The next day he started off to the palace once more. Rap! rap! rap! he knocked at the door. Was the King at home? Yes, the King was at home; would he come and sit in the parlor?
Presently the King came in, in dressing-gown and slippers. "What! are you back again?" said he.
"Yes; I am back again," said Peter.
"What do you want?" said the King.
"I want to marry the Princess," said Peter.
"What have you brought this time?" said the King.
"I have brought another bottle," said Peter.
Then the King rubbed his hands and was very polite indeed, and asked Peter in to breakfast, and Peter went. So they all three sat down together, the King, the Princess, and Peter.
"My dear," said the King, to the Princess, "the Lord Peter has brought another bottle with him." Thereat the Princess was very polite also. Would Lord Peter let them see the bottle? Oh yes! Peter would do that: so he drew it out of his pocket and sat it upon the table.
Perhaps they would like to have it opened. Yes, that they would. So Peter opened the bottle.
Hui! what a hubbub there was! The King hopped about till his slippers flew off, his dressing-gown fluttered like great wings, and his crown rolled off from his head and across the floor, like a quoit at the fair. As for the Princess, she never danced in all of her life as she danced that morning. They made such a noise that the soldiers of the Royal Guard came running in; but the two tall black men spared them no more than the King and the Princess. Then came all of the Lords of the Council, and they likewise danced to the same music as the rest.
"Oh, Peter! dear Lord Peter! cork up your men again!" they all cried.
"Will you give me back my bottle?" said Peter.
"Yes! yes!" cried the King.
"Will you marry me?" said Peter.
"Yes! yes!" cried the Princess.
Then Peter said "brikket-ligg!" and the two tall men popped back into the bottle again. So the King gave him back his other bottle, and the minister was called in and married him to the Princess.
After that he lived happily, and when the old King died he became King over all of the land. As for the Princess, she was as good a wife as you ever saw, but Peter always kept the bottle near to him—maybe that was the reason.
Ah me! if I could only take my eggs to such
a
market and get two such bottles for them!
What would I do with them? It would
take too long to tell you.
YE ROMANTIC ADVENTURES OF THREE TAILORS
Three little men went ajogging along—
Along in the sunshiny
weather.
And they laughed and they sang an occasional song
Which they all of them caroled
together.
And the great white clouds floated over the sky
And the day it was warm and the sun it was high.
As three jolly tailor men all were they
As you'd find in a dozen of
years.
One carried the yardstick another the goose
And the bravest of all bore
the shears
So they merrily trudged until after awhile
The came where three milk-maids sat all on a stile.
The grass it was green and the flowers were gay,
And it was the pleasantest
weather.
And the milkmaids were pretty as blossoms in May
As they sat on the stile all
together.
Then they stopped on the high-way those three gallant men
For they never had seen as fair lasses as then.
Then up spake the first of the tailor men three
And the one with the goodliest
parts.
"We are all of us good men gallant and free
And have never yet plighted
our hearts.
So prithee fair maids will you marry us all
For our hearts they be great as our bodies be small."
Then up spake the first of the three pretty dears
"Pray tell what your fortunes
may be sir."
"Oh three loving hearts and a yard goose and shears."
"Then you've not enough
fortune for me sir.
So get you along while your boots are still green
For richer young men we shall marry I ween."
Three little tailor men jogging along—
Along in the sunshiny
weather.
No longer they laugh with a jest and a song
But they walk very sadly
together.
For when maidens are proud like the milkmaidens cold,
The lads they grow sad like the tailors so bold.
Howard Pyle
FANCY AND FACT
O! a shepherd and a shepherdess,
They dwelt in
Arcadee,
And they were dressed in Watteau dress,
Most charming for to
see.
They sat upon the dewy grass,
With buds and blossoms
set.
And the shepherd played unto the lass,
Upon a flageolet.
It seemed to me as though it was
A very pleasant
thing;
Particularly so because
The time of year was
Spring.
But, O! the ground was damp, and so,
At least, I have been
told,
The shepherd caught the lumbago,
The shepherdess, a
cold.
My darling Child! the fact is
That the Poets often
sing
Of those joys which in the practice
Are another sort of
thing.
H.P.
YE TWO WISHES
An Angel went a walking out one day, as I've heard said,
And, coming to a faggot-maker, begged a crust of bread
The faggot-maker gave a crust and something rather queer
To wash it down withall, from out a bottle that stood
near.
The Angel finished eating; but before he left, said he,
"Thou shalt have two wishes granted, for that thou hast given
me.
One wish for that good drinkable, another for the bread."
The he left the faggot-maker all amazed at what he'd said.
"I wonder," says the faggot-maker, after he had gone,
"I wonder if there's any truth in that same little song!"
So, turning this thing over in his mind, he cast around,
'Till he saw the empty bottle where it lay upon the
ground.
"I wish," said he, just as a test, "if what he said is so,
Into that empty bottle, now, that I may straightway go"
No sooner said that done; for,—Whisk! into the
flask he fell,
Where he found himself as tightly packed as chicken in the
shell.
In vain he kicked and twisted, and in vain he howled with
pain;
For, in spite of all his efforts, he could not get out
again.
So, seeing how the matter stood, he had to wish once more.
When, out he slipped, as easily as he'd gone in before.
If we had two wishes, granted by an Angel thus,
We would not throw away the good so kindly given us.
For first we'd ask for wisdom, which, when we had in
store,
I'm very doubtful if we'd care to ask for anymore.
Howard Pyle
A VERSE WITH A MORAL BUT NO NAME
A wise man once, of Haarlem town,
Went wandering up, and wandering down,
And ever the question
asked:
"If all the world was paper,
And if all the sea was
ink,
And if the trees were bread and cheese,
What would we do for
drink?"
Then all the folk, both great and small,
Began to beat their
brains,
But they could not answer him at all,
In spite of all their
pains.
But still he wandered here and there,
This man of great
renown,
And still he questioned everywhere,
The folk of Haarlem
town:
"If all the world was paper,
And if all the sea was
ink,
And if the trees were bread and cheese,
What would we do for
drink?"
Full thin he grew, as, day by day,
He toiled with mental
strain,
Until the wind blew him away,
And he ne'er was seen
again.
And now methinks I hear you say,
"Was ere a man so foolish, pray,
Since first the world
began?"
Oh, hush! I'll tell you secretly
Down East there dwells a man, and he
Is asking questions constantly,
That none can answer, that I see,
Yet he's a wise-wise
man!
H. Pyle
Hans Hecklemann had no luck at all. Now and then we hear folks say that they have no luck, but they only mean that their luck is bad and that they are ashamed of it. Everybody but Hans Hecklemann had luck of some kind, either good or bad, and, what is more, everybody carries his luck about with him; some carry it in their pocket-books, some carry it in their hats, some carry it on their finger tips, and some carry it under their tongues—these are lawyers. Mine is at this moment sitting astride of my pen, though I can no more see it than though it was thin air; whether it is good or bad depends entirely as to how you look upon it.
But Hans Hecklemann had no luck at all. How he lost it nobody knows, but it is certain that it was clean gone from him.
He was as poor as charity, and yet his luck was not bad, for, poor as he was, he always had enough for his wife and his family and himself to eat. They all of them worked from dawn to nightfall, and yet his luck was not good, for he never laid one penny on top of the other, as the saying is. He had food enough to eat, and clothes enough to wear, so his luck was not indifferent. Now, as it was neither good, bad, nor indifferent, you see that it could have been no luck at all.
Hans Hecklemann's wife was named Catherine. One evening when Hans came into the cottage with just enough money to buy them all bread and not a cracked farthing to spare, Catherine spoke to him of this matter.
"Hans," said she, "you have no luck at all."
"No," said Hans, "I have not," which was the truth, as I have already told you.
"What are you going to do about it?" said Catherine.
"Nothing at all," said Hans.
"Doing nothing puts no cabbage into the pot," said Catherine.
"It takes none out," said Hans.
"See, Hans," said Catherine; "go to the old wise woman in the wood and talk to her about it; who knows but that she can tell you how and where you lost your luck?"
"If I should find my luck it might be bad and not good," said Hans.
"It is worth having a look at," said Catherine; "you can leave it where you find it if it does not please you."
"No," said Hans; "when a man finds his luck he has to take it, whether he likes it or no."
So Hans talked, but he had made up his mind to do as Catherine said, to go and see the old wise woman in the wood. He argued with her, but he only argued with her to let her know how little was her knowledge and how great was his. After he had clearly shown her how poor her advice was, he took it. Many other men are like Hans Hecklemann.
So, early the next morning, Hans jogged along to the old wise woman's cottage, while the day was sweet and fresh. The hedgerows were covered all over with white blossoms, as though it was with so much snow; the cuckoo was singing among the budding branches, and the little flowers were looking up everywhere with their bright faces. "Surely," said Hans to himself, "if I find my luck on this day, it must be good and not ill."
So he came to the little red cottage at the edge of the wood wherein lived the wise woman who knew many things and one. Hans scraped his feet on the stones until they were clean, and then he knocked at the door.
"Come in," said the old wise woman.
She was as strange an old woman as one could hope to see in a lifetime. Her nose bent down to meet her chin, and her chin bent up to reach her nose; her face was gray with great age, and her hair was as white as snow. She wore a long red cloak over her shoulders, and a great black cat sat on the back of her chair.
"What do you want, Son Hans?" said she.
"I want to find my luck, mother," said Hans.
"Where did you lose it, Son Hans?" said she.
"That I do not know, mother," said Hans.
Then the old wise woman said "Hum-m-m!" in a very thoughtful voice, and Hans said nothing at all.
After a while she spoke again. "Have you enough to eat?" said she.
"Oh yes!" said Hans.
"Have you enough to drink?" said she.
"Plenty of water, enough of milk, but no beer," said Hans.
"Have you enough clothes to cover you?" said she.
"Oh yes!" said Hans.
"Are you warm enough in winter?" said she.
"Oh yes!" said Hans.
"Then you had better leave well enough alone," said she, "for luck can give you nothing more."
"But it might put money into my pocket," said Hans.
"And it might take away the good things that you already have," said she.
"All the same, I should like to find it again," said Hans; "if I could only lay my hands on it I might make good out of it, even if it is bad."
"I doubt that," said the old wise woman. Neverthe less, she saw that Hans was set in his own way, and that he only talked stiffness into his stubbornness. So she arose from her chair with much groaning, for her joints were stiffened with age, and limping to a closet in the wall she brought a book thence. Then she ran her finger down one page and up another, until she had found that which she sought. When she had found it she spoke:
"Son Hans, you lost your luck three years ago when you were coming from the fair at Kneitlingen. You sat down on the overturned cross that lies where three roads meet, and it fell out of your pocket along with a silver shilling. Now, Hans, your luck was evil, therefore it stuck to the good sign, as all evil things of that kind must, like a fly to butter. Also, I tell you this: when an evil manikin such as this touches the sign of the good cross, he becomes visible to the eyes of everybody who chooses to look upon him. Therefore go to the stone cross and you will find your luck running this way and that, but never able to get away from it." So say ing, the old woman shut her book again. Then she arose from her chair and went once more to the closet in the wall. This time she took from it a little sack woven of black goat's hair. "When you have found your luck again, put it into this little bag," said she; "once in it, no evil imp will be able to get out again so long as you keep the strings tied. And now good-bye!"
Then Hans slipped the little sack into his pocket, and set out for the overturned stone cross where the three roads meet. When he had come to the place, he looked here and there, and this way and that, but for a long time he could see nothing at all. At last, after much looking, he beheld a little black beetle running hither and thither on the stone. "I wonder," said Hans, "if this can be my luck."
So saying, he caught the little beetle betwixt his finger and thumb, but very carefully, for he could not tell whether or not it might bite him. The beetle stuck to the stone as though it had been glued there, but, at last, Hans pulled it away; then—lo! it was not a beetle that he held in his hand, but a little manikin about as long as your thumb and as black as ink. Hans Hecklemann was so frightened that he nearly dropped it, for it kicked and screeched and rolled its red eyes in a very ugly way as he held it. However, he popped it into the little sack and pulled the strings tight, and there it was, safe and sound.
That is what Hans Hecklemann's luck was like.
So Hans having his luck secure in the little sack began to bargain with it. "What will you do for me if I let you out?" said he.
"Nothing at all," snarled his luck.
"Very well," said Hans, "we will see about that."
So he carried it home with him, and threw sack and all into a nasty pot where Catherine cast the scrapings of the dishes—the fat and what not that she boiled down into soap now and then. There he left his luck to stay until the next day, and then he went to it again. "What will you do for me if I will let you out now?" said he.
"Nothing at all," snarled his luck.
"Very well," said Hans, "we will see about that." So he let him stay where he was for another day. And so the fiddle played; every day Hans Hecklemann went to his luck and asked it what it would give him if he would let it out, and every day his luck said nothing; and so a week or more passed.
At last Hans's luck gave in.
"See, Hans," it said one morning; "if you will let me out of this nasty pickle I will give you a thousand thalers."
"Ah no!" said Hans. "Thalers are only thalers, as my good father used to say. They melt away like snow, and then nothing is left of them. I will trust no such luck as that!"
"I will give you two thousand thalers," said his luck.
"Ah no!" said Hans; "two thousand thalers are only twice one thousand thalers. I will trust no such luck as that, either!"
"Then what will you take to let me out, Hans Hecklemann?" said his luck.
"Look," said Hans; "yonder stands my old plough. Now, if you will give me to find a golden noble at the end of every furrow that I strike with it I will let you out. If not—why, then, into the soap you go."
"Done!" said Hans's luck.
"Done!" said Hans.
Then he opened the mouth of the sack, and—puff! went his luck, like wind out of a bag, and—pop! it slipped into his breeches pocket.
He never saw it again with his mortal eyes, but it stayed near to him, I can tell you. "Ha! ha! ha!" it laughed in his pocket, "you have made an ill bargain, Hans, I can tell you!"
"Never mind," said Hans, "I am contented."
Hans Hecklemann did not tarry long in trying the new luck of his old plough, as you may easily guess. Off he went like the wind and borrowed Fritz Friedleburg's old gray horse. Then he fastened the horse to the plough and struck the first furrow. When he had come to the end of it—pop! up shot a golden noble, as though some one had spun it up from the ground with his finger and thumb. Hans picked it up, and looked at it and looked at it as though he would swallow it with his eyes. Then he seized the handle of the plough and struck another furrow—pop! up went another golden noble, and Hans gathered it as he had done the other one. So he went on all of that day, striking furrows and gathering golden nobles until all of his pockets were as full as they could hold. When it was too dark to see to plough any more he took Fritz Friedleburg's horse back home again, and then he went home himself.
All of his neighbors thought that he was crazy, for it was nothing but plough, plough, plough, morning and noon and night, spring and summer and autumn. Frost and darkness alone kept him from his labor. His stable was full of fine horses, and he worked them until they dropped in the furrows that he was always ploughing.
"Yes; Hans is crazy," they all said; but when Hans heard them talk in this way he only winked to himself and went on with his ploughing, for he felt that he knew this from that.
But ill luck danced in his pocket with the golden nobles, and from the day that he closed his bargain with it he was an unhappy man. He had no comfort of living, for it was nothing but work, work, work. He was up and away at his ploughing at the first dawn of day, and he never came home till night had fallen; so, though he ploughed golden nobles, he did not turn up happiness in the furrows along with them. After he had eaten his supper he would sit silently behind the stove, warming his fingers and thinking of some quicker way of doing his ploughing. For it seemed to him that the gold-pieces came in very slowly, and he blamed himself that he had not asked his luck to let him turn up three at a time instead of only one at the end of each furrow; so he had no comfort in his gathering wealth. As day followed day he grew thin and haggard and worn, but seven boxes of bright new gold-pieces lay hidden in the cellar, of which nobody knew but himself. He told no one how rich he was growing, and all of his neighbors wondered why he did not starve to death.
So you see the ill luck in his breeches pocket had the best of the bargain, after all.
After Hans had gone the way of all men, his heirs found the chests full of gold in the cellar, and therewith they bought fat lands and became noblemen and gentlemen; but that made Hans's luck none the better.
From all this I gather:
That few folks can turn ill luck into good
luck.
That the best thing for one to do is to let well enough
alone.
That one cannot get happiness as one does
cabbages—with
money.
That happiness is the only good luck, after all!
YE SONG OF YE RAJAH & YE FLY
Great and rich beyond comparing
Was the Rajah Rhama Jaring,
As he went to take an airing
With his Court one summer
day.
All were gay with green and yellow;
And a little darky fellow
Bore a monstrous fun umbrella,
For to shade him on the
way.
Now a certain fly, unwitting
Of this grandeur, came a-flitting
To the Royal nose, and sitting
Twirled his legs upon the
same.
Then the Rajah's eyes blazed fire
At the insult, and the ire
In his heart boiled high and higher.
Slap! he struck, but missed
his aim.
Then all trembled at this passion,
For he spoke in furious fashion.
"Saw ye how yon fly did dash on
To our august nose!" he
said.
"Now let all within our nation
Wage a war without cessation
War of b-lood, ex-ter-mi-nation,
Until every fly is
dead!!!!"
Now the while this war was raging,
That the rajah was a-waging,
Things that should have been engaging
His attention went to
pot.
So he came at last to begging,
Though the flies continued plaguing.
For it's not so easy pegging
Out vexation thus, I
wot.
From this you may see what all have to expect,
Who, fighting small troubles, great duties neglect.
H. Pyle
PRIDE IN DISTRESS
Mistress Polly Poppenjay
Went to take a walk one day.
On that morning she was dressed
In her very Sunday best;
Feathers, frills and ribbons gay,—
Proud was Mistress Poppenjay.
Mistress Polly Poppenjay
Spoke to no one on her way;
Passed acquaintances aside;
Held her head aloft with pride;
Did not see a puddle lay
In front of Mistress Poppenjay.
Mistress Polly Poppenjay
Harked to naught the folk could say.
Loud they cried, "Beware the puddle!"
Plump! She stepped into the middle.
And a pretty plight straightway
Was poor Mistress Poppenjay.
Mistress Polly Poppenjay;
From your pickle others may
Learn to curb their pride a little;—
Learn to exercise their wit, till
They are sure no puddles may
Lie in front, Miss Poppenjay.
Howard Pyle
PROFESSION & PRACTICE
Once, when Saint Swithin chanced to be
A-wandering in Hungary,
He, being hungered, cast around
To see if something might be found
To stay his stomach.
Near by stood
A little house, beside a wood,
Where dwelt a worthy man, but poor.
Thither he went, knocked at the door.
The good man came. Saint Swithin said,
"I prithee give a crust of bread
To ease my hunger."
"Brother," quoth
The good man, "I am sadly loath
To say" (here tears stood on his cheeks)
"I've had no bread for weeks and weeks,
Save what I've begged. Had I one bit,
I'd gladly give thee half of it."
"How," said the Saint, "can
one so good
Go lacking of his daily food,
Go lacking means to aid the poor,
Yet weep to turn them from his door?
Here—take this purse. Mark what I say:
Thou'lt find within it every day
Two golden coins."
Years passed. Once
more
Saint Swithin knocked upon the door.
The good man came. He'd grown fat
And lusty, like a well-fed cat.
Thereat the Saint was pleased. Quoth he,
"Give me a crust for charity."
"A crust, thou say'st? Hut,
tut! How now?
Wouldst come a-begging here? I trow,
Thou lazy rascal, thou couldst find
Enough of work hadst thou a mind!
'Tis thine own fault if thou art poor.
Begone, sir!" Bang!—he shut the door.
Saint Swithin slowly scratched his head.
"Well, I am—humph!—just so," he said.
"How very different the fact is
'Twixt the profession and the practice!"
HP
A TALE OF A TUB
You may bring to mind I've sung you a song,
Of a man of Haarlem
town.
I'll sing of another,—'t will not take long—,
Of equally great
renown.
2
"I've read," said he, "there's a land afar,
O'er the boundless rolling
sea,
Where fat little pigs ready roasted are:
Now, that is the land for
me.
3
Where tarts may be plucked from the wild tart tree,
And puddings like pumpkins
grow,
Where candies, like pebbles, lie by the sea,—
Now, thither I'll straightway
go."
4
Now, what do you think I've heard it said
Was his boat, his oar, his
sail?
A tub, a spoon, and a handkerchief red,
For to breast both calm and
gale.
5
So he sailed away, for a livelong day;
And the sun was warm and
mild,
And the small waves laughed as they seemed to play,
And the sea-gulls clamored
wild.
6
So he sailed away, for a livelong day;
Till the wind began to
roar,
And the waves rose high, and, to briefly say,
He never was heard of
more.
H. PYLE
Did you ever hear of a boggart? No! Then I will tell you. A boggart is a small imp that lives in a man's house, unseen by any one, doing a little good and much harm. This imp was called a boggart in the old times, now we call such by other names—ill-temper, meanness, uncharitableness, and the like. Even now, they say, you may find a boggart in some houses. There is no placing reliance on a boggart; sometimes he may seem to be of service to his master, but there is no telling when he may do him an ill turn.
Rap! tap! tap! came a knock at the door.
The wind was piping Jack Frost's, for the time was winter, and it blew from the north. The snow lay all over the ground, like soft feathers, and the hay-ricks looked as though each one wore a dunce-cap, like the dull boy in Dame Week's school over by the green. The icicles hung down by the thatch, and the little birds crouched shivering in the bare and leafless hedge-rows.
But inside the farm-house all was warm and pleasant; the great logs snapped and crackled and roared in the wide chimney-place, throwing red light up and down the walls, so that the dark night only looked in through the latticed windows. Farmer Griggs sat warming his knees at the blaze, smoking his pipe in great comfort, while his crock of ale, with three roasted crab-apples bobbing about within it, warmed in the hot ashes beside the blazing logs, simmering pleasantly in the ruddy heat.
Dame Griggs's spinning-wheel went humm-m-m! hum-m-m-m-m! like a whole hiveful of bees, the cat purred in the warmth, the dog basked in the blaze, and little red sparks danced about the dishes standing all along in a row on the dresser.
But, rap! tap! tap! came a knock at the door.
Then Farmer Griggs took his pipe from out his mouth. "Did'ee hear un, dame?" said he. "Zooks now, there be somebody outside the door."
"Well then, thou gert oaf, why don't 'ee let un in?" said Dame Griggs.
"Look'ee now," said Georgie Griggs to himself, "sure women be of quicker wits than men!" So he opened the door. Whoo! In rushed the wind, and the blaze of the logs made as though it would leap up the chimney for fear.
"Will you let me in out of the cold, Georgie Griggs?" piped a small voice. Farmer Griggs looked down and saw a little wight no taller than his knee standing in the snow on the door-step. His face was as brown as a berry, and he looked up at the farmer with great eyes as bright as those of a toad. The red light of the fire shone on him, and Georgie Griggs saw that his feet were bare and that he wore no coat.
"Who be 'ee, little man?" said Farmer Griggs.
"I'm a boggart, at your service."
"Na, na," said Farmer Griggs, "thee's at na sarvice o'mine. I'll give na room in my house to the likes o' thee"; and he made as though he would have shut the door in the face of the little urchin.
"But listen, Georgie Griggs," said the boggart; "I will do you a good service."
Then Farmer Griggs did listen. "What sarvice will'ee do me, then?" said he.
"I'll tend your fires," said the manikin, "I'll bake your bread, I'll wash your dishes, I'll scour your pans, I'll scrub your floors, I'll brew your beer, I'll roast your meat, I'll boil your water, I'll stuff your sausages, I'll skim your milk, I'll make your butter, I'll press your cheese, I'll pluck your geese, I'll spin your thread, I'll knit your stockings, I'll mend your clothes, I'll patch your shoes—I'll be everywhere and do all of the work in your house, so that you will not have to give so much as a groat for wages to cook, scullion, or serving wench!"