Chapter VI: Part 6

“No,” replied the brother; “it is too beautiful here.” He took his little sister by the hand, and drew her along by the water. At a bend in the shore he suddenly saw a little boat, tied to an old willow. Shouting with delight, he instantly sprang into the skiff, which began to rock dangerously.

“You must get out at once,” screamed the little girl in terror.

“I’ve no idea of it,” replied the rascal; “it rocks so gloriously that I feel like a bird in the air. Jump in quick, little sister, we will have a row.”

“I won’t do it,” said the little girl; “the boat doesn’t belong to us. If the owner catches you, he will box your ears. And mother always forbids us to go on the water.”

“Mother won’t see; come with me, come,” said the naughty boy, untying the boat. Unless the little sister wanted to stay alone on the bank, she was obliged to follow him, whether she liked it or not.

She timidly put first one foot and then the other in the boat, trembling a little as it rocked. Her brother laughed at her, pulled her down on the seat, and pushed the oar against the shore. The skiff moved off, at first slowly, then faster and faster. Before the children were aware of it, they were in the middle of the river, where the current was the strongest, shooting along with the utmost speed. The banks fairly flew past them. Each bend in the stream showed them new pictures: at first flowery meadows, then dark woods, finally lofty mountains, which constantly drew nearer together and cast gloomier shadows over the surface of the water. The stream flowed with tremendous force through a narrow ravine between high cliffs, its waves dashing against the rocks with a thundering roar.

“It frightens me,” said the little sister, softly.

“I’m not afraid,” replied the brother; “it is so wild here, and the water sings so merrily.”

“But where are we going?” asked the little sister.

“I don’t know, and that’s just the beautiful part of it,” the boy answered; “we will shut our eyes and let ourselves go—we shall land somewhere.”

The little girl did so, for she was afraid of the mountains, towering so close at hand, and the raging river. Again the stream curved sharply around a projecting cliff, and both brother and sister screamed with fright. They had felt a violent shock, and were flung headlong into the bottom of the boat.

Opening their eyes quickly, they saw that an invisible power had jerked their boat out of the water and was lifting it high in the air. They raised themselves as well as they could, and now saw that the boat was in a huge net as thick as one’s arm, hanging from a pole as big as a tree. This pole was held by a terrible giant, who sat on the top of one of the high, steep cliffs that lined the shore, dangling legs ten times as long as a man’s. In a trice the net was drawn up and thrown on the rock so roughly that every seam in the boat creaked. A hand so large that there was plenty of room in the palm for the little skiff reached in for it, disentangled it from the confusion of meshes, and held it before two eyes as big as cart wheels. A mouth like a barn-door opened, and a voice which echoed through the river valley like thunder said: “A good catch at last! My old woman will be pleased with it.” The hand closed around the boat, and the two children saw between the fingers, as if looking through the chinks in the rafters of a steeple, that the giant rose, shouldered his net, and began to walk away. His head towered above the tallest trees, and his walk was faster than the swiftest railroad train.

The brother was half dead with fright, he howled at the top of his lungs and stammered almost unintelligibly: “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! It’s all over with us.”

The little sister, too, did not feel very comfortable; but she kept up her courage and reproached her brother for his useless whining. “You have brought us into the scrape,” she said, “now at least keep quiet. Perhaps all giants do not eat human beings.”

“Why did he fish us out of the water, unless he meant to eat us?” wailed the boy.

“He is carrying us home to his wife,” said the little sister, soothingly; “we will beg the giantess very prettily to let us go home to our mother. I don’t believe a woman would do children any harm, even if she is a giantess.”

The brother was only half comforted; he nestled close to his sister, threw both arms around her neck, and sobbed: “Oh, little sister, help just this time. I will never be naughty again.”

It was not long before the giant reached his house, built on a high, wooded mountain, and larger than the largest church that the children had ever seen. Before the door stood the giantess, smiling at her husband.

“I’m bringing you something!” he shouted in his thundering voice, while still at a long distance, waving the hand that held the boat to and fro before his face, till the children grew dizzy.

“What can it be?” asked the giantess, curiously, and went quickly into the sitting room.

The giant followed her, set the boat on the table, took the boy between his thumb and forefinger, and held him up before his wife’s face: “Just look at this little Hop-o’-my-Thumb! He was floating along very happily with this other pygmy on our water, in a little nutshell, and I fished out the whole cargo of food.”

The boy struggled with all his might in the fingers that held him, roared as if he were being put on the spit, and twisted his face into such ugly shapes that his little sister cried out, “Don’t behave so, little brother, the master and mistress are not eating you yet.”

“Not yet, little Miss Pert, not yet,” said the giant, and began to laugh loudly.

The giantess took the struggling boy out of his hand, put him on the table, where he again fell on his little sister’s neck and hid his face in her bosom, and scrutinized the little pair. Her eyes, in spite of their size, looked kind, and her face was mild and gentle, which the little sister noticed very plainly. The giantess had no children herself, and her heart grew soft when she saw these two little human creatures so near her.

“I haven’t tasted any human flesh for a long time,” cried the giant. “Prepare the little ones for my supper. I’ll have them baked.”

“No,” replied the giantess, quickly, covering the children with her hand. “They are too small. Both wouldn’t make you a mouthful. We must fatten them first. We have four roebucks for to-night, besides two pecks of potatoes and a hundred weight of cherries. Let me have the children awhile for playthings.”

“Well, for aught I care,” growled the giant, and went out to put away his fishing tackle.

The giantess, when she was left alone with the children, sat down before the table, looked at the two a long time in silence, then as the boy was the larger, leaned nearer to him, and said in a voice which she tried to make very gentle: “Don’t be frightened, little mouse. I will do you no harm if you are very good and sensible. Will you be?”

“Oh, Lady Giantess,” replied the boy, whining, and trembling from head to foot, “I’ll do my best. But my sister is much nicer and more sensible than I am.”

“Is this true, little one?” asked the giantess.

“We ought not to praise ourselves, Lady Giantess,” answered the little sister, making a pretty courtesy.

The reply and the little girl’s manner greatly pleased the giantess. She smiled and said: “We will see presently which of you two is the smarter. I will ask you three questions, and if you answer them correctly, you shall have your liberty.”

The little sister clapped her hands, and, taking one of the huge fingers of the kind giantess, pressed a kiss on the tip. True, it seemed as if she had kissed the end of a log, but it pleased the giantess.

“Now pay attention,” she said. “You too, boy. Why do we eat fruit for dessert, and not at the beginning of the meal?”

“Because fruit is so good,” replied the brother, quickly.

The giantess shook her head. “The fruit is just as good at the beginning of the meal as it is at dessert. A bad answer. Do you know any better, little one?”

The little sister nodded, saying, “Because we could eat nothing more if the fruit did not give us fresh appetite.”

“There’s something in that,” said the giantess. “So go on. Why is there a cock instead of a hen on the top of the church steeple?”

“Because the cock is bigger,” replied the boy, “so it can be seen better.”

The giantess shook her head again. “The hen can be made as large as we desire. A bad answer. Do you know a better one, little girl?”

The little sister said without hesitation: “A hen cannot be on the top of the steeple. If she lays eggs, they would fall down, and be broken into a thousand pieces.”

“Rather good,” said the giantess. “Now for the third question. Collect your thoughts, boy. Why do women have long hair and men short, or none at all?”

“I needn’t collect my thoughts much for that,” replied the boy, boldly; “because the men have their hair cut, and the women don’t.”

The giantess shook her head for the third time. “You would have done wisely to think the matter over. Why do not women have their hair cut? That is just the question. You have answered badly. We will see whether your sister can do better.”

The little sister remembered an exclamation which she had often heard from her sorely tried mother, and said precociously, “Women must have long hair so that they can tear it out when the men commit follies.”

The giantess burst into a loud laugh, ran to her husband, called him in, and told the little girl to repeat her answer. The little sister did so bravely, and now the giant laughed, too, till he had to hold his sides. “A woman will be a woman,” he shouted, “whether she is as small as a mouse or as big as a house.”

When the kind giantess saw that her husband was in a good humor, she said, “We will let the little ones go; there is really nothing to them yet.”

“I caught them for you; do what you please with them,” replied the giant, shrugging his shoulders, and he went back to his work.

He had scarcely left the room when the giantess took the brother and little sister by the hand, went quickly out of the house and into the wood with them, and when she had reached the foot of the mountain she put them on the ground, saying: “Get away before my husband changes his mind. And since you are such a clever child, little girl, I will give you something.”

Drawing out of her pocket a small silk purse, she handed it to the little sister. “Take this, and keep it carefully. Whenever you have a clever idea, you will find a gold piece in it. I think you will be a rich girl.”

The little sister wanted to thank her, but the giantess hurried off with her huge strides and was out of sight in an instant.

The children were now free; that was certainly delightful, but they were all alone in the deep forest, saw no path, and did not know where they were or which way they ought to go. The brother sat down in the moss, and again began to weep bitterly. “Oh, dear, little sister, what is to become of us! How shall we ever get home to mother!”

The little sister sat down by his side and tried to encourage him; but she herself was on the point of crying, and was wondering whether the wolves might not eat them, now that they had so fortunately escaped from the giants.

Just at this moment she saw a stork flying high above them. “Stork! Hey! Stork!” she called as loud as she could, started up, and beckoned with all her might. An idea had flashed through her brain. At the same moment she felt something hard in the soft little purse which she held in her hand. She opened it, a glittering gold coin shone before her. So she had had a good idea.

The stork flew slowly down, alighted on the bough of a neighboring tree, and clapped: “What is it? What do you want?”

“Stork,” said the little sister, “you have already brought us to our mother once. Take us to her again. We are lost and cannot find our way home.”

“We never take a child to its mother twice,” clattered the bird, preparing to fly away.

“But surely you will not leave us here to die,” screamed the little sister in terror. “Please, please, be kind, we will love, you very, very dearly.”

The stork reflected, as is its custom, then it said: “You are too heavy for me. I’ll bring a companion.”

Off it flew with the speed of an arrow, but in a few minutes the children heard a great rustling in the air, and saw seven storks, which swooped straight down to them. Four seized the brother by the arms and legs, three took the little sister by the sleeves and belt, and away they went, up and down, through the blue air, over forest, and field, mountain and valley, so swiftly that the children closed their eyes, that they might not grow dizzy. This lasted for some time; the children did not know how long, then suddenly there was a crashing, a fall, a rushing noise. They opened their eyes quickly and found themselves lying in their mother’s bed, while the storks were soaring out of the open window.

Their mother, who had been very anxious about them, screamed with joy when she saw them, and forgot to punish them as she had intended when they did not come home to dinner. She forgave them fully when the little girl told her about the giants and showed her the giantess’s costly gift, and the gold piece which had rewarded her first bright idea.

“Now we shall be rich,” said the boy, who admired his little sister more than ever; “you will have lots of good ideas every day.”

“I think so, too,” replied the little sister, with a touch of conceit. She now devoted herself to finding good ideas. She made all sorts of smart, affected speeches, which seemed to her very clever; and whenever she thought she had said something extremely bright, she secretly felt for the little silk purse in her pocket. Only, to her surprise and anger, she found no gold piece there, and she consoled herself by thinking that the giantess had fooled her. Yet she had once found a gold piece in the purse, so it could not be a mere hoax on the part of the giantess. She thought about the matter a long time, and suddenly the idea darted through her head, “What if all the smart sayings, of which I have been so vain, were not clever ideas at all, but stupid nonsense?”

At the same moment she felt something hard in her pocket, opened the purse with a trembling hand, and there was another beautiful glittering gold piece. So this was her first good idea since the one with the stork. From this she learned to be modest and natural, no longer struggled to force herself to think up bright ideas, which, however, now came of themselves,—sometimes many, sometimes only a few,—but always some, so she never lacked shining gold coins; and her father no longer had to go to the machine-shop, but could build a factory of his own; and her mother no longer needed to take in washing; and her brother became a fine, well-educated young fellow, and they were all happy and remained so as long as they lived.

THE MASTER

Once upon a time there was a little girl whose name was Maxa. She was a pretty child, always happy, and very inquisitive. The word which people heard Maxa say more often than any other was “Why?” She wanted to know where everything came from, and who made everything,—the flowers, the birds, the golden beetles, and the gay butterflies. When she saw a violet on which a ladybug rested, or a rose-bush with a butterfly fluttering about it, she exclaimed, “Oh, if I could only make something like that!” But her mother said, “Human beings cannot make such things.”

One spring day, Maxa was playing in the garden alone. She drove her hoop to the fence that separated it from the next meadow. There she suddenly saw a man sitting on a little folding stool, with his back against the fence. Before him was an easel, supporting an unframed canvas on which he was painting. She did not feel afraid, for she was in the garden and he in the meadow, with a thick hedge between them; and, besides, he did not notice her or trouble himself about her. So she stood still, rested the hoop against the fence, kept as quiet as a little mouse, and watched. The meadow was very large and rather marshy, with a low, white wall at the far end. Neither man nor beast was visible, and buttercups were almost the only flower that covered the brown earth. The canvas before the artist was still blank. He was just preparing to paint the sky. Under his brush appeared a beautiful expanse of blue, on which floated several fleecy white clouds.

“Oh,” thought Maxa, “that isn’t right. The sky is perfectly clear.” And she looked up to compare them. But behold—the heavens, which had just been cloudless, now showed here and there a few thin cloudlets, just as the artist had painted them.

He worked on industriously with his nimble brush. Maxa saw the meadow appear, but at its end in the picture, instead of the white wall, there was a green river, from which the sunshine was reflected. She glanced quickly in that direction—what did it mean? The well-known white wall had vanished, and in its place flowed a stream which she had never seen there.

The little girl wondered and watched even more eagerly than before. Now the man was painting a row of tall poplar trees along the river bank. Yes, there in the distance rose the poplars. He scattered over his canvas red and blue flowers which she had never seen. A swift glance at the meadow showed her that everywhere, among the yellow buttercups, the strange blue and red flowers had sprung in great numbers from the brown earth. Maxa watched still more closely, and when the artist painted in one corner of his canvas a flock of shining sheep and lambs, in whose midst was a shepherd with a broad-brimmed hat and long staff, and a black dog with a white head, and in the meadow also appeared a shepherd with a broad-brimmed hat and long staff, and a lively dog with a flock of sheep and lambs, she could contain herself no longer, and cried out, “Why, everything you paint grows out of the earth!”

The artist turned quickly and looked at her. She wanted to run away, but she could not do it. She was forced to stay; she did not know why. Maxa had already noticed that he wore long hair. Now she saw that he had a long beard, and blue eyes which sparkled like the brightest stars at night.

“What! Do you see that everything I paint grows out of the earth?” he asked.

“Of course I see it. Why shouldn’t I?” replied Maxa.

“Then you are a Sunday child,” said the artist.

“So I am,” Maxa answered. She knew this, for her mother had often told her that the stork had brought her one Sunday afternoon.

“Yes, yes,” the artist murmured, his eyes resting kindly on the beautiful little girl. “Sunday children see what forever remains invisible to others.”

“And you,” asked Maxa, who had grown familiar,—“what are you?”

“I am an artist.”

“What is an artist? A painter?”

He laughed. “Not every artist is a painter, and not every painter is an artist. I am an artist who paints.”

“But you don’t merely paint—you make a river, and trees, and little white lambs, and even a shepherd with a hat and cane and a dog. Is all this real, too?”

“It is real, since you see it.”

“Then you are the one who makes the flowers and the birds, the golden beetles and the butterflies?”

“I am not the only one who makes them, but I make them too. The artist makes whatever he wishes, and what he makes is really there, whether it is things or flowers, animals or human beings.”

“And do they live?”

“They live if there is anything living in them, and they live much longer than what nature has created, and always remain as young and beautiful as the artist has formed them.”

Then Maxa clapped her hands, crying: “Oh, if I could only make them too! Won’t you teach me, dear artist?”

The man with the long beard looked thoughtfully at her a little while with his sparkling blue eyes, then he said: “Every one cannot learn. But you are a Sunday child, and you have bright eyes. Perhaps I can teach you. Come, child, we will go to your mother, and ask if she will allow you.”

“But how can you get over the hedge? It is so thick, and it pricks so terribly.”

“Don’t be troubled,” replied the artist, as he rose from his stool and waved his hand. The hedge parted and let him pass through; his stool, easel, and paint-box followed like dogs, and when they were all in the garden, the hedge closed again. So they went to the house together,—the tall man walking in front with the little girl, the easel striding stiffly along on its three legs, the folding-chair hobbling before, and the paint-box jumping in short hops like a toad. On the way the thrushes, wrens, and blackbirds, whose nests were in the garden, flew about them, singing a joyous greeting to the artist, which he answered with a friendly nod, and the acacias and horse-chestnuts scattered blossoms on his long hair as he passed under their boughs. The cat, however, which was sunning herself on the door-step, ran hastily away. She knew nothing about art, and was afraid of the easel, and folding-chair, and paint-box, which she thought were hostile animals.

The little girl ran on before and told her mother about the stranger, as well as the easel, folding-chair, and paint-box, which had come shambling and hopping with them. But the artist left them all outside, and went in alone. He told the mother that her little daughter wanted to learn to paint; she seemed to have the right eyes for it, and she was a Sunday child, too, so she would probably succeed. He was ready to teach her until she knew as much as he did. Her mother did not object, only there must be no expense. The artist relieved her economical mind on that score, and it was settled that Maxa should become his pupil.

“Where will you have your studio?” the mother asked.

“Wherever you wish,” replied the artist; “in your garden.”

“In the open air, then?”

“No. If you will allow it, I’ll build a little house.”

The mother looked troubled. “H’m,” she said, “that will take months, and all the masons, carpenters, and locksmiths, with their noise and dirt.”

“Nothing of the sort,” interrupted the painter. “Don’t be afraid of either dirt or disorder. Everything will be finished in an hour, and I can invite you to inspect the building.”

The artist went away, and Maxa followed him. She wanted to know how he would manage to build a house in an hour.

He found a sunny, grass-grown spot near the hedge, without trees, sat down on his folding-chair, took from his paint-box a small, new canvas, put it on the easel, reflected a moment, and then began to paint a wonderfully pretty house, which looked like a jewel box. The walls were marble, pillars stood at the right and left of the entrance, the roof was made of green copper, and through the clear panes of the large windows gleamed yellow silk curtains. And what the artist painted on the canvas actually appeared; so when the house in the picture was finished, it was also ready in the garden, and taking Maxa by the hand, the painter went in with her, sat down again, and began to paint suitable furniture, beautiful old tapestries of silk and gold threads, Turkish carpets in soft, faded hues, low, broad sofas, light gilded chairs, tall, carved, ebony wardrobes, and, for the corners and niches, coats of mail, bronze statues, and large porcelain vases. He did not forget his little friend either. For her he painted six dolls, each one in a different costume, and the prettiest of all was a fair-haired Swiss, with a silver chain on her bodice. When Maxa saw her, she fairly shouted for joy, ran to her, and, clasping her in her arms, exclaimed, “I want to show her to mamma.”

“No,” said the artist, “you must carry nothing out. You can only play with your dolls here in the studio, and when your mother comes, she will see them.”

But he had not yet finished. When the room was magnificently furnished, he painted two young negro women in striped silk gowns, with red kerchiefs on their heads. After the last stroke of the brush, they stood alive in the studio, approached the artist, and bowed low before him and Maxa. “They are to do the work here,” said the painter. “They will obey you if you order anything sensible. But they will answer only with their eyes, for they are dumb.”

“Can’t you make them speak, too?” asked Maxa.

“No,” he answered, “I can’t do that. I should have to beg other artists, the poets, to help me. But, for these negro girls, it isn’t necessary.”

The hour was not over by several minutes when the painter went back to Maxa’s mother and invited her to visit his house in the garden. The mother was very much astonished to see the charming little marble palace, the costly furniture, the black maid-servants in their gay silk gowns, and Maxa’s six dolls, and said: “You are a clever man. I will trust my Maxa to you. She will learn something worth knowing.”

Maxa came to the studio every morning. If the day was cloudy, or the master in a bad humor, he sent her away. If he was in a good mood, and the weather was sunshiny, he gave her a lesson. She went to work eagerly, and wanted to paint with brush and colors on the canvas at once. But the artist would not allow this. “You must first learn to draw well,” he said, and gave her ordinary paper and a lead pencil. She drew with an untrained hand all sorts of crooked marks, looking up eagerly from the board to see whether what she was scrawling on the paper would actually appear. But nothing came. Then she threw the pencil down, exclaiming impatiently: “If I can’t make anything real, it isn’t worth while. You must teach me your art, and nothing else.”

The artist looked at her gravely, and replied: “Art cannot be learned in a day. People must work long and patiently.”

“Even a Sunday child?”

“Even a Sunday child. A person who is not cannot learn it at all. You must begin at the beginning, as we have all done. You must not open the paint-box until you know how to use the pencil perfectly. Just think, child, if I should allow you to paint before you were able to draw faultlessly, and you should make a monster, when the unfortunate creature stood alive before you, crooked, misshapen, and crippled, what would you say then?”

“I should be very sorry,” said Maxa, sadly.

“That wouldn’t help the poor cripple. So you are strictly forbidden to touch the paint-box until you can draw perfectly.”

Maxa was a sensible child, and saw that the master was right. She drew diligently, though at first it wearied her, and soon gained a taste for it. She wanted to reach quickly the point where she could use the paint-box; but the master was strict, and nothing except what was perfectly correct, the very best, would satisfy him. Many months passed before she had made so much progress that he said one day, “It will do now.” Maxa blushed with pleasure, and asked, “May I have the paint-box?”

The artist looked at her for a while silently and thoughtfully, then he said: “Very well. We will try.”

Maxa, in great delight, sprang up to bring the paint-box from the corner, but the master stopped her and beckoned. The easel stalked forward, the paint-box hopped to its side, and the negro girls brought a mahl-stick, a canvas, and a new palette, and set everything in order. The little girl took the magic brush from the box, squeezed a few bits of color from the tubes upon the palette, and stepped before the canvas. Her hand trembled, her little heart beat violently, and her eyes grew dim. It was a great moment. Now, for the first time, she was to accomplish, as a real artist, the miracle of creation.

She was just touching the brush to the canvas when the artist caught her arm.

“Stop, child. No hurry. What do you want to paint?”

“A little girl,” she answered firmly.

The master smiled and shook his head. “No, not yet. That is too difficult. Try something lifeless first.”

“But I want to make a living creature!” cried Maxa, stamping her foot impatiently.

“No one must do that until he is perfectly sure of himself,” replied the master. “Try something lifeless first.”

A mischievous idea darted into the child’s head. With a few swift strokes of the brush she painted in the middle of the canvas a gray cloud of smoke. Instantly a thick vapor filled the room, and the two black maids began to cough pitifully. The master laughed and quickly painted the cloud over with the ground color, the smoke vanished as suddenly as it had come, and the artist said reprovingly: “No nonsense, child, or I shall take away the paint-box. Art is too lofty for sorry jests.”

She begged forgiveness, promised to be good and sensible, and now began to work earnestly. “I’ll paint a doll,” she said, and the master consented. Oh, wonder! The Alsatian peasant girl, with the big butterfly bow on her fair hair, which she began to paint, grew before her on the floor of the studio, just as it did under her brush. When she saw the doll’s head and body lying there, she wanted to throw down the painting implements and rush to it, to convince herself by feeling that it was real. Again the artist sternly reproved her.

“Keep on, you restless butterfly. What has been begun must be finished. First complete the doll, then you can play with her.”

Maxa added the arms and legs, but she did it rather carelessly, and they were incomplete. She would not take the time to paint shoes and stockings, so the poor Alsatian remained barefooted. The master shook his head, but did not prevent her running to the doll and lifting it tenderly in her arms. Maxa would not notice that the limbs were strangely crooked and pitifully thin, and it was by no means as pretty as the six dolls which the artist had made for her. She liked it better, because she had created it herself.

The artist let her play with the work of her hands, locked away the brush and palette, sent the paint-box back to its corner, and said: “Now you know how an artist feels when he has created something. Whoever has done it once will do it again. But I forbid you to touch the paint-box in my absence. You can use it only when I am here.”

Maxa came to the studio even more eagerly every day, and was happy when permitted to paint with the magic pencil. She never grew tired of filling the room with the works of her imagination. First, she made toys of every description; then vases, china figures, and bronze busts; then she ventured upon foliage, plants, and flowers; and finally even on all sorts of flying and creeping things, gay caterpillars, ladybugs, little beetles, and butterflies of the most magnificent colors; and when the beetles ran over the leaves, and the butterflies were hovering in the air, she exclaimed: “See what I can do! Now I want to paint some living people.”

“Not yet,” said the master. “Beware of pride; it is the greatest foe of the artist.”

Maxa would not understand, and begged and coaxed him to let her paint human beings. But he would not permit it. This vexed her, and she thought: “Just wait! I’ll give him a surprise.” She watched in the garden until the master went out, slipped into the studio, and seized the paint-box. The negro girls hastily placed themselves in front of it, warning her by gestures not to disobey the master’s command; but Maxa cried, “Begone, you black creatures, or I’ll paint a dog that will bite you.” Then the mute maid-servants drew back in terror, while Maxa opened the paint-box, placed a large new canvas on the easel, thought for a moment, and then resolutely began to paint a young girl.

She had long been planning what she desired to make—just the girl she wished to be herself, tall and beautiful, with loose golden hair and shining gray eyes, in a pink dress with a long train.

The first strokes of the brush she made boldly, without hesitation. She began with the head, and was completely absorbed in the work. But when it was successfully finished and looked out at her from the canvas with shining gray eyes, she could not refrain from glancing into the studio beside the easel to see what was being done. Her eyes instantly met two sparkling gray ones, gazing at her with an unspeakably loving, longing expression.

This look was an electric shock, and confused her so that she did not venture to glance there again, but hastily painted on. But she no longer had her former sure touch. Now she had seen it: what her brush painted became actual life, and every stroke was part of a living creature—if it failed, the creature was injured. Maxa’s hand trembled, and she felt inclined to throw down the brush. But dared she do that? She could not leave unfinished what she had commenced—how terrible it would be to have half a human being lying in the studio! She trembled with fear at the bare thought, and painted on hurriedly. The master might come back at any moment. Only let her finish—quick—quick—

But alas! Nothing perfect can be accomplished by over haste. The young girl’s body would not succeed like the head. It was crooked and misshapen, the shoulders were uneven, and the folds of the pink dress with the long train showed that the material covered very ill-formed limbs. Maxa perceived, with increasing fear, that she had bungled, and she was just going to try to correct some of the most faulty lines in the sketch when the door suddenly opened and the master entered.

Maxa screamed and ran behind a curtain to hide. The artist saw at once what had happened: the picture with the beautiful head and the miserable body, the poor crippled girl in the studio, the negro maids who stood in the corner as if paralyzed by fear, and he called in a terrible voice, “Maxa, what have you done?”

Maxa came out of her hiding place, clasped her hands, and pleaded:—

“Forgive me, master, I could not help it. I had to do it.”

“Look at your work, you disobedient child! All that lives for you is a monster, with a pretty face and crippled limbs.”

“Make amends for what I have done,” Maxa begged, beginning to cry.

“I cannot do that,” said the master, sadly. “Your creation lives. It belongs to you alone. Will you destroy it, and make another?”

“No!” shrieked Maxa in horror, hurrying to the girl as if to save her from destruction. The young girl knelt before her, laid her head in her lap, and looked at her very mournfully. Maxa, being a Sunday child, was, without knowing it, a poetess, so she could give the mute girl speech, and she began to say in sorrowful tones:—

“Little mother dear, why
Crooked, ugly, am I,
Not pretty like you?
Since thou madest me live,
Why didst thou not give
Joy and loveliness, too?”

Maxa hugged and kissed her, and tried to comfort her. She was not ugly, she whispered into her ear, but beautiful as the day; no one could help loving her, and she would give her the handsomest clothes and the most splendid jewels. But the young girl, shaking her head, answered:—

“Gems bright and rare,
Silk and velvet fair,
No joy bestow.
Little mother, I pray, leave me not so.”

Maxa, in her distress, turned to the master, who stood with folded arms, gazing sadly at her and the complaining girl. “Master, dear master, help me just this once. I will never be disobedient again. I cannot bear to have the creature I have made so unhappy. Help me, or kill us both.” The master made no reply, but paced up and down the studio several times, absorbed in thought. Some minutes passed in this way, while Maxa followed him anxiously with her eyes. At last he stopped and said, “Your girl must remain as she is, but I will do what I can to make her happy.” Going to the canvas, he began to paint. He made a young prince, handsome as the day, slender as a fir tree, with kindly eyes and smiling face, who stretched both hands toward the girl and gazed at her tenderly. And there, too, stood the young prince in reality, stretching both hands toward the girl as he did in the picture. Then the master said: “He loves you, and will marry you, and always be your faithful husband. He cannot speak, but you can talk enough for both. If you like him, give him your hand.”

The young girl, blushing, rose and went slowly toward the prince. She limped slightly, but the prince did not seem to notice it. Gazing joyously into her sparkling gray eyes, which she cast down, he clasped her in his arms. The negro maids clapped their hands in delight and danced around the pair. The easel stalked along shakily, the paint-box jumped merrily, but Maxa said mournfully:—

“What good will all this do? The lover won’t make the girl more beautiful.”

“You don’t understand,” said the master. “When one loves anybody with all one’s heart, one thinks her more beautiful than anything else in the whole wide world. Ask the bride what she says about it.” Maxa cast a searching glance at the young girl, who nestled closely to her prince, saying with a happy smile:—

“His love is true beyond compare;
Just as I am he finds me fair.
His heart is now my happiness;
I need not beauty life to bless.”

The prince nodded and kissed his future bride.

“Well, then,” said Maxa, “if you are both satisfied, I will be, too, and I thank you, master, for having made everything turn out for the best.”

But the artist answered: “I could help once, but never again. Let this be a lesson to you. Great power is given to the artist. But woe betide him if he uses it recklessly! Farewell. I can teach you nothing more.”

Before she could speak a word, he had vanished, and with him the lovers, the black maid-servants, the easel, and the paint-box; but the studio and all its contents remained, including the picture with the prince and the girl. Whenever Maxa saw it afterward, her heart grew both sad and joyous—sad because the girl she had created had disappeared, and joyous because she felt that she must be happy with her prince. Maxa herself grew up into a tall, beautiful girl, whom everybody recognized as a Sunday child. She continued to paint, but no longer with a magic brush, and this was well for her.

Who can be sure that his work will always succeed?—and it is far too dangerous to make a mistake when, for each error, a living being must suffer all through life.

THE HEART THREAD

Once upon a time there lived in an old palace by the sea a beautiful young queen, who was richer and more powerful than any other, far or near, in that region or across the water. She had many big ships, which brought to her from the most distant quarters of the globe valuables of every description. She possessed cities and castles, fields and flocks, and everything that the heart can desire. Her mints stamped gold from her mines, her mills ground wheat from her fields, her furnaces burned wood from her forests, the materials of her clothes were woven from silk from her silkworms and wool from her sheep, and, when she wanted to be merry, she had fools enough in her own country at whom she could laugh. Only one thing was lacking to make her happy: children, or at least one child. For, though she had been married several years, hitherto she had vainly longed for the joys of a mother.

When year after year passed away without the gift of a little one, the beautiful young queen lost her cheerfulness, and became more and more sorrowful. Her riches gave her no pleasure, she scarcely glanced at the precious things her ships brought from the most distant countries. She did not laugh at her jesters, no matter what funny things they might say. Shutting herself up in her most distant tower, she played with the dolls she had had when she was a little girl, dressed and undressed them, washed and petted them, rocked them in her arms and sang them to sleep, or ordered very young babies to be brought, treated them in the same loving way, and covered them with kisses and tears before she allowed them to be carried back to their mothers.

The queen no longer had her mother, but she had her nurse, a good and wise woman. One day she asked her, “Tell me, nurse, does the stork never come into my country?”

“Oh, yes, my beautiful queen,” replied the nurse; “he probably comes every day and every night.”

“But why doesn’t he enter my palace?”

“That I do not know, my beloved queen, old as I am.”

“Don’t you think that I could have him caught as he is flying past the palace?”

The nurse shook her head doubtfully. “I wouldn’t advise that. If the stork is frightened, I have heard, he drops the child from his beak, and the baby’s little limbs are broken, and it is found dead. Then you will have nothing, and the mother who is expecting it will have no baby either.”

The queen could say nothing in answer to this. Yet she could not give up the thought of snatching a child from the stork, if he did not bring her one voluntarily. She commanded her hunters to climb every night with nets to the roofs of the houses and the tops of the steeples, to the summits of the mountains and the branches of the trees, and seize a stork carrying a child if he flew past within reach of their arms. But they were strictly ordered not to frighten or injure the bird, and, above all, to take care that the child was not hurt.

The hunters obeyed the queen’s orders, and, night after night, went to their stations in the tree-tops, on the mountain peaks, towers, and roofs. They saw, by the light of the moon and stars, plenty of storks flying by with babies in their beaks, but they did not come near enough to have the nets thrown over them, and the hunters were obliged to leave their lofty posts with empty hands. The queen was very much displeased with them for their lack of skill, but the storks, too, were very angry. They complained to the fairy of the children, that they could not go their way through the kingdom of the beautiful young queen unmolested, but were startled by sudden shouts and throwing of nets, so that they almost dropped the children intrusted to them. Besides, these malicious attacks disturbed the children, who sometimes began to cry, and they ought not to open their little mouths in the chill night air; they might get sick.

The fairy of the children listened to the grievances of her messenger birds with a frown, and determined to go to the bottom of the mischief. She went with the storks, who set out after sunset, and, as soon as she had crossed the frontiers of the beautiful young queen’s kingdom, she saw at once, on the first wooded mountains, in the tops of the tallest trees, a large number of hunters, with nets in their hands, watching for the storks. Flying as swiftly as an eagle to one of them, she grasped him by both shoulders, crying in a terrible voice, “Man! why don’t you let my storks alone?”

The hunter jumped so that he would certainly have fallen from the tree if the fairy had not held him. So he only dropped his net, and answered trembling, “Because I was ordered to do it.”

In reply to other questions, the fairy of the children was told that the hunters were acting by the commands of their queen, and that their mistress was angry with them when, after watching vainly all night long, they appeared at the palace in the morning without stork or child.

The fairy of the children ordered the frightened hunter to leave his post immediately, go home, and tell all his companions to let the storks alone in the future if they valued their lives. He obeyed, but the next morning, instead of the expected hunters, the fairy of the children came to the palace, entered the young queen’s room, and, without a word of greeting, said in a harsh voice, with a stern face, “What does it mean that you have commanded your huntsmen to catch the storks as they fly past carrying children?”

The queen looked in astonishment at the tall stranger in the blue robe, with the sparkling eyes and the little white lace cap on her gray hair, and answered with dignity: “You evidently do not know to whom you are speaking. Or you would not dare—”

“Nonsense!” interrupted the fairy of the children; “these high and mighty airs are out of place with me. I know very well that you are the queen of this kingdom, but no sovereign is of any account in my presence. I hold the most sacred office. The future of the human race is confided to me. I watch over the rising generation. I am the fairy of the children, who sends the storks to the mothers, and I forbid you—”

The fairy of the children could say no more. Scarcely had the queen heard who stood before her when, forgetting all pride, she threw herself at the fairy’s feet, clasped her knees, and pleaded, “Dear, good fairy of the children, give me a little child.”

The fairy looked at her thoughtfully a short time, then raised her kindly, saying in a far more gentle voice, “No, dear queen; I cannot grant your request.”

“But why not, dear fairy? Why should a happiness which the humblest mother among my subjects may enjoy be denied to me?”

“Children bestow not only happiness, but sorrow, too, dear queen.”

“I will gladly take the sorrow into the bargain, dear fairy.”

“You don’t know what you wish to undertake, good little queen. A child falls ill easily and often, then the mother watches in terrible anxiety through nights of pain beside its little bed. A child often dies very young, and then the mother will never again enjoy her life. And, even if the child grows up, it finally marries and leaves the mother alone in her old age.”

“All this does not frighten me, dear fairy. Only give me a little child, I beseech you from my heart. I will nurse it if it is sick; I will not survive it if it dies; I will rejoice in its happiness if it marries; but give me a little child, dear fairy of the children.”

The fairy reflected a little while. “Wait,” she said. “I will see if I can do anything for you.” Going very close to the queen, she looked at her sharply, murmuring: “Why! she really has the heart thread. I have not often found it in queens.”

“What is the heart thread?” asked the queen, very curiously and rather anxiously.

“Have you never seen it?” replied the fairy of the children.

“No,” said the queen. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Then the fairy grasped something and held it before the queen’s eyes, and the queen saw with surprise a long thread, as fine as the finest cobweb, which looked as if it had been spun from gold. Seizing it, she pulled it somewhat hastily, and felt a sudden pain in her heart, so that she uttered a little scream. She now perceived that the thread grew from her bosom, and she asked the fairy of the children if she had had it long.

“You have always had it,” answered the fairy of the children; “but you did not notice it, and therefore did not see it. I will now send you a child, which will have a heart thread, too. Fasten it to yours, then nothing and no one can part you.”

The queen began to weep for joy, but, before she could express her gratitude, the fairy of the children had flown out of the window and was floating through the air like a blue cloud. The queen called her nurse, and told her joyously that the stork was going to come to her. Instantly there were great preparations in the palace; forty skilful seamstresses sewed on the child’s clothing, twelve jewellers made a cradle of gold, silver, and gems, a young nurse was summoned from the mountains, and, when all was ready and in order, they waited eagerly.

They did not wait long. The evening after the nurse reached the palace, a clattering was heard at the tower window. They hurried to open it and a big stork dropped a little child into the nurse’s arms, and flew off like an arrow. The nurse ran with the baby into the chamber of the queen, who, with a cry of joy, clasped it in her arms and covered it with kisses. The child was a wonderfully beautiful little girl, white and rosy, with round limbs, golden hair, and blue eyes. The queen looked at it quickly. Yes, from the little bosom grew a marvellously fine thread like gold, which seemed so delicate that a breath must tear it; but it was so strong that the queen could not separate the tiniest end, either with all the strength of her hands or with the scissors. Unnoticed by her women, she knotted the child’s heart thread to her own, and felt a gentle warmth streaming from the little heart into hers, which filled her with delight.