nce upon a time there stood by the roadside an old red house. In this house lived three people. They were an old grandmother; her grandchild, Rhoda; and a boy named Christopher. Christopher was no relation to Rhoda and her grandmother. He was called Chrif for short.
The grandmother earned her living by picking berries. Every day in fair weather she went to the pastures. But she did not take the children with her. They played at home.
Rhoda had a flower garden in an old boat. The boat was filled with earth. There grew larkspur and sweet-william. Rhoda loved her flowers and tended them faithfully.
Chrif did not care much for flowers. He preferred to sail boats. He would cut them out of wood with his jack-knife, and load them with stones and grass. Then he would send the boats down the little stream that flowed past the old red house.
"This ship is going to India," he would say to Rhoda. "She carries gold and will bring back pearls and rice."
"How much you know, Chrif," said Rhoda.
"I mean to go to India some day," said Chrif. "People ride on elephants there."
Rhoda would sail little twigs in the stream. Her boats were small, but they sometimes went farther than Chrif's. His were loaded so heavily that they often overturned.
One day the children were sailing boats when a thunder-storm arose. How fast the rain fell! And how fast they ran to the house!
"Poor grandmother will be all wet!" said Rhoda. She and Chrif were watching the falling rain from the window.
Suddenly the sun came out. A little rain was still falling, but the children ran into the yard.
"Look, there's a rainbow!" cried Chrif. "What pretty colours! and how ugly our old red house looks! I wish I were where the rainbow is."
"I see just the colour of my larkspur in the rainbow," said Rhoda.
"O pooh!" said Chrif, "only a flower! That's not much. Now if I were only rich, I wouldn't stay here. I'd go off into the world. How grand it must be over there beyond the rainbow."
"One end is quite near us," said Rhoda.
"Are ye looking for a pot of gold, children?" said a voice behind them. It was the old broom-woman. She had a little house in the woods and sold brooms for a living.
"A pot of gold!" cried Chrif. "Where is it?"
"It's at the foot of the rainbow," said the broom-woman. "If ye get to the foot of the rainbow and then dig and dig, ye'll come to a pot of gold."
"Rhoda! let's go quick!" said Chrif.
"No," said Rhoda, "I ought to weed my flowers."
"Ye must hurry," laughed the old broom-woman. "The rainbow won't stay for lazy folks."
"I'm off!" cried Chrif; and away he went in search of the pot of gold. Rhoda watched him out of sight. Then she turned to weed the boat-garden.
When her grandmother came from the berry pasture, Rhoda told her where Chrif had gone. "We shall all be rich when he comes back with his pot of gold," said the little girl.
"He will not find it," said the grandmother. Rhoda, however, was not so sure.
Chrif ran straight across the fields toward the glowing rainbow. One end of the lovely arch seemed to touch the top of a distant hill. Chrif climbed the hill, but the rainbow was no longer there. It rested on the far side of a valley. He hurried down the hill and into the valley. When he reached the spot where the end of the rainbow had rested, the rainbow was gone. Chrif could see it nowhere.
The lad stopped and looked around him. Not far away a flock of sheep were feeding. A shepherd-boy lay on the ground near them. He was reading a book.
Chrif crept to the shepherd-boy's side and read over his shoulder. This is what he read: "Beyond the setting of the sun lies the New Land. Here are mountains, forests, and mighty rivers. The sands of the streams are golden; the trees grow wonderful fruit; the mountains hide strange monsters. Upon a high pillar near the coast is the famous pot of gold."
"Oh, where is this country?" cried Chrif.
"Will you go?" asked Gavin, the shepherd-boy.
"Go! That I will," said Chrif. "The pot of gold is there, and that is what I have set out to find."
"Yes," said Gavin, "the pot of gold is there and many other things. I long to see them all. Let us hurry on our way."
The two boys first went through a forest. Then they came out upon the ocean side. The sun was setting in the sea. A path of gold lay across the water.
A gay ship was about to set sail. Her white canvas was spread; her oars were in place. Her deck was crowded with lads. They were all starting for the wonderful New Land across the sea.
Chrif and Gavin climbed on board and the ship bounded from the land.
On and on they went, straight into the sunset. The rowers sang as they worked. Gavin tried to read his book, but Chrif looked eagerly ahead. How he longed to see the new country to which they were going!
And very soon the New Land came in sight. Then a party landed; Chrif, Gavin, and a boy named Andy were among them.
They walked some distance and then night darkened down around them. The mountains looked cruel; the fields barren. "Let us return to the ship," said many.
But Chrif would not turn back. "I must find the pot of gold," he said, "it cannot now be far away." And Gavin and Andy went with him.
"I should like to dip my fingers into your pot of gold," said Andy.
"You shall have your share," said Chrif. "It is on the top of a pillar not far from the coast. If you'll stand below, I'll get on your shoulders, and then perhaps I can reach it."
"Only don't let it drop on my head," said Andy, with a laugh.
They walked along the shore in silence. After a time Chrif cried out with joy, "Here is a path leading into the woods. And I do believe I see the pillar!"
"Hurrah!" cried Andy, "let's push on!"
And now the three stood at the foot of the pillar and looked up to the top. By the faint light of the moon they saw the pot of gold.
"Climb on Andy's shoulders, Gavin, and then I will stand on yours," said Chrif.
"I don't want the pot of gold," said Gavin. "I have seen it; that is enough. I will go to see the Magic Fountain," and Gavin turned into the forest.
The other two friends stood by the pillar. "I must have that pot of gold. I want it for Rhoda and the old grandmother."
As Chrif spoke, he looked at the pillar. Lo! a picture was on its side. He saw the old red house, the grandmother at the window, and Rhoda in the garden. Rhoda was watering the flowers in the dear old boat. Now and then she would turn her head and look up the road. She seemed hoping that Chrif would come.
The pillar and the pot of gold faded away; then the picture of home went too. Chrif was left in darkness.
Then Andy spoke. "Hark!" he whispered, "I hear something."
Chrif listened and he too heard distant music. Its notes were very sweet.
"Come, let us go where the music is!" said Andy.
Chrif and Andy made their way through the woods and entered a shining city. Every street was blazing with lights; the fronts of the houses were hung with lanterns; fireworks were being set off in the public squares. All the people wore their finest clothes.
"How gay they all are! I wonder why?" said Andy.
"Hush!" cried Chrif.
A man on a prancing horse had just come in sight. He reined in his horse and blew a horn. Then he cried with a loud voice these words: "This night there is a ball in the palace. All are welcome. The Pot of Gold will be given to the one with whom the Princess shall dance."
"Hurrah!" cried the people. "Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Chrif, louder than them all.
When Chrif and Andy entered the palace, they saw the Princess upon her throne. Dancing was going on, but the Princess did not dance. She was waiting for the handsomest dancer. All who thought themselves good-looking stood in a row not far from the Princess. Each lad was trying to look handsomer than the others in the line.
Over the throne was a pearl clock. It was that kind of clock called a cuckoo clock. When the hours struck, a golden cuckoo would come out of a little door. He would cuckoo as many times as there were hours and then go back, shutting the door after him.
When Chrif and Andy entered the hall, the Princess saw them at once. "Those two are the handsomest of all," she thought, "and one of them is handsomer than the other."
She looked at Chrif again. Then she stepped down from the throne.
"Dance with me," she said, "and you shall have the pot of gold," and she held out her hand to Chrif.
"What was I to do with it?" asked Chrif. "Oh, I know. I was to take it home to Rhoda."
That moment the little bird burst open the pearl door. "Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!" he cried.
But to Chrif he seemed to say: "Rhoda sits by the window watching for Chrif. The flowers are dead in the boat-garden. 'Chrif will never come back,' says grandmother, 'he cares nothing for us.'"
Again Chrif saw the beautiful hall and the Princess standing before him. Then, suddenly, the music grew harsh; the palace walls fell; the dancers were gone. Chrif was all alone.
When day dawned, Chrif was walking over a wide plain. On the far side of the plain stood a ruined house. Between a row of poplar-trees a path led to the door.
Chrif knocked, but no one came. Then he pushed open the door and entered. An old man sat at a table. The table was covered with great books and many papers. Overhead a lamp burned dimly.
The old man was bent over the books. He seemed to study busily, but when Chrif went near, he saw that the old man was dead.
There were two doors to this room. One was the door by which Chrif had entered. The other was opposite. This door was of stone. On it was written: "Behind this door is the Pot of Gold. To open you must first read the words written below."
The words written below were strange; the letters too were strange.
"These books may help me read the writing," thought Chrif. "This old man has spent his life in the search. Shall I be more successful I wonder?"
Then he buried the old man, lighted the lamp, and read the books. Weeks passed and even months. Chrif ate little and slept less.
At last, one day, he lifted a shining face. "I have found the secret!" he cried, "the letters are plain."
Then stepping to the door, he read: "Knock and this door will open."
Chrif knocked once, and the door flew open. One shining spot he saw in the darkness. It was the pot of gold.
Chrif put out his hand to take it, when lo! burning words shone on its side. And Chrif read:
"I am the Pot of Gold; I can give thee all things save one. If thou hast me, thou canst not have that. Close thine eyes. Then, if thou choosest me, open them again."
Chrif closed his eyes. He saw the old red house dark and cold. No one lived there now. The boat-garden was hidden under the snow. Someone in white passed him by. She was weeping bitterly. "Rhoda!" he cried and followed in her steps.
Suddenly a warm hand fell upon his shoulder.
"Chrif, dear Chrif!"
He opened his eyes, and O joy! Rhoda stood beside him.
"I have come to look for you," said Rhoda. "Why, Chrif, you have been gone three years!"
"Three years!" gasped Chrif.
"When grandmother died, last winter, I was so lonely, I said, 'When spring comes I will find Chrif.'"
"Grandmother dead! Why, it was but yesterday that I left home!"
"Ah, no," answered Rhoda. And she looked at Chrif and smiled.
And so they came again to the old red house. There was the dear old boat-garden. Sweet-peas were in bloom and morning-glories climbed up the side of the house. It was very pleasant.
As they stood by the boat-garden, a voice called to them. The old broom-woman stood in the road.
"Have ye found the pot of gold?" she asked.
"No; but I have found something else far better!" said Chrif, "I have found home."
n a certain kingdom, in a certain Empire, there lived a Tsar with his Tsaritsa, and he had three sons, all of them young, valiant, and unwedded, the like of whom is not to be told in tales nor written by pens, and the youngest of them was called the Tsarevich Ivan.
[16] From Russian Fairy Tales [Adapted]. (London: George G. Harrap and Company.)
And the Tsar spoke these words to them: "My dear children, take unto you your darts, gird on your well-spanned bows, and go hence in different directions, and in whatsoever courts your arrows fall, there choose ye your brides!"
The elder brother discharged his arrow and it fell into a boyar's[17] court, right in front of the terem[18] of the maidens. The second brother discharged his arrow and it flew into the court of a merchant and remained sticking in a beautiful balcony, and on this balcony was standing a lovely young maiden soul, the merchant's daughter. The youngest brother discharged his arrow, and the arrow fell into a muddy swamp, and a quacking-frog seized hold of it.
[17] Nobleman.
[18] The women's apartments.
The Tsarevich Ivan said to his father: "How can I ever take this quacker to wife? A quacker is not my equal!"
"Take her!" replied his father, "'tis thy fate to have her!"
So the Tsareviches all got married—the eldest to the boyar's daughter, the second to the merchant's daughter, and the youngest to the quacking-frog. And the Tsar called them to him and said: "Let your wives, to-morrow morning, bake me soft white bread."
Ivan returned home, and he was not happy, and his impetuous head hung down lower than his shoulders. "Qua! qua! Ivan Tsarevich! wherefore art thou so sad?" asked the Frog. "Or hast thou heard unpleasant words from thy father the Tsar?"
"Why should I not be sad? My father and sovereign lord hath commanded thee to bake soft white bread to-morrow."
"Do not afflict thyself, O Tsarevich! lie down and rest. The morning is wiser than the evening."
She made the Tsarevich lie down and rest, then, casting her frog-skin, she turned into a maiden soul, went out upon her beautiful balcony, and cried with a piercing voice: "Nurseys—nurseys! assemble, set to work and make me soft white bread such as I myself used to eat at my dear father's!"
In the morning Ivan awoke. The frog had got the bread ready long ago, and it was so splendid that the like of it is neither to be imagined nor guessed at, but is only to be told of in tales. The loaves were adorned with various cunning devices, royal cities were modelled on the sides thereof, with moats and ditches.
The Tsar praised Ivan greatly because of his bread, and gave this command to his three sons: "Let your wives weave me a carpet in a single night."
Ivan returned home, and he was sad, and his impetuous head hung lower than his shoulders. "Qua! qua! Tsarevich Ivan! wherefore art thou so sad? Or hast thou heard cruel, unfriendly words from thy father the Tsar?"
"Have I not cause to grieve? My father and sovereign lord commands thee to weave him a silk carpet in a single night!"
"Fret not, Tsarevich! come, lay thee down and sleep. The morning is wiser than the evening!" Then she made him lie down to sleep, and turning into the lovely maiden went forth upon her beautiful balcony, and cried with a piercing voice: "Nurseys—nurseys! assemble, set to work and weave me a silk carpet such as I was wont to sit upon at my dear father's!"
No sooner said than done. In the morning Ivan woke, and the frog had had the carpet ready long ago, and it was such a wondrous carpet that the like of it can only be told in tales, but may neither be imagined nor guessed at. The carpet was adorned with gold and silver and with divers bright embroiderings.
The Tsar greatly praised Ivan for his carpet, and there and then gave the new command that all three Tsareviches were to appear before him on the morrow to be inspected together with their wives.
Again Ivan returned home and he was not happy, and his impetuous head hung lower than his shoulders.
"Qua! qua! Tsarevich Ivan! wherefore art thou grieved? Or hast thou heard words unkind from thy father the Tsar?"
"Have I not cause to be sad? My father and sovereign lord has commanded me to appear before him with thee to-morrow! How can I show thee to people?"
"Fret not, Tsarevich! Go alone to the Tsar and pay thy visit, and I will come after thee. The moment you hear a rumbling, and a knocking, say: 'Hither comes my dear little Froggy in her little basket!'"
And behold! the elder brothers appeared, to be inspected with their richly attired and splendidly adorned consorts. There they stood and laughed at the Tsarevich Ivan and said: "Why, brother! Why hast thou come hither without thy wife? Why, thou mightest have brought her with thee in a kitchen clout. And where didst thou pick up such a beauty? I suppose thou didst search through all the swamps fairly?"
Suddenly there was a great rumbling and knocking, the whole palace shook. The guests were all terribly frightened and rushed from their places, and knew not what to do; but Ivan said: "Fear not, 'tis only my little Froggy coming in her little basket!"
And then a golden coach drawn by six horses flew up the steps of the Tsar's balcony, and out of it stepped such a beauty as is only to be told of in tales, but can neither be imagined nor guessed at. Ivan took her by the hand and led her behind the oaken table, behind the embroidered tablecloth. The guests began to eat and drink and make merry.
The lovely Tsarevna drank wine, but the dregs of her cup she poured behind her left sleeve; she ate also of the roast swan, but the bones thereof she concealed behind her right sleeve.
The wives of the elder brothers watched these devices, and took care to do the same.
Afterward, when Tsarevna began dancing with Ivan, she waved her left hand and a lake appeared; she waved her right hand and white swans were swimming in the water.
The Tsar and his guests were astonished.
And now the elder brides began dancing. They waved their left hands and all the guests were squirted with water; they waved their right hands and the bones flew right into the Tsar's eyes. The Tsar was wroth, and drove them from court with dishonour.
Now one day the Tsarevich waited his opportunity, ran off home, found the frog-skin and threw it into a great fire. Soon the Tsarevna missed her frog-skin, was sore troubled, fell a-weeping, and said to the Tsarevich: "Alas! Tsarevich Ivan! what hast thou done? If thou hadst but waited for a little, I should have been thine for ever more, but now farewell! Seek for me beyond lands thrice-nine, in the Empire of Thrice-ten, at the house of Koshchei."[19] Then she turned into a white swan and flew out of the window.
[19] Koshchei Bezsmertny, the deathless skeleton.
Ivan wept bitterly, turned to all four points of the compass and prayed to God, and went straight before his eyes. He went on and on,—whether it was near or far, or long or short, matters not; when there met him an old, old man. "Hail, good youth!" said he, "what dost thou seek, and whither art thou going?"
The Tsarevich told him all his misfortune. "Alas! Tsarevich Ivan, why didst thou burn that frog-skin? Thou didst not make, nor shouldst thou therefore have done away with it. Vasilisa, thy wife, was born wiser and more cunning than her father; he was therefore angry with her, and bade her be a frog for three years. Here is a little ball for thee, follow it whithersoever it rolls."
Ivan thanked the old man, and followed after the ball. He went along the open plain, and there met him a bear. "Come now!" thought Ivan, "I will slay this beast." But the bear implored him: "Slay me not, Tsarevich Ivan, I may perchance be of service to thee somehow."
He went on farther, and lo! behind them came waddling a duck. The Tsarevich bent his bow; he would have shot the bird, when suddenly she greeted him with a human voice: "Slay me not, Ivan Tsarevich! I also will befriend thee!"
Ivan had pity upon her, and went on farther to the blue sea, and behold! on the beach lay gasping a pike. "Alas! Tsarevich Ivan!" sighed the pike, "have pity on me and cast me into the sea." And he cast it into the sea, and went on along the shore.
The ball rolled a short way, and it rolled a long way, and at last it came to a miserable hut; the hut was standing on hen's legs and turning round and round. Ivan said to it: "Little hut, little hut! stand the old way as thy mother placed thee, with thy front to me, and thy back to the sea!" And the little hut turned round with its front to him, and its back to the sea. The Tsarevich entered in, and saw the bony-legged Baba-Yaga lying on the stove, on nine bricks and grinding her teeth.
"Hillo! good youth, why dost thou visit me?" asked the Baba-Yaga.
"Fie, thou old hag! thou call'st me a good youth, but thou shouldst first feed and give me drink, and prepare me a bath, then only shouldst thou ask me questions."
The Baba-Yaga fed him and gave him to drink, and made ready a bath for him, and the Tsarevich told her he was seeking his wife, Vasilisa.
"I know," said the Baba-Yaga; "she is now with Koshchei. 'Tis hard to get thither, and it is not easy to settle accounts with Koshchei. His death depends upon the point of a needle. That needle is in a hare, that hare is in a coffer, that coffer is on the top of a high oak, and Koshchei guards that tree as the apple of his eye."
The Baba-Yaga then showed him in what place that oak grew: Ivan went thither, but did not know what to do to get at the coffer. Suddenly, how who can tell, the bear rushed at the tree and tore it up by the roots, the coffer fell and was smashed to pieces, the hare leaped out, and with one bound had taken cover.
But look! the other hare bounded off in pursuit, hunted him down and tore him to bits; out of the hare flew a duck and rose high, high in the air, but the other duck dashed after her, and struck her down, whereupon the duck laid an egg, and the egg fell into the sea.
Ivan, seeing the irreparable loss of the egg, burst into tears, when suddenly the pike came swimming ashore, holding the egg between its teeth. He took the egg, broke it, drew out the needle and broke off its little point. Then he attacked Koshchei, who struggled hard, but wriggle about as he might he had to die at last.
Then Ivan went into the house of Koshchei, took Vasilisa, and returned home. After that they lived together for a long, long time, and were very, very happy.
eyvind was his name. A low, barren cliff overhung the house in which he was born; fir and birch looked down on the roof, and wild cherry strewed flowers over it. Upon this roof there walked about a little goat, which belonged to Oeyvind. He was kept there that he might not go astray; and Oeyvind carried leaves and grass up to him. One fine day the goat leaped down, and away to the cliff; he went straight up, and came where he never had been before.
[20] From A Happy Boy in J. G. Whittier's Child Life in Prose.
Oeyvind did not see him when he came out after dinner, and thought immediately of the fox. He grew hot all over, looked round about, and called, "Killy-killy-killy-goat!"
"Bay-ay-ay," said the goat, from the brow of the hill, as he cocked his head on one side and looked down.
But beside the goat there kneeled a little girl. "Is it yours—this goat?" she asked.
Oeyvind stood with eyes and mouth wide open, thrust both hands into the breeches he had on, and asked, "Who are you?"
"I am Marit, mother's little one, father's fiddle, the elf in the house, granddaughter of Ole Nordistuen of the Heide farms, four years old in the autumn, two days after the frost nights, I!"
"Are you really?" he said, and drew a long breath, which he had not dared to do so long as she was speaking.
"Is it yours, this goat?" asked the girl again.
"Ye-es," he said, and looked up.
"I have taken such a fancy to the goat. You will not give it to me?"
"No, that I won't."
She lay kicking her legs, and looking down at him, and then she said, "But if I give you a butter-cake for the goat, can I have him then?"
Oeyvind came of poor people, and had eaten butter-cake only once in his life; that was when grandpa came there, and anything like it he had never eaten before or since. He looked up at the girl. "Let me see the butter-cake first," said he.
She was not long about it, and took out a large cake, which she held in her hand. "Here it is," she said, and threw it down.
"Ow, it went to pieces," said the boy. He gathered up every bit with the utmost care; he could not help tasting the very smallest, and that was so good he had to taste another, and, before he knew it himself, he had eaten up the whole cake.
"Now the goat is mine," said the girl.
The boy stopped with the last bit in his mouth, the girl lay and laughed, and the goat stood by her side, with white breast and dark brown hair, looking sideways down.
"Could you not wait a little while?" begged the boy; his heart began to beat. Then the girl laughed still more, and got up quickly on her knees.
"No, the goat is mine," she said, and threw her arms round its neck, loosened one of her garters, and fastened it round. Oeyvind looked up. She got up, and began pulling at the goat. It would not follow, but twisted its neck downward to where Oeyvind stood.
"Bay-ay-ay," it said.
But she took hold of its hair with one hand, pulled the string with the other, and said gently, "Come, goat, and you shall go into the room and eat out of mother's dish and my apron." And then she sang:
There stood the boy.
He had taken care of the goat since the winter before, when it was born, and he had never imagined he could lose it; but now it was done in a moment, and he would never see it again.
His mother came up humming from the beach, with wooden pans which she had scoured; she saw the boy sitting with his legs crossed under him on the grass, crying, and she went up to him.
"What are you crying about?"
"Oh, the goat, the goat!"
"Yes; where is the goat?" asked his mother, looking up at the roof.
"It will never come back again," said the boy.
"Dear me! How could that happen?"
He would not confess immediately.
"Has the fox taken it?"
"Ah, if it only were the fox!"
"Are you mad?" said his mother. "What has become of the goat?"
"Oh-h-h, I happened to—to—to sell it for a cake!"
As soon as he had uttered the word, he understood what it was to sell the goat for a cake; he had not thought of it before. His mother said:
"What do you suppose the little goat thinks of you, when you could sell him for a cake?"
And the boy thought about it, and felt sure that he could never again be happy in this world, and not even in heaven, he thought, afterwards. He felt so sorry, that he promised himself never again to do anything wrong, never to cut the thread on the spinning wheel, nor let the goats out, nor go down to the sea alone. He fell asleep where he lay, and dreamed about the goat, that he had gone to heaven; our Lord sat there with a great beard, as in the catechism, and the goat stood eating the leaves off a shining tree; but Oeyvind sat alone on the roof, and could not come up.
Suddenly there came something wet close up to his ear, and he started up. "Bay-ay-ay!" it said; and it was the goat, who had come back again.
"What! have you got back?"
He got up, took it by the two forelegs, and danced with it as if it were a brother; he pulled its beard, and he was just going in to his mother with it, when he heard someone behind him, and, looking, saw the girl sitting on the greensward by his side. Now he understood it all, and let go the goat.
"Is it you who have come with it?"
She sat tearing the grass up with her hands, and said:
"They would not let me keep it; grandfather is sitting up there, waiting."
While the boy stood looking at her, he heard a sharp voice from the road above call out, "Now!"
Then she remembered what she was to do; she rose, went over to Oeyvind, put one of her muddy hands into his, and, turning her face away, said:
"I beg your pardon!"
But then her courage was all gone; she threw herself over the goat, and wept.
"I think you had better keep the goat," said Oeyvind, looking the other way.
"Come, make haste!" said grandpapa, up on the hill; and Marit rose, and walked with reluctant feet upwards.
"You are not forgetting your garter?" Oeyvind cried after her. She turned around, and looked first at the garter and then at him. At last she came to a great resolution, and said, in a choked voice:
He went over to her, and, taking her hand, said:
"Thank you!"
"Oh, nothing to thank for!" she answered, but drew a long sigh, and walked on.
He sat down on the grass again. The goat walked about near him, but he was no longer so pleased with it as before.
The goat was fastened to the wall; but Oeyvind walked about, looking up at the cliff. His mother came out and sat down by his side; he wanted to hear stories about what was far away, for now the goat no longer satisfied him. So she told him how once everything could talk: the mountain talked to the stream, and the stream to the river, the river to the sea, and the sea to the sky; but then he asked if the sky did not talk to any one; and the sky talked to the clouds, the clouds to the trees, the trees to the grass, the grass to the flies, the flies to the animals, the animals to the children, the children to the grown-up people; and so it went on, until it had gone round, and no one could tell where it had begun.
Oeyvind looked at the mountain, the trees, the sky, and had never really seen them before. The cat came out at that moment, and lay down on the stone before the door in the sunshine.
"What does the cat say?" asked Oeyvind, pointing. His mother sang:
says the cat."
But then came the cock, with all the hens. "What does the cock say?" asked Oeyvind, clapping his hands together. His mother sang:
says the cock."
But the little birds were sitting on the ridgepole, singing. "What do the birds say?" asked Oeyvind, laughing.
And she told him what they all said, down to the ant who crawled in the moss, and the worm who worked in the bark.
That same summer, one day, his mother came in and said to him, "To-morrow school begins and then you are going there with me."
Oeyvind had heard that school was a place where many children played together, and he had no objection. Indeed, he was much pleased, and he was so anxious to get there that he walked faster than his mother up over the hills.
When he came in there sat as many children around a table as he had ever seen at church. Others were sitting around the walls. They all looked up as Oeyvind and his mother entered, and as he was going to find a seat they all wanted to make room for him. He looked around a long time with his cap in his hand, and just as he was going to sit down he saw close beside him, sitting by the hearth-stone, Marit of the many names. She had covered her face with both hands, and sat peeping at him through her fingers.
"I shall sit here," said Oeyvind quickly, seating himself at her side, and then she laughed and he laughed too.
"Is it always like this here?" he whispered to Marit.
"Yes, just like this; I have a goat now," she said.
"Have you?"
"Yes; but it is not so pretty as yours."
"Why don't you come oftener up on the cliff?" said he.
"Grandpapa is afraid I shall fall over."
"But it is not so very high."
"Grandpapa won't let me, for all that."
"Mother knows so many songs," said he.
"Grandpapa does too, you can believe."
"Yes, but he does not know what mother does."
"Grandpapa knows one about a dance. Would you like to hear it?"
"Yes, very much."
"Well, then, you must come farther over here, and I will tell it to you."
He changed his place, and then she recited a little piece of a song three or four times over so that the little boy learned it, and that was the first he learned at school.
Then the children sang, and Oeyvind stood with Marit by the door. All the children stood with folded hands and sang. Oeyvind and Marit also folded their hands, but they could not sing. And that was the first day at school.
here once lived an Emperor who was so fond of fine clothes that he spent great sums of money in order to be beautifully dressed. He cared little about his army or other affairs of State; he did not care for amusements; nothing pleased him so much as walking abroad to show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day; and as they often say of a king, "He is in the council chamber," here it would usually be, "The Emperor is at his toilet."
The great city in which he lived had always something fresh to show; every day many strangers came there. One day two men arrived who said that they were weavers, and knew how to manufacture the most beautiful cloth imaginable. Not only were the material and texture uncommonly beautiful, but clothes made of the stuff possessed this wonderful property that they were invisible to anyone who was not fit for his office, or who was very stupid.
"Those must indeed be splendid clothes," thought the Emperor. "Besides, if I had an outfit, I could find out which of my servants are unfit for the offices they hold; I should know the wise from the stupid! Yes, this cloth must be woven for me." And he gave the men much money that they might begin at once to weave their cloth.
Of course they were impostors, but they put together two looms, and began to move about as if they were working, though they had nothing whatever on the looms. They were also given quantities of the finest silk and the best gold, which they hid.
"I wonder how far they have got on with the cloth," thought the Emperor one day. He remembered that whoever was stupid or not fit for his office would be unable to see the material. He certainly believed that he had nothing to fear for himself, but he decided first to send a high official in order to see how he stood the test. Everybody in the whole town knew by this time what a wonderful power the cloth had, and all were curious to see what was to happen.
"I will send my prime minister to the weavers," thought the Emperor. "He can judge best what the cloth is like, for he is the wisest man in my kingdom."
Accordingly the old minister went to the hall where the impostors sat working at the empty looms. "Dear me!" thought the old man, opening his eyes wide, "I cannot see any cloth!" But he did not say so. "Dear, dear!" thought he, "can I be stupid? Can I be not fit for my office? No, I must certainly not admit that I cannot see the cloth!"
"Have you nothing to say?" asked one of the men.
"Oh, it is lovely, most lovely!" answered the old minister, looking through his spectacles. "What smooth texture! What glowing colours! Yes, I will tell the Emperor that it is certainly very fine."
"We are delighted to hear you say that," said both the weavers, and they proceeded to name the colours and describe the appearance of the texture.
The old minister listened with great attention, so that he could tell the Emperor all about it on his return.
The impostors now demanded more money, and more silk and gold to use in their weaving. They pocketed all, and went on as they had done before, working at the empty loom. The Emperor soon sent another official to report as to when the cloth would be finished. The minister looked and looked, but there was nothing on the empty loom and of course he could see nothing.
"Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth?" asked the impostors, and they appeared to display material which was not there.
"Stupid I am not!" thought the minister, "so it must be that I am not fitted for my office. It is strange certainly, but no one must be allowed to notice it." And he, too, praised the cloth and pretended delight at the beautiful colours and the splendid texture. "Yes, it is indeed beautiful," he reported to the Emperor.
Everybody in the town was talking of the magnificent cloth, and the Emperor decided to see it himself while it was still on the loom. With a great crowd of courtiers, among whom were both the ministers who had been there before, he went to the impostors, who were making believe to weave with all their might.
"Is it not splendid!" said both the old statesmen. "See, your Majesty, how fine is the texture! What remarkable colours!" And then they pointed to the empty loom, believing that all but themselves could see the cloth quite well.
"What is wrong?" thought the Emperor. "I can certainly see nothing! This is indeed horrible! I must be stupid, or unfit to be Emperor! It will never do to let it be known! Yes, it is indeed very beautiful," he said. "It has my entire approval."
And then he nodded pleasantly, and examined the empty loom with an appearance of interest, for he would not admit that he could see nothing.
His courtiers, too, looked and looked, and saw no more than the others; but they said like the Emperor, "Oh! it is beautiful!" Everyone seemed so delighted that the Emperor gave to the impostors the title of Weavers to the Emperor.
Now there was to be a State procession the following week and throughout the night before and the morning of the day on which this was to take place the impostors were working by the light of many candles. The people could see that they appeared to be busy putting the finishing touches to the Emperor's new clothes. They pretended that they were taking the cloth from the loom; they cut nothing with huge scissors, sewed with needles without thread, and at last said, "The clothes are finished!"
The Emperor came himself with his favourites and each impostor held up his arms as if he were showing something and said, "See! here are the breeches! Here is the coat! Here the cloak!" and so on.
"Our clothes are so comfortable that one might imagine one had nothing on; that is the beauty of them!"
"Yes," nodded the courtiers, although they could see nothing, there being nothing there.
"Will it please your Majesty graciously to disrobe," said the impostors.
The Emperor took off all his clothes, and the men busied themselves as if they were putting on various garments, while meantime the Emperor surveyed himself in the mirror.
"How beautifully they fit! How well they suit his Majesty!" said everybody.
"If it please your Majesty, the procession is ready," announced the Master of the Ceremonies.
"I am ready," said the Emperor. And he turned again to the mirror as if to take a last admiring view of his finery.
The courtiers whose duty it was to bear the Emperor's train put their hands near the floor as if to lift the train; then they acted as if they were holding it up. They would not have it known that they could see nothing.
So the Emperor strutted forward in the procession under a splendid canopy, and the people in the streets and at the windows said, "How grand are the Emperor's new clothes! What beautiful silk, how it shines!"
No one would admit that he could see nothing, for that would have proved him unfit for his office, or stupid. None of the Emperor's clothes had ever been so praised.
"But the Emperor has nothing on!" said a child at last.
"Listen to the innocent child!" said the father, and each one whispered to his neighbour what the child had said.
"The Emperor has nothing on!" the people began to call out at last.
This seemed to the Emperor to be true; but he thought to himself, "I must not stop now." And the courtiers walked behind him with pompous air, gravely holding up the train which was not there.