Chapter V: Part 5

A great wailing and lamenting arose among the elves, and a murmur of disapproval among the gnomes. No one thought that night of dancing, games, and banquets. The elf queen tried to change Woglinde’s resolution; but when she saw that the elf would not lose her child for the second time, she ordered the gnomes to provide her with an outfit. They obediently hurried away, and instantly returned with a large quantity of gold and gems, handsome new mortal clothes, a carriage, and two splendid horses. The treasures were packed on the carriage, Woglinde entered it with the two children, the elf queen, after having taken leave of her, gave her permission to come to her sisters’ summer night festivals, but without the mortal child, and, just before dawn, all the elves kissed Woglinde and Irene for the last time, and went sorrowfully back into the pond. At the first cock crow the wise horses started, and, when the sun rose, they were outside of the wood with the carriage and its inmates. They needed neither curb nor whip, but trotted straight to the city and stopped in front of a beautiful house, with a fine garden, which was just for sale. Woglinde bought it with her gold, and, when she moved into it, all the birds in the garden flew up and greeted her as their mistress. The kitchen tenants, too,—the mice and other vermin,—came timidly and wanted to pay their respects to her; but as Elizabeth was afraid of these creeping, swarming creatures, Woglinde ordered them to leave the house, which they humbly did at once.

The gnomes’ treasures had made Woglinde a rich lady and, as she was so beautiful and looked so aristocratic, the neighbors thought she was some foreign countess who had moved to their city, invited her to their houses and tried to become acquainted with her. She was soon the most courted lady in the city, was presented at court, and one of the king’s courtiers wanted to marry her. But she only smiled at it, and replied that she did not wish to marry again, but desired to devote herself to the education of her children.

She used her connections and her influence, however, to discover the malicious rascal, who, years before, had stolen her child. And she succeeded. The youth, meantime, had grown to manhood, and continued to do all the mischief that was possible in the village. Woglinde determined to punish him as he deserved. Going alone to the forest meadow one night, she begged the queen for more gold. The gnomes again brought a load of it, and Woglinde placed it in the garden of a widow, who was said to be the most spiteful, quarrelsome, shrewish woman in the village. This hateful creature found the treasure in the morning, and rejoiced loudly over it. Everybody learned, with the speed of lightning, that she had grown enormously rich in a single night, and several fearless young men hastened, in spite of her evil reputation, to sue for her hand. Among them was the good-for-nothing, who thought, “I can probably manage you.” She preferred him to the others, married him, and then he was soon made to see that he could not cope with her. She ruled the house, kept him under strict discipline, beat him with fists and cane, and tormented him day and night till he was often tired of life. This was his punishment for all the miserable tricks which he had played in his youth.

But Irene and Elizabeth grew up into beautiful girls, and, when they were twenty years old, the elf child married a great artist and Elizabeth a prince, and though Woglinde often longed for the fairy palace at the bottom of the pond, she was on the whole happy in the happiness of her children, both of whom had become equally dear to her.

THE RICH DOG AND THE POOR DOG

He was called Rough-leg, and he deserved the name.

He was probably the very ugliest dog that ever was seen: long-legged, rough-haired, with pointed ears lopping down a little at the ends, a long nose, and yellow eyes. Nobody could have told to what breed he belonged. He had the head of a wolf, the legs of a hound, the body of a bull-dog, the hair of a Spitz, the bushy tail of a setter, and the color of a badger dog. He was thin as a herring, and as dirty as a sewer cleaner. Matted tufts of hair hung from his body like the rags of a tramp. His torn ears told tales of many a fierce fight. The violence and perseverance with which he bit and scratched showed what an unpleasant multitude of hopping brown guests he had in his dirty hide.

But under this ugly hide Rough-leg had excellent qualities. He was as strong as a bear and as brave as a lion, but he was also faithful as a good dog ought to be, and good-natured, even though he fared very badly, and had every reason to complain of his fate.

Fortune certainly did not favor him. He belonged to an old scissors-grinder, who went with his cart from village to village. He had to help drag the things for him, and his master gave him very little to eat, because he usually had nothing himself, but plenty of kicks and blows when he wanted to vent on somebody his rage for earning so little.

Yet Rough-leg always forgave his master for everything. When the old fellow was drunk,—and that happened every time he had a few pennies to buy a drop of something strong,—he was kind to Rough-leg, patted him, and talked to him like a sensible, beloved companion. And when he had poured out his heart to him, he lay down wherever he was, in the grass, the moss in the forest, or in the ditch by the road, and began to snore, while Rough-leg stretched himself beside him, and watched his sleep and the cart, which was everything in the world that his master could call his own.

One evening the old scissors-grinder, after a carouse, again fell asleep in the ditch, and did not wake any more, for he was dead. Rough-leg perceived that there was something strange about his master, when he no longer heard him snore. He snuffed at him, licked his face, pushed him with his muzzle, scratched his breast with his paws, and when the old man, in spite of everything, still lay silent and motionless and began to grow cold, Rough-leg set up such a terrible howling that all the dogs for miles around answered, and very early in the morning people came running up, who saw that the old man had died in the night.

They wanted to take away the body and the cart, but Rough-leg thought he must not allow it, and rushed furiously at everybody who came near. The constable drew his sword, and would certainly have killed him if he had not jumped away from his blows and thrusts. But he did not escape the sticks and stones of the peasants, who beat him unmercifully until he saw that he could do nothing against them. So he no longer tried to prevent their taking the body away, and dragged himself off a short distance, badly hurt, whining and moaning as they carried his master to the village churchyard.

There was not much ceremony over the poor scissors-grinder. After a few official inquiries, and a little writing, he was put into a grave, and then nobody thought any more about him. Rough-leg had dragged himself to the churchyard, and watched behind a tombstone, as they laid his master in the earth and filled up the grave. When all the people had gone, he crept out of his hiding place, went to the fresh mound, and began with the greatest energy to dig his master out. He had already made quite a large hole when the grave-digger saw him and ran forward with uplifted shovel and loud shouts. Rough-leg saw that he could do nothing against the angry armed man, so he limped out of the churchyard, and the grave-digger locked it. It was impossible to jump over the wall again, it was too high. He could not stay with his master’s body, so he went back to the place where he had died, and lay down on the edge of the ditch, determined not to leave the spot.

Near by was a castle with a large garden in front, separated from the road by a fence. Here, surrounded by her servants, lived an old countess, who had a pug-dog, of which she was extravagantly fond. His name was Darling; he was yellow, with a black face, and a little short, stubby figure. He was a very aristocratic dog. His hair looked well kept, for he was bathed, perfumed, brushed, and combed every day. On his left forepaw he wore a gold bracelet, around his neck a white collar with a light blue border, and when he went out, he had a fine cloth blanket with a silk lining, on one corner of which a coronet was embroidered. If it had rained before his walk, he wore rubber shoes to keep his paws from being wet or muddy.

He was very handsome in his rich clothes and costly jewelry, but all these fine things gave him no pleasure. They were only troublesome. How gladly he would have run barefoot through the puddles, and trotted along in the dust. How gladly he would have shaken off the heavy clothes and, with nothing but his smooth skin, raced about like the other dogs, whom he envied when he watched them through the fence of the castle courtyard running, jumping, rolling, and romping with each other to their hearts’ content. He was not allowed to join them. A servant of his own constantly watched to prevent his having any acquaintance with strange dogs. His prison was his mistress’s room. Only twice a day would she let him go out a short time in the castle yard, under the care of a man, usually on a leash, to get a little exercise, breathe the fresh air, etc. These walks were so tiresome that he preferred to stay with the old countess. From lack of exercise, and an oversupply of dainties and rich food, he became a shapeless lump of fat, grew short-breathed, gouty, and had a perpetual itching of the skin, so that, though he was kept so clean, he was obliged to scratch as often and as hard as poor Rough-leg, who had never made acquaintance with brush and comb, warm bath or soap.

The discovery of the dead scissors-grinder in the ditch had brought a great crowd before the castle fence, and the castle servants had also run out to look. Darling was there, too, pressing his black face, with its snub nose and short muzzle, against the rails to see what was going on. When the people set upon Rough-leg with clubs and swords, and almost broke his bones, the pug was furious, and barked as loud as his short breath would permit. The human beings did not understand, but he knew Rough-leg’s faithful heart, and would have gone to help the dead man’s friend, whom they so unjustly abused, if he had only been able.

Lying on his dark blue velvet cushion in his mistress’s room, he thought all day long of the scene which he had witnessed the day before. The dog outside there was shamefully abused; he was apparently of the most humble origin, he was certainly ill-bred, rough, not even clean; he was dirty and ragged. But he was much better than he, the aristocratic pug, the trained and wealthy pet.

The strange fellow owed his master nothing, for he had not even fed him, his leanness showed that. And yet he was faithful to him unto death; he would not leave his lifeless body; he would rather endure the most cruel treatment than to neglect his duty as guard. Would he, Darling, have been capable of such heroic steadfastness? He perceived with shame that it was doubtful. His mistress spoiled him. She was rich and titled. Her rank made every one treat her with respect, and on her account he, too, received the honor due to the pug of a lady of quality. She fed him with cake and roast beef. And yet, if she should die, he would not show his teeth at everybody who came near, and he would not expose himself to any special danger of being beaten with swords and clubs. These thoughts filled him with self-reproach and, at the same time, with admiration for the ugly cur on the high-road, who seemed to him a model of faithful duty.

When Darling, attended by his servant, was allowed to go out again into the castle courtyard that evening, he waddled to the fence as fast as his fat and shortness of breath would let him. He at once saw Rough-leg, who had returned from the churchyard, and was lying in the ditch with closed eyes, his nose between his forepaws, moaning.

“Here! You! Come over to the fence!” called Darling. Rough-leg took no notice.

“You are a brave dog! You have my full respect and friendship!” Darling went on. “I must have a chance to press your paw. Unluckily I can’t get out to you.”

He was so unused to talking loud, that it made him cough and at the same time the itching began, which tortured him so much that he fairly writhed, because his fine blanket and handsome collar and harness prevented him from scratching to his heart’s content.

Rough-leg now raised his head, opened his eyes, and blinked at him. “Does anything ail you?” he asked in his hoarse voice.

“Oh, dear, I am so miserable!” replied Darling, piteously, when he had recovered his breath. He took no offence at plebeian Rough-leg’s familiarity. “But don’t let us talk about me, but you. I suppose you loved your master very much?”

“I had no one but him, and he had no one but me in the whole world. I will not outlive him.”

“Listen to reason, my dear fellow,” cried Darling, in horror. “Surely you don’t mean to kill yourself?”

Rough-leg made no answer.

“Your master was a poor tramp,” Darling continued.

“Like me,” interrupted Rough-leg, growling.

“Well, then, surely you owe him nothing. He has not been able to do anything for you. He is dead. You can’t change that. Now think of yourself. What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. I shall stay here.”

“In the night? On the bare ground? Under the open sky?”

“I’m used to it.”

“You have no rheumatism and no asthma, like me. I should die. And who will give you your food?”

“Nobody. I want to starve to death.”

Darling pitied the despairing fellow more and more. “Be sensible, dear friend and cousin,” he said. “We must learn how to find comfort. What would become of us if people took everything so much to heart? I pity you. I’ll do what I can for you. Wait, I’ll bring you something to eat presently.” He waddled away from the fence, back into the castle, and up to his old countess, from whom he begged. She gave him, as usual, with many pats and loving words, a piece of nice cake. He scarcely thanked her by a hasty lick of the hand and a quick wag of the tail, and hurried back to the fence, which he reached panting for breath.

“Here, friend, I have something good for you. But you must come into the courtyard to me. I can’t get out,” he called to Rough-leg, who was still lying just where he had left him.

Rough-leg rose and came slowly forward. Darling’s sympathy cheered him a little in his loneliness. When he reached the fence, Darling pushed the bit of cake under it and wagged his tail eagerly. He was rejoicing to think how nice the dainty would taste to the poor, starved fellow. Rough-leg drew it out with his paw, snuffed at it, and then left it.

“Who can eat such stuff as that?” he growled.

“But that’s cake, my dear fellow!” cried Darling, in astonishment; “that’s the very nicest thing there is!”

“I don’t know anything about it. It’s not fit for sensible dogs. If you have a bone, I should like it. If not, leave me alone.”

Darling shook his head, but went back into the castle, looked into the garbage pail, which he usually was not allowed to meddle with, and found a big bone, which he dragged to the fence. “Here is a bone, since you want it,” he said; “but I can’t understand how you can do anything with this dry, hard thing.”

Rough-leg made no reply. He raked the bone out from under the fence with his strong paws, broke it in two with one bite, cracked and splintered it, and, in the shortest possible time, reduced it to very small pieces and swallowed it. Darling watched the work of his new friend’s powerful wolf jaws with mingled admiration and horror. When the latter had finished, he turned toward the fence, licked Darling’s muzzle with his big tongue, and muttered: “Thank you. You are a good fellow.”

Darling’s heart leaped with joy. “Ah, if I could only get out to you!”

“Come, then,” answered Rough-leg.

“I dare not,” whined Darling, looking round anxiously for his servant who, luckily for him, was just talking with one of the countess’s coachmen, without noticing the pug placed in his care.

“Are you not ashamed to be such a timid fellow?” cried Rough-leg. “The idea of a dog’s allowing himself to be forbidden a little run.” He turned as if to go away.

“Don’t go,” called Darling. “I will try to slip out.”

He went cautiously to the gate, which was only ajar, and, seeing that the servant was still talking, he ventured to steal out.

“Now run,” said Rough-leg, breaking into a long, swift trot. Darling tried with all his might to keep up with him. But he could not do it. After a few minutes he fell breathless on the ground and writhed there panting and moaning. Rough-leg looked at him a moment scornfully, and yet compassionately, seized him by the skin of the neck, and carried him along in his mouth, as a mother dog does her puppies. It seemed to give him no more trouble than if Darling had been a feather. He ran on until the castle was entirely out of sight, then set him on the ground and wagged his tail kindly.

“How good you are,” sighed Darling, who had recovered his breath while in his friend’s mouth. But now the excitement brought on the itching again, and he scratched piteously, yet without success, on account of the cloth blanket and other things he had on his body.

“Booby,” growled Rough-leg, after watching him awhile.

He rushed upon Darling so violently that he frightened him and, with a few bites, tore the fine blanket and collar from his body in ribbons, broke the bracelet from his paw with one snap, and said, “There, now you look like a decent dog again, and I need not be ashamed of being seen in your company.”

Darling had never felt so comfortable since he could remember. He could scratch himself to his heart’s content, and already the itching was less because he was entirely undressed and the fresh air blew freely all around him. Yet, glad as he was, he thought with a few pangs of conscience of his old mistress, and murmured—“What will they say at the castle?”

“You can go back there, if you repent,” replied Rough-leg, harshly, moving as if he were going to trot along.

“Don’t go away,” Darling begged anxiously. “Don’t leave me alone, I shall be lost without you.”

“Then hold your tongue, and come.”

It had grown dark. Rough-leg’s bones still ached from the beating he had had, he was tired out, and he saw that his companion was exhausted. So leading him to a hay-rick in a ploughed field, he said, “We’ll spend the night here.” He dug out a hole in the hay, pushed the tender Darling in, and lay down before him. Darling slept better than he had ever done before. It was very different lying on the hay from being on a velvet cushion in a curtained, closed apartment. He scarcely felt even the pains in his limbs, because his friend had warmed him with his big, strong body.

When he woke early in the morning, he felt like another dog. “You are a wonderful fellow, Rough-leg,” he said, licking his long, rough muzzle gratefully. “But I don’t know what ails me—I feel so queer around my stomach—”

“You are hungry, simpleton, and so am I,” replied Rough-leg.

Hungry! That was a feeling which Darling had never known, or had forgotten long ago. It gnawed very sharply, but it was far, far pleasanter than the repugnance which his rich, costly food at the castle had inspired.

“Where shall we find anything to eat?” asked Darling.

“You must go and look,” was the short answer. He snuffed a little around the hay-rick, then suddenly made a spring and drew out of a hidden sparrow’s nest a peeping young bird, which he killed with one bite and tossed to the wondering Darling.

“There, eat it,” he cried, and himself devoured the rest of the brood, which still remained in the nest.

Then the two went to a neighboring farm-house, and Rough-leg began to rummage in the dung-heap.

Darling was just going to follow his example, when out rushed the house dog, barking furiously, and threw himself on the pug, which with a cry of terror, fell on the ground under the shock. In an instant Rough-leg was by his side, and a fierce fight began, in which the farm dog was soon beaten. Off he ran with bleeding ears and lips, howling piteously.

“You have saved my life,” groaned Darling, as they hurried out of the yard.

“Nonsense!” said Rough-leg, but he ran his tongue tenderly over the pug’s black face.

A new life, which he had never known before, began for Darling. He could do just as he pleased, he was always in the open air, he trotted until he was tired, and lay down to rest wherever he happened to be. He often fared badly in regard to food. He had to take just what he could get! in the best case boiled turnips some cow had dropped from her trough; in the worst, bones picked up on some dung-heap. But this poor and scanty living, from which he would formerly have turned aside with loathing, seemed excellent, and even dainty, because he saw how much Rough-leg enjoyed it. The two friends were often obliged to fight the village curs; but this no longer frightened Darling, for he knew that he could depend on Rough-leg. His health daily improved. His rheumatism and the intolerable itching disappeared, he lost flesh, and, with the extra flesh, his shortness of breath vanished; he could vie with Rough-leg in running, and soon made such progress that, to his joyful surprise, he could help a shepherd, who was driving a flock of sheep over a cross-road, as well as his nimble Pomeranian, which could not manage the work alone. The shepherd wanted to keep him, but this did not suit Darling. “When I want to enter service, I will go back to my mistress,” he said, and went off with Rough-leg. In the castle the people were inconsolable over Darling’s disappearance, the servant who had not watched him properly was dismissed at once, and the countess advertised that she would pay a large reward to any one who returned her pug. But no one brought him, because he was not recognized from the description which mentioned his fine blanket, collar, and bracelet. But Darling thought of the old countess, and Rough-leg of his dead master, and, after about a fortnight, the pug said one morning, “Suppose we should go and see how things are at the castle.”

“Very well,” Rough-leg answered, and the two trotted straight toward the castle. They were obliged to run many hours before they reached it. When they arrived, the gate stood open, and Darling walked boldly in. The servants did not recognize him, for he was as slender and active as a greyhound, and as dirty as a pig which had just come out of the mire. But his eyes were bright, his nose was moist, and his bark was as loud and long as the alarm bell in the steeple. They tried to drive him away, but he rushed upstairs to the old countess’s room and scratched at her door. When she heard the familiar sound, she uttered a cry of joy, started up, and opened it as quick as she could. Darling jumped up on her and, barking loudly in his delight, licked her face. But she pushed him away in horror, for he smelled so badly and was so terribly neglected. She called for perfume and a warm bath, but Darling ran swiftly away. He would not have them any more, nor his fine clothes, gingerbread, and velvet cushions.

Rough-leg was lying outside in the ditch, waiting to see whether his rich friend would forget him or come back to him. In a few minutes Darling returned. “Won’t you go into the castle with me?” he cried joyously.

“Yes, so that they can break my limbs or chain me up,” growled Rough-leg.

“They must kill me first,” answered Darling, urging him along.

At first the people in the courtyard wanted to ill-treat the ugly tramp dog. But Darling covered him with his body, and they saw that he was his friend. The case was reported to the countess, who looked out of her window at the ugly, strong, strange dog; the affection her pug showed him touched her, and she ordered the servants to let him stay with Darling. The pug was obliged to allow himself to be thoroughly cleaned, but he would not lead his former life. So he was permitted to wander about the courtyard and high-road with Rough-leg, and only came for a quarter of an hour every morning and evening to the countess, who, however, could not bear his smell, and in spite of his caresses, was glad when he went away again. Darling and Rough-leg always remained the best of friends, and the former often said: “I, the insolent rich dog, owe to you, the poor fellow, health and life. If the rich would only always make the poor their friends!”

“It would be a good thing for both,” growled Rough-leg, in his deep voice.

THE LITTLE GIRL WHO TRAVELLED IN THE BIG SHIP

Once upon a time a steamer was going from Hamburg to South America. The ship was as large as a street of sixty houses. Hundreds of people were in her: sailors and stokers, poor emigrants, and rich ladies and gentlemen. Among them, too, was a little girl about five years old, with the dearest little round face and two short braids. Her name was Rieke, and she was the child of a young couple, who had not been very well off at home in Mecklenburg, and were going to Argentina. The father was sitting on a coil of rope in one corner of the ship, where he was out of the way of the sailors moving to and fro, studying Spanish, and the mother was busy nursing a very little sister of Rieke. During the first two or three days after leaving the Elbe, Rieke stayed with her mother. She did not yet feel at home on the ship, and was a little afraid of the engines, the various things she had never seen before, and all the strangers. Besides, she had been a little seasick, and was obliged to keep quiet, that she might not be ill. When she felt better and the cargo was stowed away, everything in order, and the steamer far out in the open sea, she ventured to leave her mother’s side and look about on board.

Climbing carefully up the iron stairs, she reached the deck. In the bow, that is, at the front end, she stood still and let her bright blue eyes wander curiously from the water to the sky, and from the masts to the wheel. The sailors did not trouble themselves about her, for they had other things to do. Only one old man suddenly noticed her, fixed his eyes sharply upon her, and cried, “Hello, little girl, what are you doing here?”

“I am travelling, and this is my ship,” she answered fearlessly.

The man burst into a loud laugh, slapped his thigh with the palm of his hand till it smacked, and cried over and over again: “Just look at the Hop-o’-my-Thumb! Such a little girl needs such a big ship to travel in!”

Then, taking her by the arm, he led her to the foremast to measure her. Rieke did not even reach to the iron ring which surrounds it near the foot. She was no taller than the leg of a riding-boot.

“It’s enough to make one laugh till one is crooked,” said the old sailor. And the mast, which had looked on, really began to laugh itself crooked and rocked to and fro, creaking and groaning, and the flag which waved at the top, that is, at the masthead, also shook with merriment, and both of them, in their rustling, squeaking language, told the wheel about the little girl who was travelling in the big ship. The wheel laughed till it turned and rolled so that two steersmen could hardly keep it steady, and it told the news to the davits,—the curved iron rods from which the life-boats hang over the edge of the ship,—and the davits told the boats which they carried, and the boats told the fat, merry porpoises which were swimming beside the ship to snap up any scraps, and the porpoises gossiped about it, and so it was talked over far and wide in the sea, till the merman and his daughters heard of it too; and they were all curious to see the funny little girl who was travelling in the big ship. But they had to wail till night, for so long as it is light, they cannot come up, because they don’t wish to be seen by grown people. They don’t mind children.

Meantime, little Rieke had no idea that there was so much talking about her on the ship, in the air, and in the water. So she left the old sailor, who laughed heartily as he looked after her, to continue her voyage of discovery on board. She gazed in astonishment at the smoke-stacks, which looked as wide and as high as towers; she peeped timidly down the engine shaft, where huge steel rods were moving noisily up and down; glanced at the bridge, and at last reached a staircase in the middle of the ship—a staircase with a costly carpet, and shining gilt railings on both sides.

Rieke hesitated a moment, then she boldly went down the steps and into a large room, more beautiful than any she had ever seen in all her life. Mirrors and pictures hung on the walls; a thick carpet, into which the feet sank as if it were soft moss, covered the floor. Ladies and gentlemen were sitting in easy chairs or on sofas talking together, or reading books and newspapers. Rieke was standing near the door, gazing at all the splendid things she had never seen before, when a man in uniform, apparently a servant, came up and asked roughly, “Whom do you want here?”

“Nobody,” replied Rieke, shyly.

“Then be off. No one is allowed here except the first-cabin passengers.” The man saw very plainly that the little girl was not travelling first-class, for she wore poor, shabby, though clean, clothes.

Rieke did not instantly understand what the cross servant wanted her to do, so she made no movement to leave the cabin. The rough man seized her rudely by the arm to lead her out. Rieke was not used to such treatment; for she was so pretty and gentle and polite that people were always kind to her. She began to cry, and said, “Let me go, you hurt me.”

An elderly lady, sitting on the sofa, had seen all that had happened, and called to the child, “Come to me, little one.”

Now the servant had to release her. Rieke went to the lady, who patted her fair little head, wiped her eyes and cheeks with a fine lace handkerchief, and questioned her about her home and her parents. Rieke was not at all shy, but answered plainly and sensibly. Other passengers came up, and, pleased with the brightness of the beautiful child, they all wanted to talk with and pet her. Among them was an Argentine landowner, who was going home with his wife. Their only child had died, and they went to Europe to try to escape from their sad thoughts.

“It is strange,” said the gentleman to his wife, who wore deep mourning, “that poor people have such beautiful, healthy children, and we rich ones such delicate, frail darlings, whom we cannot bring up.”

The lady in mourning made no answer, but she thought of her dead child, her eyes filled with tears, and, drawing the little one to her side, she kissed her again and again.

An hour passed. Rieke’s parents became anxious because she did not come back, and her father went to look for her. He asked here and there if any one had seen her, and, after many questions, he found out that she was in the first cabin. He knew that a poor steerage passenger, like himself, would not be allowed to enter it, so he asked a sailor to bring his little girl. The sailor told the cross servant, and the cross servant went into the cabin and said to Rieke, “You must come to your father, he is waiting for you outside.”

“Oh, what a pity!” murmured the old lady who had first noticed the child.

“Come back again very soon, directly after dinner,” added the lady in mourning.

“The little girl mustn’t come in; it is strictly forbidden,” answered the servant, sharply. His words caused a great uproar, especially among the ladies. “We won’t allow it!” cried one. “We will have the child here!” exclaimed a second. “Three weeks without a single child is far too long,” said a third.

“Then you must go into the steerage, or speak to the captain,” replied the man, trying to lead Rieke away.

“Let her go,” said the Argentine landowner, and, taking Rieke by the hand, he went upstairs where her father was waiting. He wanted to see him. He found a respectably-dressed young man who pleased him at once. Entering into conversation with him, he perceived that he had to deal with a modest, sensible, well-educated person.

“What are you?” he asked.

“I am a farmer.”

“And what do you want to do in Argentina?”

“I shall look for a position as manager of an estate. If I prosper, and make a little money, I shall perhaps later buy or lease a farm of my own.”

“That’s the very thing,” said the landowner. “I want a capable manager, and I prefer a German. If you suit me, you can do well in my employ.”

The little girl’s father gladly accepted the offer. It relieved him from all anxiety, especially as the Argentine gentleman promised a larger salary than he had hoped to receive, and proposed to have a written agreement made at once. He wanted to hurry off to his wife to tell her the good news, but the landowner stopped him.

“One thing more. My wife wants to have your little girl with her while we are on the ship. But we do not wish to separate her from her parents. So you must all move over to us. You will permit me to make your little Rieke a present of the necessary tickets?”

The change was quietly arranged with the captain, the little girl’s parents were moved to a largo, airy stateroom, with a round window looking out upon the sea, and at dinner sat like princes at the first-cabin table, Rieke beside the lady in mourning, who put the daintiest morsels on her plate and gave her almost too much, so that her mother was obliged to watch carefully, that she might not be made ill.

After dinner all the passengers amused themselves with the child, who went from one to the other, talking with everybody whose language she understood. Among them was the head of a museum of ethnology, who had come to Europe to buy curiosities for his collections. He invited the whole company into his stateroom to show them his treasures. He explained the weapons, utensils, and ornaments of the ancient and modern peoples; but modestly confessed that he also had many things whose use he did not know. Taking up an oddly shaped bit of ivory, covered with carved lines, he said: “Look, I don’t know what this is. Probably it may be a porridge spoon; but perhaps it is the badge of some unknown rank.”

Rieke began to laugh, exclaiming, “Why, that’s a shoe-horn.”

“A shoe-horn?” replied the scholar in astonishment. “That is impossible. The people who made this article probably wore no shoes.”

“But it is a shoe-horn,” Rieke persisted, and the ladies all agreed with her. The director, shaking his head, examined the article again very carefully, and saw in one corner a drawing which he had not noticed before. It represented a savage, with feathers in his hair and shoes on his feet, which probably could not have been put on without the help of a horn.

“You are right, little one,” he said. “And since you are so clever, perhaps you can tell me what this one is, too.” He gave her, with a smile, a wooden object which looked like an ordinary cross.

“That’s a cross,” remarked a passenger, who was standing near.

“It can’t be,” replied the scientist, “for it is a thousand years older than Christianity.”

Rieke took the mysterious article in her hand, looked at it a moment, and said:—

“That is a winder.”

“What is a winder?”

“Don’t you know? It’s the cross people wind yarn on to make a ball. Else how can you knit?”

“Be polite,” her mother said; but the scholar cried joyfully, “Never mind, the child is perfectly right to laugh at me a little because I am so ignorant.” And, turning to Rieke, he added, “I thank you, little girl; I have learned from you gladly.”

After supper Rieke and her parents went back to their stateroom, where it was so much more pleasant than in the steerage. As the sea was calm, and the weather warm, Rieke’s mother let her open the little round window and put out her head. As soon as her face appeared, a voice outside called, “There is the little girl who travels in the big ship.”

She looked around curiously, and saw the merman with his long beard calling his daughters out of the water, that they might see the little girl, too. Three, four, five girls’ heads appeared, shaking back long, wet, green hair; their hands came above the surface of the sea, too, and clapped, and the mermaids cried, “Look at the pretty little girl who travels in the big ship.”

“We’ll give her something,” said the merman.

“Yes, yes, yes,” screamed the mermaids, diving down so quickly that the water gurgled. The next minute they were back again, and handed their father all sorts of things, which he passed up to the window on the forked end of a long piece of coral.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “take them for a keepsake from my daughters. They were once little girls like you.”

The first one gave her a mother-of-pearl shell, the second a branch of red coral, the third a pearl, the fourth a long, curved narwhale tooth, and the fifth a soft, wet, shapeless thing, which at first she did not want to touch. But the merman pushed it quickly through the window with his coral staff; then there was loud laughing outside by many voices, after which all became still, and nothing more was heard of the merman and his daughters.

Rieke’s father pulled the wet thing into the window, and, looking at it, saw that it was the rolled-up skin of some unknown creature. He opened it, and was astonished at its great length and width. It had queer green and black spots, long spines on the back, a red crest on the neck, and the head ended in a snout like a turtle’s. He rolled it up again, intending to show it to his fellow-passengers.

The next day, when they heard that the merman had talked with the little girl the night before and given her all sorts of beautiful things, everybody wanted to see the presents. The ladies particularly admired the pearl, but when the snakeskin was unrolled, a young man fairly leaped into the air, exclaiming:—

“The sea-serpent! The famous sea-serpent, in which people would not believe. Now we have it! Hurrah! We have the sea-serpent!” This young man was a naturalist, on his way to South America to try to make some discovery in the vast forests. He wanted to become a professor, so that he could marry a young girl, whose father would not give his consent because the lover was not a famous man, and had neither office nor title. The young naturalist told Rieke’s father this, and begged him to sell him the sea-serpent’s skin. For if he could describe and make a picture of it, and have a book published about it, he would become famous at once, and would certainly be a professor, and could marry the girl to whom he was engaged.

“Take the serpent’s skin,” said Rieke’s father; “I will give it to you, and may it bring you good fortune.”

The young man insisted upon paying for it, until Rieke’s father grew almost angry. “I will not sell the skin for money. Every one ought to help his neighbor as he can.”

The young man already saw himself sure to win his bride, and could not keep his happiness secret. He told every one of the change in his fate, and what he owed the little girl who was travelling with them. A gentleman who had been very silent and did not join the others, drew Rieke to his side, smoothed her fair hair, and said:—

“Tell me, what shall I do to get a little girl just like you?”

“Haven’t you any?” answered Rieke.

“No,” said the gentleman.

“Why not?”

“Because I am not married.”

“Well, then, get married,” cried Rieke, so loud that everybody heard her and began to laugh.

“Yes, but whom shall I marry?”

Rieke looked around, pointed to a young lady sitting modestly in a corner, and said: “Marry her. She is beautiful and good.”

The young lady blushed, the passengers laughed, and the gentleman went up to her and begged her pardon for having unintentionally embarrassed her. In this way they became acquainted. It turned out that the gentleman was a very rich man who had nothing to do, and did not know how to dispose of all his money, so he went travelling over the world to pass away the time. The young lady was an orphan, going to an aunt in Brazil, so that she might not have to live alone. When they had talked together, and become better acquainted, they liked each other, and, three days later, the gentleman called the little girl and said: “Well, Rieke, I have taken your advice. I am going to marry the beautiful, good young lady.” Rieke ran joyfully to her parents and told them the news, so everybody heard of the engagement, in whose honor the gentleman gave the sailors a great feast, with singing and dancing, so that pleasure reigned through the steamer, and people said, “It’s very plain that there is a little girl travelling on the big ship.”

The elderly lady who had first taken little Rieke’s part when the cross servant tried to put her out of the cabin continued to be her best friend, and wanted to have her always near, so that the lady in mourning really grew jealous and said very seriously: “You must let me have the little girl part of the time. Her company consoles me a little for the child I have lost.”

“I have lost my only child, too,” replied the old lady, sadly.

The wife of the Argentine landowner wished to hear about it, but at first the other would not speak freely. At last, however, she was persuaded to tell the whole story. She had an only child, a grown daughter. And she had lost her, but not by death. The daughter had married, against her mother’s will, a man whom she did not want for a son-in-law. In punishment for such disobedience, she would have nothing more to do with her, and told every one that she no longer had a child. But she knew very well that this was not right, and she secretly longed for her only daughter, whom she had treated so harshly. True, she would receive no letters from her nor hear anything else about her, yet she had learned that she had a little girl with fair hair and blue eyes. The child must now be just about Rieke’s age, and doubtless quite as pretty and amusing. The old lady could not help thinking constantly about this grandchild, when Rieke was playing by her side and talking with her, and whenever she embraced and kissed the child, which she did very often, she fancied she clasped her own little grandchild in her arms.

When the lady in black had heard this story, she urged her to forgive her daughter at once; and Rieke, who had heard everything that was said, and understood most of it, exclaimed at the same time: “Yes, yes, you must forgive your daughter and let your grandchild come here. I want to see her and play with her. I’ll give her something, too,—my shell, or my pearl, or my coral, or whatever she wants. Only not my narwhale tooth. I suppose that’s too big for her.”

Tears filled the old lady’s eyes, and, clasping Rieke in her arms, she said: “You are right, dear. I will do what you ask.”

“But this very minute!” said Rieke.

“That cannot be,” replied the lady, smiling through her tears, “but as soon as we land.”

Rieke was satisfied, and the lady in mourning congratulated the old lady because she would now find her lost daughter and have a dear little grandchild, too. The story of the mother’s forgiveness of her only daughter became known among the passengers, and the gentleman who was engaged to the orphan said: “Rieke, you are surely the angel of peace. Suppose you try to make peace for some one else.”

“Whom?” asked the child.

“Do you see those two gentlemen over there, one in the right corner and the other in the left?”

Rieke looked and answered, “Yes.” She had known them a long time, and had noticed that they never spoke to each other, never went near each other, and always managed to have the whole length or width of the cabin between them.

“Well, those two gentlemen are the presidents of two South American republics.”

“What is that?” asked Rieke.

“It would take too much time to explain it,” said the gentleman. “The countries of those two presidents have been enemies a long while, many years, and people say that they want to make war on each other. Then a great many men will be wounded and killed.”

“Little girls, too?” asked Rieke, in terror.

“Little girls, too,” replied the gentleman. “So go and beg the two presidents not to make war, but be friends with each other.”

Rieke did not wait to be asked twice. She went to the younger one, who looked more good-natured and had smiled at her once, and told him how terrible it would be to wound and kill people, especially little girls, and he ought not to make war. Rieke spoke German, and the gentleman understood nothing but Spanish, so he listened, smiling, and asked his neighbors what the pretty child wanted. An interpreter was at once found, who faithfully translated the little girl’s words. Then the gentleman patted Rieke’s cheeks, saying, “Tell all that to my colleague over there.”

Rieke seized the president’s hand and, though at first he resisted, she drew him with her to the other corner, and repeated to the second gentleman her entreaty for peace. The second gentleman was old, and looked gloomy. At first he frowned when the little girl’s words were repeated to him. But as the first gentleman had bowed politely when he came up, he was obliged to return it, and Rieke would not go until she had received some kind of a reply. The eyes of all the passengers were fixed upon him, and unless he wanted them to take him for a very rude fellow, he could do nothing except stroke Rieke’s hair, too, and say with rather a sour smile, “Little girls don’t understand such things.”

“Yes, yes,” Rieke persisted, taking hold of the gloomy man’s hand and putting it into the other president’s. The two began to talk together, at first stiffly, then more and more cordially, and, after some time, they both went to the older one’s stateroom. From that hour they were a great deal in each other’s company, sat side by side at table, and after several days the good news spread through the steamer that the two presidents had become friends, and there would be no war between their countries. The captain ordered a salute to be fired in honor of the event, the crew had another feast and more presents, and everybody on board, both passengers and sailors, perceived that the little girl was the most important person on the big ship.

The carpenters hammered and carved for the little girl in the big ship a small ship with a big girl in it, and when, a few days after, the steamer reached South America, they gave it to her for a remembrance of her first sea voyage, on which she had won the good-will of the merman and his daughters, obtained a good place for her father, explained to the director of a museum the use of his ancient things, helped a scholar to secure fame, a professorship, and a wife, aided an old bachelor to become engaged to a beautiful orphan girl, persuaded a mother to forgive her daughter, and made peace between two hostile countries. Was not that a voyage well worth remembering?

THE NAUGHTY BROTHER AND THE CLEVER SISTER

Once upon a time there were two children, a little boy and a little girl, who belonged to poor people, a locksmith, who worked in a machine-shop, and his wife, who attended to her housekeeping and took in washing. The father was never at home, except on Sundays and holidays, and the mother had too much to do to look after the children. So they were usually left to themselves, and grew up like nettles on a refuse heap. The boy was wild and careless, and would not do as he was told. He wandered far outside of the city, and did not come home at meal times. He climbed trees and tore his trousers. He joined street urchins, fought with them, and came back with his nose bleeding and his body covered with black-and-blue spots. Who knows what might have happened to him, how often village curs would have bitten him, gypsies stolen him, or automobiles run over him, if he had not had his little sister.

True, she was a year younger than he, but she was far more sensible, always stayed with him, and prevented him from doing too much mischief. As he loved her dearly, he usually obeyed her, though not always, and thus was saved from worse injuries.

One summer day the brother again invited his little sister to ramble with him through the fields and woods. The little sister did not want to go, because their mother had forbidden them to stray far from home. “Well, if you won’t come with me, I’ll go alone,” said the sly fox, pretending to set off. He knew very well that she would not let him.

“You are a regular ne’er-do-weel,” she replied, but she went with him.

They walked gayly along, soon left the city behind them and were on the high-road, among farms and hedges, running in the meadows through the tall grass and clover, picking cherries, gathering flowers, and catching white and blue butterflies. So, still playing and walking happily on, they reached a wood, passed through it, and at last came to the bank of a rushing river, where they could walk no farther.

“Now we will turn back,” said the little sister.