, who had been stolen from him by a wicked European. Perceiving very clearly that the European relatives, in comparison with him, were very plain people, he did not want to mortify them by a description of his palm palaces, his aristocratic acquaintances, his humming-birds, orchids, parrots, and Hercules beetles; but his bride he described in all the magnificence of her breadth of wings and shining blue and green enamel, and asked the cousins if they had not seen her or heard something about her.

The golden beetles looked at one another. Although their eyes convinced them of their transatlantic cousin’s wealth, they believed he was exaggerating the charms of his bride. “If the young lady is so remarkably beautiful and richly adorned, as you say, Cousin,” replied the most distinguished of the group, “she would probably have been noticed here. But we have heard nothing of her. Yet, for greater certainty, we will ask the butterflies.”

The whole party climbed to the top branches of the rose-bushes, around which some butterflies were always hovering, and called them. They were only common white butterflies, yellow ones and fox faces, who felt honored to have the golden beetles condescend to enter into conversation with them. They were fairly stupefied with astonishment and admiration when they saw the gold-clad Brazilian. The latter spoke to them kindly and sadly, asking if they had not seen a wonderfully beautiful large butterfly, which glittered with the most brilliant colors, and looked as if it was set with pearls and precious stones.

“Oh, yes, I know whom you mean,” cried a pert common white butterfly, either to make itself important or from stupidity.

“What, dear young lady, you have seen the one whom I am seeking? Quick! Where is she, that I may rush to her?” urged the golden beetle.

“One moment, sir,” replied the white butterfly. “I only want to announce you.”

The butterfly hastily flew away and went straight to a neighboring blackberry hedge, where a peacock eye was sunning itself. He imagined that the golden beetle’s description suited this butterfly, the most beautiful one he knew in the whole neighborhood.

“Ah, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle,” cried the butterfly, as he approached the peacock eye, “an American prince has come, who has heard of your beauty, and wants to ask your hand.”

“An American prince?” asked the peacock eye, surprised and flattered, beginning to flutter her richly adorned wings.

“Yes, Mademoiselle, a prince, entirely covered with glittering gold, and so large, so stately, so handsome a creature I have never seen in forest or field. May I bring him to you?”

“Yes, bring him to me, my dear friend,” said the peacock eye, settling herself so that her colors appeared to the best advantage.

The white butterfly quickly returned to the rose-bush, and while still at a distance called to the golden beetle that was waiting impatiently, “Come, sir, come, the young lady will be happy to receive you.”

The message surprised the golden beetle, for he would have expected his bride to fly to him at once, when she was informed of his presence; but he followed the white butterfly fluttering before him. All the moths and a number of golden beetles joined them, and the Brazilian approached the blackberry hedge with a numerous train, which the peacock eye saw flying toward her from quite a long distance. When the white butterfly stopped close in front of the beautiful creature, the golden beetle, without noticing her, glancing impatiently in all directions, asked: “Where is she? Where?”

“She is sitting directly in front of you, sir; don’t you see her?” replied the white butterfly in surprise, while the peacock eye made pretty little movements to attract the attention of the aristocratic, gold-mailed suitor.

The golden beetle now saw the peacock eye and cried in a disappointed tone, “What put this into your mind; the young lady certainly is not she.”

“I thought you wished to be introduced to me,” said the peacock eye, sharply.

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle,” replied the golden beetle, “it is a mistake. I hoped to find here my betrothed bride, an Atlas butterfly from my home, the most glorious, the most exquisite creature that ever glittered in the sun.”

“Of course I cannot be compared with your Atlas butterfly,” remarked the peacock eye, snappishly.

“You certainly cannot,” answered the golden beetle with thoughtless sincerity.

“Brazilian princes are really delightfully civil,” retorted the peacock eye deeply offended, turned her back upon the golden beetle and his companions, and flew away.

The butterflies and golden beetles left the American alone. They disapproved of his lack of politeness. “Our most aristocratic moths are not good enough for him!” “What does the dandy think he is!” “He might at least have been more courteous!” they buzzed to one another, and nobody defended him, no one honored his fidelity to his lost bride.

But the peacock butterfly, whom he had offended, vowed vengeance upon him. Flying to the guard room of the bombardier beetles, at the foot of an ancient hollow oak, she told them that a foreign millionaire was visiting the golden beetles in the rose-bush—a millionaire who carried vast treasures with him. They must seize him, then they would all be rich.

The bombardier beetles were a disorderly company. They were always lying in wait, ready for any evil deed. The whole gang set off at once, marched to the rose-bush and surrounded it. They saw the golden beetle, whose magnificent glitter betrayed him. He had settled on a branch and was sorrowfully thinking what he should do now. Suddenly a crashing noise began below him, and missiles whizzed around his head. Startled by the attack, he looked around and discovered the bombardier beetle’s, who were raging around the foot of the rose-bush, firing at him. He could not understand the assault, but realized that his life was at stake and flew away as fast as possible, to get out of range of the bandits.

But where should he go now? Back to the kind lory, to tell him of his troubles? He found his countryman engaged in a loud, shrill conversation with a whole group of aras, cockatoos, and other parrots, who were all swinging in their big metal rings, talking together with vehement screams. The lory was gossiping so fast, that he did not see the golden beetle. But the attendant in the zoölogical garden, who was just entering the parrot-house with food for the birds, noticed him, flung the sack he held in his hand on the ground, threw his heavy cap at the golden beetle, which struck and knocked him down and, with a shout of joy, seized him. The beetle, stunned by the blow and the fall, did not move in the hand of the attendant, who hurried with his prize to the superintendent of the garden, and silently placed it on the table before him.

“A Brazilian golden beetle!” cried the superintendent in joyful astonishment. “It probably came with our new lory. We often have these pleasant surprises with our consignments from across the sea. We will put it with our Atlas butterfly.”

When the golden beetle heard the words “Atlas butterfly,” he instantly recovered his senses. He forgot his present situation, he did not think that he was a prisoner, perhaps in danger of his life; he only repeated with secret joy that he should see his Atlas butterfly again. He did not move a limb, a wing, or a feeler when the superintendent laid him in the hollow of his hand, and went with him to the Museum of Natural History, which was connected with the zoölogical garden. Entering the great hall, he went to a glass case and opened it. The golden beetle glanced in—Oh, rapture! Oh, bliss! There sat his Atlas butterfly with outspread wings, though she was strangely motionless. At this sight the golden beetle made a sudden effort, and, before the astonished superintendent could shut his hand over him, flew away like a flash of lightning. Instantly a wild chase began, the superintendent and the attendant in the zoölogical garden ran here and there, but dared not throw anything at the golden beetle, for fear that they might break the cases, or damage the animals outside. He easily escaped, in his swift flight, the butterfly nets they waved frantically to and fro, so they could only look on, while the golden beetle, buzzing loudly, flew in wide circles around the ceiling of the lofty hall, far beyond the reach of their arms.

Meantime, the glass case that held the Atlas butterfly was left open. In order not to injure the beautiful creature, they had not fastened her with a pin, but glued her down lightly with a thin varnish. They thought that she was dead, but it was not so. And as, just before, the mere mention of the Atlas butterfly’s name had roused the golden beetle from his stupor, now the well-known loud buzzing of the golden beetle waked the butterfly from her unconsciousness. She slowly recovered her senses, saw at first, as if in a confused dream, then more and more clearly, what was passing around her, heard the noise of the chase, suddenly recognized high up at the ceiling her beloved golden beetle, and with fresh courage began to make violent efforts to tear her legs from the varnish in which they were stuck. Unnoticed by the superintendent and his servant, whose eyes were fixed upon the escaped beetle, the butterfly pulled and strained and jerked until she succeeded in freeing herself. True, she left a leg in the varnish; but she had no thought now for pain and wounds. Up she flew, straight to the golden beetle, and before the wondering eyes of the two men, the faithful pair from Brazil were once more united.

With the speed of an arrow, both flew out of the open door into the garden and alighted on the top of a tall tree. The golden beetle could not contain his joy, as he stroked and petted the Atlas butterfly. But she said: “Alas, how I look! My wings have lost their brightness, and I was obliged to leave a leg with those wicked men. Now I am so ugly and you are so handsome.”

“Don’t grieve about that,” replied the golden beetle. “Your wound will heal and your wings will shine again, and you will be now as always more beautiful than any other creature in the world.” At the same moment, he began with zeal and strength to brush the gold from his own wings, and to scatter it over his bride’s. Soon she was completely covered with glistening gold, and again as magnificent to behold as a jewel, but the golden beetle was as plain and colorless as on the journey, when he hid his splendor under the spider-web overcoat.

A starling, whose nest was in the tree, had seen and heard everything. Perching beside the couple on the bough, he soothed them in regard to his intentions, and begged them to tell him their story. They did so, and the starling was so touched by it, that he flew around the garden, relating to all the birds and free animals the incidents of the cruel separation, and the wonderful reunion of the two faithful Brazilians. Birds, squirrels, butterflies, and beetles came flying from all directions, brought the foreigners the best honey that could be had from the modest autumn flowers of Europe, and advised them to have their wedding.

But they did not want to marry until they had returned home. It was too cold for them here, and they were homesick for the forest and the humming-birds, and orchids, and parrots, and monkeys. Their new friends put their heads together and discussed what they could do for the beautiful creatures. The starling undertook to carry them to the nearest seaport, and put them on a ship sailing for South America. True, the young couple would be obliged to hide in the dark hold, and be annoyed by the intrusive, vulgar cockroaches; but after what they had experienced, this was a small annoyance, easily endured, which they would bear with firmness till they reached the end of their journey.

The golden beetle, meanwhile, had covered himself with new gold, and the Atlas butterfly had regained her former magnificent colors, only even more beautiful from the gold scattered over them, so when they again appeared in the forest they were more glorious than ever. Every one welcomed them with the greatest joy; they remained from that time united, without ever separating, and in the hours of gossip with the lories over the honey, the company never grew tired of hearing repeated again and again the story of their sorrowful journey to Europe and happy return.

THE GOLD BRAIDS

“Oh, mother,” cried the little girl, “I am so hungry!”

“Be quiet, my darling, pray be quiet,” said the mother, trying to soothe her.

“But, mother,” the child began again, after a short pause, “why don’t we have something to eat?”

“Because there is no food,” was the answer. Then the little girl began to sob bitterly, and her mother took her in her arms, and wept, too, rocking and kissing the little one.

The mother was a beautiful young woman, whose husband had died a short time before, leaving her alone in the world with her child. She had no money, so she was obliged to work to earn a living for herself and her little daughter. She was a good seamstress and very industrious; but she could not always find work, and then they had a hard time. For the baker and the butcher are not rich people; they can neither give nor lend long, and if customers cannot pay them, they can get neither coffee nor sugar, neither meat nor bread, neither potatoes nor lard, neither coal for stoves and hearths nor oil for lamps.

Now another time without work had come, the last money the widow could save had been spent, and for two days no fire had burned in the stove, though it was winter and very cold; and no oil in the lamp, though it grew dark early. The little girl had eaten nothing all day, and her mother had tasted no food for two days.

“I can’t wait any longer,” said the child, in a faint voice. “If I don’t have a piece of bread, I shall die.”

“No,” cried the mother, “you shall not die. Come, I’ll put you to bed, so that you may keep warm, and then I’ll go and get you some bread.”

“Yes, do, dear mother,” whispered the little girl, while the mother was undressing and putting her to bed. “Only soon, please.”

The mother went to the neighbor who lived in the second story. She was a very rich woman, but hard-hearted and miserly. Besides, she envied the young widow because, in spite of her poverty, she was far handsomer and more elegant.

The rich woman listened impatiently, and answered sullenly: “I lend nothing. If people were always giving, they would have nothing left for themselves. And I have no work for you, either. Go, in heaven’s name.”

“Then must I leave my child to starve?” cried the mother, wringing her hands.

“Why don’t you pawn or sell something?” asked the woman harshly.

“I have nothing more to pawn or sell,” was the answer.

“Indeed,” replied the neighbor, with a spiteful smile. “At least, you have your long, fair braids. What does a poor beggar want with such a quantity of hair? You can certainly get quite a little sum for it.”

The poor mother looked silently at her cruel neighbor a moment, then she left the room without a word.

She really did have wonderfully beautiful hair, long, thick, soft as silk, yellow as spun gold. When she let it down, it covered her like a royal mantle; when she brushed it, sunbeams seemed to be playing around the comb and her hand.

When the envious neighbor had told her to cut off her hair, her one ornament, it cut her to the heart. But when she stood in the street, and thought of her starving child up in a cold, dark, little garret room, she quickly resolved to make the hard sacrifice.

At the street corner was a hairdresser’s shop, in whose show windows were the wax busts of ladies with hair beautifully and elaborately arranged, wigs of various colors, and oddly shaped bottles of perfume. On the panes was pasted a notice bearing the words, “Women’s blond and white hair bought here at the highest prices.”

To this shop the young mother went. At the door she hesitated, but not long. Summoning all her courage, she entered.

“What do you wish?” asked the hairdresser, a little hunchbacked man with sharp, black eyes.

“Excuse me, sir,” replied the poor mother, timidly, “but I think you buy women’s blond hair?”

“Yes, certainly. Have you any to sell?”

“Mine, sir, if you want it.”

“Yes, yes—h’m, h’m,” said the little hunchback, fixing his sharp eyes on her. “Let me see it.”

He took her into the back shop, and she quickly drew out her comb and let the heavy braids fall. They hung to her feet.

The hairdresser uttered a cry of surprise. “What! Do you want to have these braids cut off?”

She only nodded; her throat felt choked, so that she could not make a sound, and she turned her head away to keep the little man from seeing the tears which filled her eyes.

“Do you know that they will never grow so beautiful again?”

She only shrugged her shoulders.

“But why do you commit this sin against yourself?”

“Because I must,” she answered, and began to sob violently. “I have a little child who is starving and freezing. I have neither money nor work, and no one will help me. There is nothing else left.”

“Yes, yes—h’m, h’m,” he said again, fixing his keen eyes on her, as if he was trying to read her thoughts. He seemed to reflect a short time; then he suddenly said, harshly: “If you have decided to do it, I am satisfied. Sit down. How much do you ask?”

“I don’t know the value of it. I depend upon you.”

“Well, we’ll see.” He rummaged a short time among the scissors and razors that lay on the marble-topped table; but, instead of taking any of them, pulled out a drawer and seized something which the young widow could not see very distinctly, though it looked like a long leather case. “Shut your eyes,” said the hunchback, authoritatively. She obeyed. But even through the closed lids she saw a sudden light—like a flash of lightning a flame appeared to glide over her head. She screamed and fainted. When she recovered, the little man was sprinkling her with cologne, muttering: “What nonsense! Do be sensible.”

She raised both hands to her head. It was perfectly bare. Her two braids were lying on the marble table. Light seemed to flicker from them. The hairdresser placed them in a scale and put silver coins into the other until the two balanced exactly. He used twenty-eight thalers, for the hair weighed more than a pound.

“Live and let live,” he said when he had finished. “These braids really ought to be outweighed with gold, instead of silver, but I must earn something, too.”

He counted the money into her hand, then took back one coin, saying with a queer smile, “I am deducting this piece—you will learn for what.”

When the mother went out into the street again, her head was as confused as if she had just waked from a dream. But she felt the heavy silver in her pocket, and knew it was not that.

Now she was rich, and at least could do something for her child. Running into the nearest shops, she bought not only bread and coal, coffee and sugar, but also cakes, butter, and an egg. She was in such a hurry that she did not notice how people stared at her shaved head. Then, laden with her packages, and followed by a man carrying coal, she rushed up the stairs to her room. Her rich neighbor stood at the threshold of her door, watching her spitefully. She saw at once that the young widow had lost her magnificent hair, and cried, with a malicious smile: “You have taken my advice. That was right. In future you will lose no time in combing it.”

The mother did not stop to answer. But when she reached her door at the top of the stairs, she put her packages on the floor and tied her shawl around her head, that the little girl might not notice anything.

The child had not gone to sleep. Hunger had kept her awake. Her first words, when her mother came in, were, “Mother, have you brought the bread?”

“Yes, my darling,” cried the mother, and in an instant she was beside the bed, covering the child with kisses, “and cakes, and butter, and many other good things. There.” She gave her a slice of bread, which the little girl bit eagerly; then she made a fire in the stove, lighted the lamp, boiled the coffee, and cooked the egg, and it was bright and warm and cosey in the little attic room, and the child was happy and laughed and talked. So the mother no longer grieved because she had sacrificed her beautiful hair. When they had eaten until they were fully satisfied, the little girl fell asleep at once, and the mother lay down by her side. The next morning she was roused by her child’s clear voice, exclaiming in surprise, “Mother, why didn’t you braid your hair last night?” She started—yes, her hair, long, thick, and soft as silk, was spread over the pillows and falling on the coverlet. She sprang out of bed, but she did not need to go to the little dim mirror on the wall to perceive that she really did have her hair again; for when she stood on the floor, it fell around her in the usual way, veiling her from head to foot like a royal mantle of spun gold. She swiftly braided it, dressed hurriedly, and ran to the hairdresser.

“Mr. Barber, what does this mean? Are you a juggler? Or a magician?”

“Don’t be troubled,” said the little hunchbacked man, and his keen gaze seemed to pierce her through and through. “There is no witchcraft here. I make a preparation for the hair, which has not its equal anywhere. The hair grows out in one night, only thicker and more beautiful than before. I washed your head with it when you fainted, and that is why I deducted the money. Do you understand?”

“How shall I thank you?” said the mother, softly, trying to take his hand to kiss it.

“What are you thinking of!” cried the hairdresser, harshly, drawing back a step. “Go away. I have no time.”

But when she had reached the door, he called her back. “One thing more, my good woman. If you should be badly off again, you need not sell your braids. Just cut a piece a finger wide from the end—not a bit more, do you hear?—and carry it to the nearest goldsmith. He’ll buy it of you, for it is spun gold. It will grow again, too. But you must do all this only if you really need it, and can obtain help in no other way. Mark this. And now, farewell.”

As she went home, lost in thought, she met in the entry her greedy neighbor who was just getting into her carriage to take a drive, as she did every day. The envious woman stood as if she were rooted to the ground, opened her eyes in amazement, and cried: “Why, my good woman, what ails you? Didn’t you have your braids cut off last evening?”

“Yes, they were,” replied the young widow, “but they grew again in the night.”

“You are making fun of me,” snarled the hard-hearted rich woman. “How could that be possible?”

“The barber washed my shaven head with a wonderfully strong tonic, and it made the hair grow out so quickly again, only still thicker and longer than before.”

The angry miser did not say a word, but cast a spiteful glance at her neighbor, who was again so much more beautiful than she, left her standing in the entry, and ran straight to the hunchbacked hairdresser.

“Will you buy my hair?” she asked, after entering the shop without any greeting.

The little hunchback looked at her angrily with his sharp, black eyes, and answered: “Your hair isn’t worth anything. I can give you nothing for it.”

She controlled her rage, and said: “No matter. I will give it to you. Only cut it off.”

“But why?” he asked.

“Because I want it to grow out much longer and thicker, like my neighbor, the seamstress’s. It isn’t right that such a needy wretch should be more beautiful than a wealthy, aristocratic lady like me.”

“Oho?” growled the little hunchback. “Well, as you please.”

He told her to sit down in a chair, but did not take the mysterious case out of the drawer. Instead, he seized a pair of scissors which lay on the marble top of the table, and grasped her little thin braid, whose color was a dull, brownish black. Snip, snap, and he held the rat tail in his hand and flung it contemptuously into the corner. Snip, snap, and her skull was shaved so smooth that no one who looked at her could help laughing.

“I’ve finished,” he said roughly. “You can go.”

“But the hair tonic?”

“What hair tonic?”

“The one which makes the hair grow out again so quickly, only more beautiful than before.”

“It costs eighty-one marks,” he said.

“No matter,” she answered haughtily. “I have it.”

He took the money, then opened a bottle, and sprinkled over her head a few drops of liquid, which smelled like pitch and sulphur. It itched and burned horribly, but she stifled the pain. “One can suffer a little for the sake of being beautiful,” she thought, and went off very well pleased, while the hairdresser, smiling scornfully, shut the shop door behind her.

When she reached home, and her husband and servants saw her, they clasped their hands in horror. “Just wait,” she said, and going to her chamber, she lay down in bed like a sick person. She remained there patiently all day long, and fell asleep late in the evening, firmly believing that her discomfort would be over the next morning. She woke very early, for her impatience would not allow her to sleep longer. The first thing she did was to seize her head with both hands—alas! it was as bare as when it left the hands of the hunchbacked hairdresser.

“Perhaps it doesn’t grow so fast,” she thought, and stayed in bed twenty-four hours longer. But the next day she was just as bald as before. Then, in a rage, she hurried on her clothes, wrapped her head in a veil and hat, and rushed off to the hunchbacked hairdresser.

“Man, you have cheated me!” she screamed.

“That is not so. How?” he answered roughly.

“Your tonic is a swindle. The hair does not grow out again.”

“Have you children? Or at least one child?”

“No.”

“Well, my tonic helps only mothers. You ought to have known that. Leave my shop.”

It was of no use. If she did not wish to remain as ugly and ridiculous as a scarecrow, she was obliged to buy a wig, and as her hair never grew out again, she had to wear this wig to the end of her life. But the young mother fared better and better. She had plenty of work, so she was soon able to leave her attic room and move to the second story. She never needed to cut off an end of her gold braids. She brought up her little daughter, and when the daughter was a beautiful, educated, charming girl twenty years old, she married a fine young man; they had a large family of children, and if they are not dead, they are living still.

THE CATS THAT WOULDN’T CATCH MICE

In an old library there once lived a cat, kept to protect the books and their leather bindings from the teeth of the mice. She was descended from a long line of ancestors, who had all held the same office, and she was the mother of five charming kittens: a black one named Miese, a white one named Lise, a black and white one called Purr, one spotted with brown and yellow named Murr, and one striped with black and gray, called Hinz. Purr, Murr, and Hinz were tom-cats, the other two were pussies. The brothers and sisters were old enough to study, and had an hour’s lesson from their mother every day. They could already purr, spit, and mew, make velvet paws, clean their fur, and wash their faces with their wet paws. Now their mother began to introduce them to the higher knowledge, that is, she taught them to catch mice. This was not at all easy. Behind and under the book shelves were a number of holes, which the mice used for hiding-places and refuges, where no grown cat and not even a kitten could possibly reach them. The chase could only be successful in the clear open space in the centre of the library. So it was necessary to watch patiently until a mouse ventured out, and then catch it at one spring, before it had time to slip back into its hole. The kittens were obliged to decide quickly and to act at once. If they hesitated even a second, their prey escaped.