Chapter VI: Part 6

“Oh! I have not got my boots! I have not brought my gloves!” cried little Gerda. She remarked she was without them from the cutting frost; but the Reindeer dared not stand still; on he ran till he came to the great bush with the red berries; and there he set Gerda down, kissed her mouth, while large, bright tears flowed from the animal’s eyes, and then back he went as fast as possible. There stood poor Gerda now, without shoes or gloves, in the very middle of dreadful, icy Finland.

She ran on as fast as she could. There then came a whole regiment of snowflakes, but they did not fall from above, and they were quite bright and shining from the Aurora Borealis. The flakes ran along the ground, and the nearer they came the larger they grew. Gerda well remembered how large and strange the snowflakes appeared when she once saw them through a magnifying-glass; but now they were large and terrific in another manner--they were all alive. They were the outposts of the Snow-Queen. They had the most wondrous shapes; some looked like large, ugly porcupines; others like snakes knotted together, with their heads sticking out; and others, again, like small, fat bears, with the hair standing on end: all were of dazzling whiteness--all were living snowflakes.

The cold was so intense that little Gerda could see her own breath, which came like smoke out of her mouth. It grew thicker and thicker, and took the form of little angels, that grew more and more when they touched the earth. All had helmets on their heads, and carried lances and shields in their hands. They increased in numbers; and soon Gerda was surrounded by a host of them. They pierced the frightful snowflakes with their spears, so that they flew into a thousand pieces; and little Gerda walked on bravely and in security. The angels patted her hands and feet; and then she felt the cold less, and went on quickly towards the palace of the Snow-Queen.

But now we shall see how Kay fared. He never thought of Gerda, and least of all that she was standing before the palace.

SEVENTH STORY

_What Took Place in the Palace of the Snow-Queen, and What Happened Afterward_

The walls of the palace were of driving snow, and the windows and doors of cutting winds. There were more than a hundred halls there, according as the snow was driven by the winds. The largest was many miles in extent; all were lighted up by the powerful Aurora Borealis, and all were large, empty, icy cold, and resplendent! Mirth never reigned there; there was never even a little ball for the bears, with the storm of music, while the polar bears went on their hind-legs and showed off their steps. Never a little tea-party of white young lady foxes; vast, cold, and empty were the halls of the Snow-Queen. The northern lights shone with such precision that one could tell exactly when they were at their highest or lowest degree of brightness. In the middle of the empty, endless hall of snow was a frozen lake; it was cracked in a thousand pieces, but each piece was so like the other, that it seemed the work of a cunning artificer. In the middle of this lake sat the Snow-Queen when she was at home. But just now she had gone away in a far distant land.

Little Kay was quite blue, yes, nearly black, with cold; but he did not observe it, for she had kissed away all feeling of cold from his body, and his heart was a lump of ice. He was dragging along some pointed, flat pieces of ice, which he laid together in all possible ways, for he wanted to make something with them; just as we have little flat pieces of wood to make geometrical figures with, called the Chinese Puzzle. Kay made all sorts of figures, the most complicated, for it was an ice-puzzle for the understanding. In his eyes the figures were extraordinarily beautiful, and of the utmost importance; for the bit of glass which was in his eye caused this. He found whole figures which represented a written word; but he never could manage to represent just the word he wanted--that word was “Eternity”; and the Snow-Queen had said, “If you can discover that figure, you shall be your own master, and I will make you a present of the whole world and a pair of new skates.” But he could not find it out.

“I am going now to the warm lands,” said the Snow-Queen. “I must have a look down into the black cauldrons.” It was the volcanoes Vesuvius and Etna that she meant. “I will just give them a coating of white, for that is as it ought to be; besides, it is good for the oranges and the grapes.” And then away she flew, and Kay sat quite alone in the empty halls of ice that were miles long, and looked at the blocks of ice. There he sat quite benumbed and motionless; one would have imagined he was frozen to death.

Suddenly little Gerda stepped through the great portal into the palace. The gate was formed of cutting winds; but Gerda repeated her evening prayer, and the winds were laid as though they slept; and the little maiden entered the vast, empty, cold halls. There she beheld Kay: she recognized him, flew to embrace him, and cried out, her arms firmly holding him the while, “Kay, sweet little Kay! Have I then found you at last!”

But he sat quite still, benumbed and cold. Then little Gerda shed burning tears; and they fell on his bosom, they penetrated to his heart, they thawed the lumps of ice, and consumed the splinters of the looking-glass; he looked at her, and she sang the hymn:--

“The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,
The Christ-child is there the children to greet.”

Hereupon Kay burst into tears; he wept so much that the splinter rolled out of his eye, and he recognized her, and shouted, “Gerda, sweet little Gerda! where have you been so long? And where have I been?” He looked round him, “How cold it is here!” said he: “how empty and cold!” And he held fast by Gerda, who laughed and wept for joy. It was so beautiful, that even the blocks of ice danced about for joy; and when they were tired and laid themselves down, they formed exactly the letters which the Snow-Queen had told him to find out; so now he was his own master, and he would have the whole world and a pair of new skates into the bargain.

Gerda kissed his cheeks, and they grew quite blooming; she kissed his eyes, and they shone like her own; she kissed his hands and feet, and he was again well and merry. The Snow-Queen might come back as soon as she liked; there stood his discharge written in resplendent masses of ice.

They took each other by the hands, and wandered forth out of the large hall; they talked of their old grandmother, and of the roses upon the roof; and wherever they went, the winds ceased raging, and the sun burst forth. And when they reached the bush with the red berries, they found the Reindeer waiting for them. He had brought another, a young one, with him, whose udder was filled with milk, which he gave to the little ones, and kissed their lips. They then carried Kay and Gerda,--first to the Finland woman, where they warmed themselves in the warm room, and learned what they were to do on their journey home; and then they went to the Lapland woman, who made some new clothes for them and repaired their sledges.

The Reindeer and the young hind leaped along beside them, and accompanied them to the boundary of the country. Here the first vegetation peeped forth; here Kay and Gerda took leave of the Lapland woman. “Farewell! farewell!” said they all. And the first green buds appeared, the first little birds began to twitter; and out of the wood came, riding on a magnificent horse which Gerda knew (it was one of the leaders in the golden carriage), a young damsel with a bright red cap on her head, and armed with pistols. It was the little robber-maiden, who, tired of being at home, had determined to make a journey to the north; and afterwards in another direction, if that did not please her. She recognized Gerda immediately, and Gerda knew her, too. It was a joyful meeting.

“You are a fine fellow for tramping about,” said she to little Kay; “I should like to know whether you deserve that one should run from one end of the world to the other for your sake!”

But Gerda patted her cheeks, and inquired for the Prince and Princess.

“They are gone abroad,” said the other.

“But the Raven?” asked little Gerda.

“Oh! the Raven is dead,” answered she. “His tame sweetheart is a widow, and wears a bit of black worsted round her leg; she laments most piteously, but it’s all mere talk and stuff! Now tell me what you’ve been doing, and how you managed to catch him.”

And Gerda and Kay both told her their story.

And “Snip, snap, snorum!” said the robber-maiden; and she took the hands of each, and promised that if she should some day pass through the town where they lived, she would come and visit them; and then away she rode. Kay and Gerda took each other’s hand: it was lovely spring weather, with abundance of flowers and of verdure. The church-bells rang, and the children recognized the high towers, and the large town; it was that in which they dwelt. They entered, and hastened up to their grandmother’s room, where everything was standing as formerly. The clock said, “Tick! tock!” and the finger moved round; but as they entered, they remarked that they were now grown up. The roses on the roof hung blooming in at the open window; there stood the little children’s chairs, and Kay and Gerda sat down on them, holding each other by the hand; they both had forgotten the cold, empty splendour of the Snow-Queen, as though it had been a dream. The grandmother sat in the bright sunshine, and read aloud from the Bible: “Unless ye become as little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.”

And Kay and Gerda looked in each other’s eyes, and all at once they understood the old hymn:--

“The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,
The Christ-child is there the children to greet.”

There sat the two grown-up persons; grown up, and yet children; children at least in heart: and it was summer-time; summer, glorious summer!

A MERRY TALE OF THE KING AND THE COBBLER

It was the custom of King Henry the Eighth to disguise himself and walk late in the night into the city of London, to observe how the constables, and watchmen performed their duty, not only in guarding the city gates, but also, in diligently watching the inner part of the city, to observe what went on in the streets. This he did oftimes returning home to Whitehall early in the morning without its being discovered who he was. Now, on returning home through the Strand he often took notice of a certain cobbler who was always up at work, whistling and singing every morning. So, resolving to see him, the king knocked off the heel of his shoe, by hitting it against a stone. Having so done he bounced against the stall.

“Who is there?” cried the cobbler opening his stall door. The king asked him if he could fit on his heel.

“Yes, that I can,” said the cobbler. “So sit thee down and I will do it for thee straightway.”

The cobbler laid aside his awls and old shoes to make room for the king to sit by him. The king was hardly able to keep from laughing at the cobbler’s manner. He then asked him, “Is there not a house near where I can get a cup of good ale, and the people up?”

“Yes,” said the cobbler, “there is an inn over the way, where I think the folks are up, for carriers go from there very early every morning.”

With that the king borrowed an old shoe of the cobbler and went with him over to the inn, desiring him to bring his shoe over there, as soon as he had mended it. The cobbler promised that he would; so making as much haste as he could, he carried it over to the king saying, “Honest blade, here is thy shoe. I’ll warrant thee, the heel will not come off again in haste.”

“Well,” said the king, “as thou art an honest, merry fellow, here is sixpence for thee. Come, sit down by me and I will drink with thee. Here’s a good health to the king!”

“With all my heart,” said the cobbler. “I will pledge thee that were it only in water.”

So the cobbler sat down by the king and was very merry. He sang some of his merry songs and catches at which the king laughed heartily, and was very pleasant with the cobbler, telling him, withal, that his name was Harry Tudor and that he belonged to the court and that if the cobbler would come to see him there, he would make him very welcome because he was such a merry companion. He charged him to come and not forget his name, and to ask anyone about the court for him. “For,” said the king, “I am well known there. They will bring you to me.”

Now the cobbler little dreamed that it was the king that spoke to him, much less that the king’s name was Harry Tudor. Therefore, with a great deal of confidence, he stood up, and pulled off his hat and gave the king many thanks, telling him that he was one of the most honest fellows he had ever met in all his life, and that, though he had never been at court, it would not be long before he would make a holiday and come to see him. Whereupon the king, having discharged the reckoning for what he had had, would have taken leave, but the cobbler, taking the king by the hand said, “By my faith! thou shalt not go yet; thou shalt first go and see my poor habitation, for thou art the most honest blade I ever met, and I love an honest, merry companion with all my heart.”

So the cobbler took the king with him, over the way, where he had a cellar adjoining his stall; which was handsomely furnished for a man of his calling. Into the cellar he led the king.

“There,” said he, “sit thee down, thou art welcome; but I must desire thee to speak softly for fear of waking my wife, Joan, who is in her bed nearby, for, if she should wake, she would certainly make our ears ring.”

At this speech of the cobbler’s the king laughed, and told him he would be mindful to follow his directions.

So the cobbler kindled a fire and fetched a brown loaf, from which he cut a large slice of bread. This he set before the fire. Then he brought forth a Cheshire cheese.

“Come,” said he, “wilt thou eat some cheese? There’s as much good fellowship in eating, as in drinking.” This made the king admire the freedom of the cobbler. Having eaten a piece, the cobbler began, “Here’s a health to all true hearts and merry companions,” at which the king smilingly said, “I’ll pledge thee, old friend, I’ll pledge thee.”

In this manner they ate and drank together, until almost break of day. The cobbler became very free with the king, pleasing the king with several of his old stories.

But suddenly, the cobbler’s old wife, Joan, began to show signs of waking.

“In faith,” said the cobbler, “you must be gone now, for my wife, Joan, begins to grumble. She will wake presently and I would not, for all the shoes in my shop, that she should find thee here.”

So taking the king upstairs he said, “Farewell, honest blade, it shall not be long before I make a holiday and come to see thee at court.”

The king replied, “Thou shalt be kindly welcome.”

So they parted, the king going on his way to Whitehall, and the cobbler back to his cellar where he put all things to rights before his wife, Joan, appeared. He went to work again whistling and singing as merry as he used to do, much satisfied that he had happened on such a good companion, and very much delighted at thinking of the merry time he would have when he went to court.

As soon as the king reached home, he gave orders to all about the court that if anyone inquired for him by the name of Harry Tudor, the person should be brought before him, without further examination.

To the cobbler every day seemed a month until he had been at court to see his new acquaintance. But he was much troubled how he should get leave of his wife, Joan. He could not go without her knowledge for he had resolved to make himself as fine as ever he could and his wife, Joan, always kept his holiday clothes. One evening as they sat at supper, she being in good humour, he began to lay open his mind to her and tell her the whole story of the acquaintance, repeating over and over again that Harry Tudor was the most honest man he had ever met.

“Husband,” said Joan, “because you have been so generous as to tell me the truth, I shall give you leave to take a holiday. You shall go to court and I will make you as fine as possible.”

So it was agreed that he might go the next day.

Joan arose the next morning to brush her husband’s clothes and to make him look as snug as could be. She washed and ironed his lace band, and made his shoes shine, till he could see his face in them. When this was done she made her husband arise and dressed him carefully in his best clothes.

The cobbler being thus equipped in his best strutted through the streets, like a crow, thinking himself very fine indeed. In this manner he came to court, staring at this person and that, as he walked up and down, and not knowing anyone to ask for but Harry Tudor. At last he spied one as he thought in the dress of a serving man. To him he made his address, saying, “Dost thou hear, honest fellow, dost thou know one Harry Tudor who belongs to the court?”

“Yes,” said the man, “follow me; and I will take you to him.”

With that he took him presently into the guard-chamber, telling one of the yeomen of the guard that here was a man who was inquiring for Harry Tudor.

The yeoman replied, “I know him very well, and if you please to go along with me, I will bring you to him immediately.”

So the cobbler followed the yeoman much admiring the finery of the rooms through which he passed and thinking within himself that the yeoman was not very unlike the person he inquired after. “He, whom I look for,” said he, “is a plain, merry, honest fellow. His name is Harry Tudor. I suppose he may be some fine lord or other about the court.”

“I tell you, friend,” replied the yeoman, “I do not know him very well. Do but follow me and I will bring you to him straightway.”

So they went on and soon reached the room where the king sat surrounded by many of his nobles. As soon as the yeoman had drawn aside the curtains he called out saying, “May it please your majesty, here is one that inquires for Harry Tudor.”

The cobbler hearing this and thinking he had committed no less than treason took to his heels and ran for his life. But not being acquainted with the several turnings and rooms through which he had come, he was soon overtaken and brought before the king, whom the cobbler little thought to be the person he was inquiring for. He therefore, fell on his knees saying, “May it please your Grace, I am a poor cobbler and inquired for one called Harry Tudor, who is a very honest fellow. I mended the heel of his shoe not long ago, for which he paid me nobly. I had him afterwards to my own cellar, where we were very merry, till my wife, Joan, began to wake, which put an end to our merriment, for that time. But I told him that I surely would come to court to see him, as soon as I conveniently could.”

“Well,” said the king, “rise up and be not afraid! Look well about you. Perhaps you may find the fellow in this company.”

The cobbler arose and looked wistfully upon the king and his nobles, but to no purpose; for, although he thought he saw something in the king’s face which he had seen before, yet, he could not imagine him to be Harry Tudor, the heel of whose shoe he had mended, and who had been so merry with him, both at the inn and in his own cellar.

He therefore told the king he did not expect to find Harry Tudor among such fine folks as he saw there, but the person that he looked for was a plain, honest, true-hearted fellow, adding withal, that he was sure if Harry Tudor did but know that he had come to court he would make him welcome.

At this speech of the cobbler, the king had much to do to forbear laughing; but keeping his countenance as well as he could, he said to the yeoman of the guard, “Here, take this honest cobbler down into the cellar and I will give orders that Harry Tudor shall come to him presently.”

So away went the cobbler ready to leap out of his skin for joy, not only that he had gotten off so well in his meeting with the king, but also that he should soon see his friend, Harry Tudor, again.

The cobbler had not been long in the cellar before the king came into him, in the same clothes he had on when the cobbler mended his shoe. The cobbler knew him immediately and ran to him and kissed him, saying, “Honest Harry, I have made a holiday on purpose to come and see you, but I had much to do to get leave of my wife, Joan, who was loathe I should lose so much time from my work, but I was resolved to see you. So I made myself as fine as I could. But I’ll tell you, Harry, when I came to court, I was in a pack of trouble how to find you out. At last I met a man who told me he knew you very well, and that he would bring me to you. But instead of doing so he brought me before the king, who has almost frightened me to death. But in good faith,” continued the cobbler, “I am resolved to be merry with you, since I have the good fortune to find you at last.”

“Ay, so you shall,” replied the king, “we will be as merry as princes.”

With that they drank together the king’s health.

“Honest Harry, I will pledge thee with all my heart.”

Now after the cobbler had made merry, he began to sing some of his old songs and catches. This pleased the king very much and made him laugh most heartily. All of a sudden a group of nobles came into the cellar richly dressed. They stood with heads uncovered bowing before Harry Tudor. This amazed the cobbler very much but recovering himself he looked more closely upon Harry Tudor and presently he knew him to be the king whom he had seen in the Presence Chamber.

He immediately fell upon his knees, saying, “May it please your Majesty, I am an honest cobbler and meant no harm.”

“No, no,” said the king, “nor shall receive any here, I promise you.”

He commanded the cobbler, therefore, to rise and be as merry as he was before; and though he knew him to be the king yet he should use the same freedom with him as he did when he mended his shoe. This kind speech of the king’s put the cobbler in as good humour as he was before. He told the king many of his best stories and he sang more of his jolly songs, very much to the satisfaction of the king and his nobles.

Now the king, considering the pleasant humours of the cobbler, how innocently merry he was, and free from any design, and how he laboured very hard, and took a great deal of pains for a small livelihood, was pleased, out of his princely grace and favour to allot him a liberal annuity of forty marks a year for the better support of his jolly humours and the maintenance of himself and his wife Joan. The king ordered that he should be admitted as one of the courtiers.

This was so much beyond his highest expectations that it pleased him greatly, much to the satisfaction of the king.

So after some bows and scrapes, he returned to his wife, Joan, with the joyful news of his kind reception at court.

From GAMMER GURTON’S HISTORIE.

THE STORY OF MERRYMIND

FRANCES BROWNE

Once upon a time there lived in the north country a certain poor man and his wife, who had two corn-fields, three cows, five sheep, and thirteen children. Twelve of these children were called by names common in the north country--Hardhead, Stiffneck, Tightfingers, and the like; but when the thirteenth came to be named, either the poor man and his wife could remember no other name, or something in the child’s look made them think it proper, for they called him Merrymind, which the neighbours thought a strange name, and very much above their station; however, as they showed no other signs of pride, the neighbours let that pass. Their thirteen children grew taller and stronger every year, and they had hard work to keep them in bread; but when the youngest was old enough to look after his father’s sheep, there happened the great fair, to which everybody in the north country went, because it came only once in seven years. It was held on midsummer-day, not in any town or village, but on a green plain, lying between a broad river and a high hill, where it was said the fairies used to dance in old and merry times.

Merchants and dealers of all sorts crowded to that fair from far and near. There was nothing known in the north country that could not be bought or sold in it, and neither old nor young were willing to go home without a fairing. The poor man who owned this large family could afford them little to spend in such ways; but as the fair happened only once in seven years, he would not show a poor spirit. Therefore, calling them about him, he opened the leathern bag in which his savings were stored, and gave every one of the thirteen a silver penny.

The boys and girls had never before owned so much pocket-money; and, wondering what they should buy, they dressed themselves in their holiday clothes, and set out with their father and mother to the fair. When they came near the ground that midsummer morning, the stalls, heaped up with all manner of merchandise, from gingerbread upwards, the tents for fun and feasting, the puppet-shows, the rope-dancers, and the crowd of neighbours and strangers, all in their best attire, made those simple people think their north country fair the finest sight in the world. The day wore away in seeing wonders, and in chatting with old friends. It was surprising how far silver pennies went in those days; but before evening twelve of the thirteen had got fairly rid of their money. One bought a pair of brass buckles, another a crimson riband, a third green garters; the father bought a tobacco-pipe, the mother a horn snuffbox--in short, all had provided themselves with fairings except Merrymind.

The cause of the silver penny remaining in his pocket was that he had set his heart upon a fiddle; and fiddles enough there were in the fair--small and large, plain and painted: he looked at and priced most of them, but there was not one that came within the compass of a silver penny. His father and mother warned him to make haste with his purchase, for they must all go home at sunset because the way was long.

The sun was getting low and red upon the hill; the fair was growing thin, for many dealers had packed up their stalls and departed; but there was a mossy hollow in the great hillside, to which the outskirts of the fair had reached, and Merrymind thought he would see what might be there. The first thing was a stall of fiddles, kept by a young merchant from a far country, who had many customers, his goods being fine and new; but hard by sat a little gray-haired man, at whom everybody had laughed that day, because he had nothing on his stall but one old dingy fiddle, and all its strings were broken. Nevertheless, the little man sat as stately, and cried, “Fiddles to sell!” as if he had the best stall in the fair.

“Buy a fiddle, my young master?” he said, as Merrymind came forward. “You shall have it cheap: I ask but a silver penny for it; and if the strings were mended, its like would not be in the north country.”

Merrymind thought this a great bargain. He was a handy boy, and could mend the strings while watching his father’s sheep. So down went the silver penny on the little man’s stall, and up went the fiddle under Merrymind’s arm.

“Now, my young master,” said the little man, “you see that we merchants have a deal to look after, and if you help me to bundle up my stall, I will tell you a wonderful piece of news about that fiddle.”

Merrymind was good-natured and fond of news, so he helped him to tie up the loose boards and sticks that composed his stall with ah old rope, and when they were hoisted on his back like a fagot, the little man said:

“About that fiddle, my young master: it is certain the strings can never be mended, nor made new, except by threads from the night-spinners, which, if you get, it will be a good pennyworth,” and up the hill he ran like a greyhound.

Merrymind thought that was queer news, but being given to hope the best, he believed the little man was only jesting, and made haste to join the rest of the family, who were soon on their way home. When they got there everyone showed his bargain, and Merrymind showed his fiddle; but his brothers and sisters laughed at him for buying such a thing when he had never learned to play. His sisters asked him what music he could bring out of broken strings; and his father said:

“Thou hast shown little prudence in laying out thy first penny, from which token I fear thou wilt never have many to lay out.”

In short, everybody threw scorn on Merrymind’s bargain except his mother. She, good woman, said if he laid out one penny ill, he might lay out the next better; and who knew but his fiddle would be of use some day? To make her words good, Merrymind fell to repairing the strings--he spent all his time, both night and day, upon them; but, true to the little man’s parting words, no mending would stand, and no string would hold on that fiddle. Merrymind tried everything, and wearied himself to no purpose. At last he thought of inquiring after people who spun at night; and this seemed such a good joke to the north country people that they wanted no other till the next fair.

In the meantime, Merrymind lost credit at home and abroad. Everybody believed in his father’s prophecy; his brothers and sisters valued him no more than a herd-boy; the neighbours thought he must turn out a scape-grace. Still the boy would not part with his fiddle. It was his silver pennyworth, and he had a strong hope of mending the strings for all that had come and gone; but since nobody at home cared for him except his mother, and as she had twelve other children, he resolved to leave the scorn behind him, and go to seek his fortune.

The family were not very sorry to hear of that intention, being in a manner ashamed of him; besides, they could spare one out of thirteen. His father gave him a barley cake, and his mother her blessing. All his brothers and sisters wished him well. Most of the neighbours hoped that no harm would happen to him; and Merrymind set out one summer morning with the broken-stringed fiddle under his arm.

There were no highways then in the north country--people took whatever path pleased them best; so Merrymind went over the fair ground and up the hill, hoping to meet the little man, and learn something of the night-spinners. The hill was covered with heather to the top, and he went up without meeting anyone. On the other side it was steep and rocky, and after a hard scramble down, he came to a narrow glen all overgrown with wild furze and brambles. Merrymind had never met with briars so sharp, but he was not the boy to turn back readily, and pressed on in spite of torn clothes and scratched hands, till he came to the end of the glen, where two paths met: one of them wound through a pinewood, he knew not how far, but it seemed green and pleasant. The other was a rough, stony way leading to a wide valley surrounded by high hills, and overhung by a dull, thick mist, though it was yet early in the summer evening.

Merrymind was weary with his long journey, and stood thinking of what path to choose, when, by the way of the valley, there came an old man as tall and large as any three men of the north country. His white hair and beard hung like tangled flax about him! his clothes were made of sackcloth; and on his back he carried a heavy burden of dust heaped high in a great pannier.

“Listen to me, you lazy vagabond!” he said, coming near to Merrymind. “If you take the way through the wood I know not what will happen to you; but if you choose this path you must help me with my pannier, and I can tell you it’s no trifle.”

“Well, father,” said Merrymind, “you seem tired, and I am younger than you, though not quite so tall; so, if you please, I will choose this way, and help you along with the pannier.”

Scarce had he spoken when the huge man caught hold of him, firmly bound one side of the pannier to his shoulders with the same strong rope that fastened it on his own back, and never ceased scolding and calling him names as they marched over the stony ground together. It was a rough way and a heavy burden, and Merrymind wished himself a thousand times out of the old man’s company, but there was no getting off; and at length, in hopes of beguiling the way, and putting him in better humour, he began to sing an old rhyme which his mother had taught him. By this time they had entered the valley, and the night had fallen very dark and cold. The old man ceased scolding, and by a feeble glimmer of the moonlight, which now began to shine, Merrymind saw that they were close by a deserted cottage, for its doors stood open to the night winds. Here the old man paused, and loosed the rope from his own and Merrymind’s shoulders.

“For seven times seven years,” he said, “have I carried this pannier, and no one ever sang while helping me before. Night releases all men, so I release you. Where will you sleep--by my kitchen-fire, or in that cold cottage?”

Merrymind thought he had got quite enough of the old man’s society, and therefore answered:

“The cottage, good father, if you please.”

“A sound sleep to you, then!” said the old man, and he went off with his pannier.

Merrymind stepped into the deserted cottage. The moon was shining through door and window, for the mist was gone, and the night looked clear as day; but in all the valley he could hear no sound, nor was there any trace of inhabitants in the cottage. The hearth looked as if there had not been a fire there for years. A single article of furniture was not to be seen; but Merrymind was sore weary, and, laying himself down in a corner, with his fiddle close by, he fell fast asleep.

The floor was hard, and his clothes were thin, but all through his sleep there came a sweet sound of singing voices and spinning-wheels and Merrymind thought he must have been dreaming when he opened his eyes next morning on the bare and solitary house. The beautiful night was gone, and the heavy mist had come back. There was no blue sky, no bright sun to be seen. The light was cold and grey, like that of mid-winter; but Merrymind ate the half of his barley cake, drank from a stream hard by, and went out to see the valley.

It was full of inhabitants, and they were all busy in houses, in fields, in mills, and in forges. The men hammered and delved; the women scrubbed and scoured; the very children were hard at work; but Merrymind could hear neither talk nor laughter among them. Every face looked careworn and cheerless, and every word was something about work or gain.

Merrymind thought this unreasonable, for everybody there appeared rich. The women scrubbed in silk, the men delved in scarlet. Crimson curtains, marble floors, and shelves of silver tankards were to be seen in every house; but their owners took neither ease nor pleasure in them, and everyone laboured as it were for life.

The birds of that valley did not sing--they were too busy pecking and building. The cats did not lie by the fire--they were all on the watch for mice. The dogs went out after hares on their own account. The cattle and sheep grazed as if they were never to get another mouthful; and the herdsmen were all splitting wood or making baskets.

In the midst of the valley there stood a stately castle, but instead of park and gardens, brew-houses and washing-greens lay round it. The gates stood open, and Merrymind ventured in. The courtyard was full of coopers. They were churning in the banquet hall. They were making cheese on the dais, and spinning and weaving in all its principal chambers. In the highest tower of that busy castle, at a window from which she could see the whole valley, there sat a noble lady. Her dress was rich, but of a dingy drab colour. Her hair was iron-grey; her look was sour and gloomy. Round her sat twelve maidens of the same aspect, spinning on ancient distaffs, and the lady spun as hard as they, but all the yarn they made was jet black.

No one in or out of the castle would reply to Merrymind’s salutations, nor answer him any questions. The rich men pulled out their purses, saying, “Come and work for wages!” The poor men said, “We have no time to talk!” and a child by a cottage-door said it must go to work. All day Merrymind wandered about with his broken-stringed fiddle, and all day he saw the great old man marching round and round the valley with his heavy burden of dust.

“It is the dreariest valley that ever I beheld!” he said to himself. “And no place to mend my fiddle in; but one would not like to go away without knowing what has come over the people, or if they have always worked so hard and heavily.”

By this time the night again came on: he knew it by the clearing mist and the rising moon. The people began to hurry home in all directions. Silence came over house and field; and near the deserted cottage Merrymind met the old man.

“Good father,” he said, “I pray you tell me what sport or pastime have the people of this valley?”

“Sport and pastime!” cried the old man, in great wrath. “Where did you hear of the like? We work by day and sleep by night. There is no sport in Dame Dreary’s land!” and, with a hearty scolding for his idleness and levity, he left Merrymind to sleep once more in the cottage.

That night the boy did not sleep so sound: though too drowsy to open his eyes, he was sure there had been singing and spinning near him all night; and, resolving to find out what this meant before he left the valley, Merrymind ate the other half of his barley cake, drank again from the stream, and went out to see the country.

The same heavy mist shut out sun and sky; the same hard work went forward wherever he turned his eyes; and the great old man with the dust-pannier strode on his accustomed round. Merrymind could find no one to answer a single question; rich and poor wanted him to work still more earnestly than the day before; and fearing that some of them might press him into service, he wandered away to the furthest end of the valley.

There there was no work, for the land lay bare and lonely, and was bounded by grey crags, as high and steep as any castle-wall. There was no passage or outlet but through a great iron gate secured with a heavy padlock: close by it stood a white tent, and in the door a tall soldier, with one arm, stood smoking a long pipe. He was the first idle man Merrymind had seen in the valley, and his face looked to him like that of a friend; so coming up with his best bow, the boy said:

“Honourable master soldier, please to tell me what country is this, and why do the people work so hard?”

“Are you a stranger in this place, that you ask such questions?” answered the soldier.

“Yes,” said Merrymind, “I came but the evening before yesterday.”

“Then I am sorry for you, for here you must remain. My orders are to let everybody in and nobody out; and the giant with the dust-pannier guards the other entrance night and day,” said the soldier.

“That is bad news,” said Merrymind, “but since I am here, please to tell me why were such laws made, and what is the story of this valley?”

“Hold my pipe, and I will tell you,” said the soldier, “for nobody else will take the time. This valley belongs to the lady of yonder castle, whom, for seven times seven years, men have called Dame Dreary. She had another name in her youth--they called her Lady Littlecare; and then the valley was the fairest spot in all the north country. The sun shone brightest there; the summers lingered longest. Fairies danced on the hill-tops; singing-birds sat on all the trees. Strongarm, the last of the giants, kept the pine-forest, and hewed yule logs out of it, when he was not sleeping in the sun. Two fair maidens, clothed in white, with silver wheels on their shoulders, came by night and spun golden threads by the hearth of every cottage. The people wore homespun, and drank out of horn; but they had merry times. There were May-games, harvest-homes, and Christmas cheer among them. Shepherds piped on the hillsides, reapers sang in the fields, and laughter came with the red firelight out of every house in the evening. All that was changed, nobody knows how, for the old folks who remembered it are dead. Some say it was because of a magic ring which fell from the lady’s finger; some, because of a spring in the castle-court which went dry. However it was, the lady turned Dame Dreary. Hard work and hard times overspread the valley. The mist came down; the fairies departed; the giant Strongarm grew old, and took up a burden of dust; and the night-spinners were seen no more in any man’s dwelling. They say it will be so till Dame Dreary lays down her distaff, and dances; but all the fiddlers of the north country have tried their merriest tunes to no purpose. The king is a wise prince and a great warrior. He has filled two treasure-houses, and conquered all his enemies; but he cannot change the order of Dame Dreary’s land. I cannot tell you what great rewards he offered to one who could do it; but when no good came of his offers, the king feared that similar fashions might spread among his people, and therefore made a law that whomsoever entered should not leave it. His majesty took me captive in war, and placed me here to keep the gate, and save his subjects trouble. If I had not brought my pipe with me, I should have been working as hard as any of them by this time, with my one arm. Young master, if you take my advice you will learn to smoke.”

“If my fiddle were mended it would be better,” said Merrymind; and he sat talking with the soldier till the mist began to clear and the moon to rise, and then he went home to sleep in the deserted cottage.

It was late when he came near it, and the moonlight looked lovely beside the misty day. Merrymind thought it was a good time for trying to get out of the valley. There was no foot abroad, and no appearance of the giant; but as Merrymind drew near to where the two paths met, there was he fast asleep beside a fire of pinecones, with his pannier at his head, and a heap of stones close by him. “Is that your kitchen-fire?” thought the boy to himself, and he tried to steal past; but Strongarm started up, pursued him with stones, and called him bad names halfway back to the cottage.

Merrymind was glad to run the whole way for fear of him. The door was still open, and the moon was shining in; but by the lifeless hearth there sat two fair maidens, all in white, spinning on silver wheels, and singing together a blithe and pleasant tune like the larks on May-morning. Merrymind could have listened all night, but suddenly he bethought him that these must be the night-spinners, whose threads would mend his fiddle; so, stepping with reverence and good courage, he said:

“Honourable ladies, I pray you give a poor boy a thread to mend his fiddle-strings.”

“For seven times seven years,” said the fair maidens, “have we spun by night in this deserted cottage, and no mortal has seen or spoken to us. Go and gather sticks through all the valley to make a fire for us on this cold hearth, and each of us will give you a thread for your pains.”

Merrymind took his broken fiddle with him, and went through all the valley gathering sticks by the moonlight; but so careful were the people of Dame Dreary’s land, that scarce a stick could be found, and the moon was gone and the misty day had come before he was able to come back with a small fagot. The cottage-door was still open; the fair maidens and their silver wheels were gone; but on the floor where they sat lay two long threads of gold.

Merrymind first heaped up his fagot on the hearth, to be ready against their coming at night, and next took up the golden threads to mend his fiddle. Then he learned the truth of the little man’s saying at the fair, for no sooner were the strings fastened with those golden threads than they became firm. The old dingy fiddle, too, began to shine and glisten, and at length it was golden also. This sight made Merrymind so joyful that, unlearned as he was in music, the boy tried to play. Scarce had his bow touched the strings when they began to play of themselves the same blithe and pleasant tune which the night-spinners sang together.

“Some of the workers will stop for the sake of this tune,” said Merrymind, and he went out along the valley with his fiddle. The music filled the air; the busy people heard it; and never was such a day seen in Dame Dreary’s land. The men paused in their delving, the women stopped their scrubbing; the little children dropped their work; and everyone stood still in their places while Merrymind and his fiddle passed on. When he came to the castle, the coopers cast down their tools in the court; the churning and cheese-making ceased in the banquet hall; the looms and spinning-wheels stopped in the principal chambers; and Dame Dreary’s distaff stood still in her hand.

Merrymind played through the halls and up the tower-stairs. As he came near, the dame cast down her distaff, and danced with all her might. All her maidens did the like; and as they danced she grew young again--the sourness passed from her looks, and the greyness from her hair. They brought her the dress of white and cherry colour she used to wear in her youth, and she was no longer Dame Dreary, but the Lady Littlecare, with golden hair, and laughing eyes, and cheeks like summer roses.

Then a sound of merrymaking came up from the whole valley. The heavy mist rolled away from the hills; the sun shone out; the blue sky was seen; a clear spring gushed up in the castle-court; a white falcon came from the east with a golden ring, and put it on the lady’s finger. After that Strongarm broke the rope, tossed the pannier of dust from his shoulder, and lay down to sleep in the sun. That night the fairies danced on the hill-tops; and the night-spinners, with their silver wheels, were seen by every hearth, and no more in the deserted cottage. Everybody praised Merrymind and his fiddle; and when news of his wonderful playing came to the king’s ears, he commanded the iron gate to be taken away; he made the captive soldier a freeman; and promoted Merrymind to be his first fiddler, which under that wise monarch was the highest post in his kingdom.

As soon as Merrymind’s family and neighbours heard of the high preferment his fiddle had gained for him, they thought music must be a good thing, and man, woman, and child took to fiddling. It is said that none of them ever learned to play a single tune except Merrymind’s mother, on whom her son bestowed great presents.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Page number errors in the Table of Contents have been corrected.