Once upon a time a little girl, who loved all animals and plants, lived in a house in town with a small garden in front of it. Her older brother was a wild, mischievous lad, like most boys. He liked to catch flies and pull off their wings and legs, put pins through beetles, or tie yarn, wrapped with bits of paper, to their legs, and let them fly away with the burden. When his sister was there, she would not allow such naughty tricks. Although she was the smaller of the two, he was obliged to do what she wanted or she would not speak to him, and the boy could not stand that. She would not let any animal be hurt. Her brother was not even permitted to tread upon the ugly, hairy caterpillars, though they ate the leaves off her bushes and flowers. He had to put them in a piece of paper and carry them into the street.

“But they will die out there just the same,” the brother said.

“We need not take care of them,” his sister answered; “their parents must do that, or they themselves. But we ought not to kill them.”

In the front garden stood four trees, in whose branches many sparrows had built their nests. They could not [56]be called pleasant neighbors. They soiled the fence along the street, and the door, and the ground under the trees, so that the maid-servant had hard work to keep the entrance clean, and she scolded about the dirty sparrows, and often threatened to beat down their nests with her broom stick. In the warm season of the year, they woke very early, long before sunrise, and made a deafening noise for an hour or more. There was such a hopping and fluttering, and flying to and fro, such greeting and quarrelling, chattering and scolding, that it seemed like a school of children at recess. The father of the little girl and boy, who was a light sleeper, was regularly roused by the noise made by the birds, and grew so angry over it that he talked of buying a rifle and killing all the sparrows without mercy. In the spring, when the grass and the flower-beds were sowed, they ate the seeds out of the earth, so that there was the greatest trouble in protecting the seed by scarecrows and threads woven around short wooden pegs stuck into the ground. Everybody had some grievance against the sparrows, and the poor birds had not a single friend in the house except the little girl, who pleaded for them whenever her father and the maid-servant wanted to vent their anger upon them.

She did not rest satisfied with defending the sparrows against the just indignation of the members of the household. She showed them other favors. In the summer they fared well. Then they could find food everywhere. [57]They only needed to fly out into the street, or a market-place, to fill their little stomachs with the nicest things. But the winter was a hard time for them. Then they sometimes suffered such bitter want that they came to the windows and pecked on the panes with their beaks, begging piteously for a few crumbs. Ever since the little girl had been large enough to understand what the birds wanted, when they crowded around the windows in this way, she always fed them. During the cold season, she swept the snow off the window-sill and scattered bread crumbs and seeds, on holidays even bits of apple, raisins, and sugar, then she closed the windows and pressed her little nose against the panes, to see how her feathered guests liked the meal. In time they grew used to thinking that the sill outside the little girl’s room was their ever ready table, and did not hesitate to remind their friend by pecking impatiently on the panes, if she delayed giving them their breakfast.

[58]

Her brother thought this was very saucy. “The impudent sparrows,” he said, “to act as if we owed them something.”

“We do owe them something,” answered the little sister, “for we are rich and they are poor; we are strong and they are weak; we are big and they are little.”

Her brother was not to be convinced. “They are good for nothing,” he muttered.

“It’s fun to watch their merry play,” said his sister. “Besides, who can tell whether they may not be good for something?”

She continued her kindness to her little protégés. She put bread crumbs, soaked in milk, into the beak of a young sparrow which had left the nest rather too early and stayed crouching in a corner of the window-sill, because he could not fly away, and made a soft bed for him with cotton-wool in a box, so that he would be comfortable until his mother came and took the half-fledged runaway home. Another time the house cat was watching on the wall under the window-sill, and, when the sparrows came to be fed, she made a great leap and caught one of the birds by the wing. The others scattered with cries of fright, the captured sparrow peeped piteously in the cat’s mouth, and thought its last hour had come. But the little girl had seen the whole from the window, hastily seized a ruler which lay near, and gave the cat such a blow on the paw, that she had to open her mouth to mew with pain. The sparrow [59]took advantage of it to fly away, and the cat, punished and ashamed, could do nothing except steal off limping on one forefoot.

A third time a naughty boy in the street was throwing stones at the birds’ nests in the trees behind the fence. The little girl ran down at once, and reproached him for his bad behavior. But when he would not listen to her, only mocked at her and went on throwing them, she screamed so loudly for help that the maid-servant came out of the kitchen, and even a policeman from the street, and drove the naughty boy away.

As the little girl attended to the sparrows every day, watched them on the window-sill, and listened while they chattered, jested, and quarrelled with one another, she gradually learned to understand their language. This is not so difficult as people suppose, because the sparrows have only a few words, and they talk about very simple things, which most grown-up persons have forgotten, but which a child knows very well. The little girl could listen for hours while one mother sparrow told tales about another, praised all her own children, made fun of the wise old sparrows, and talked of the dainties they had stolen from the fruit women in the market-place. She even tried to talk the sparrow language herself, that she might share their conversation, and ask all sorts of things; but she could not make the high tones of their twittering and peeping, so she was obliged to be satisfied with listening. [60]

One day the whole family went to a fair, which was held in a meadow outside of the city. There were a great many booths and side-shows, and an enormous crowd of people, who pressed around the jugglers, clowns, and merry-go-rounds. A dealer in a strange, perhaps Oriental costume was loudly offering lozenges for sale. They were beautifully colored and looked tempting enough, so the little girl begged for some, for she was fond of sweets. Her mother did not want to buy them; she did not like the dealer’s crafty brown face. “Who knows what the stuff is?” she said. But the father answered, “You are over-anxious,” and bought a lozenge for his little daughter, and one for his son, too, that he might not be jealous.

The little girl was just putting the lozenge into her mouth, when a sparrow suddenly darted down upon her, straight at her hand, so that she was startled and dropped the candy. The bird caught it skilfully in the air, and flew away with it. The little girl looked after it with her mouth wide open, hardly knowing how it had been done. But her brother laughed, saying: “Now you see! That’s the way with your dear sparrows. Shameless thieves and nothing else.” But the little girl would hear nothing against her protégés, and declared it was her own fault—she had awkwardly dropped the lozenge out of her hand. She asked for another, but it was impossible to reach the dealer, the crowd was so great that they could not get through [61]it. She looked ready to cry, and her brother good-naturedly offered her his own lozenge. She took it, but just as she was lifting it to her lips, a sparrow again darted at her hand and pecked her forefinger so hard with its beak that she uttered a cry of pain and opened her hand. The bird seized the lozenge and vanished with it before the little girl and her relatives had recovered from their astonishment.

The father was expressing his surprise at the extraordinary boldness of city sparrows, when suddenly there was a great shouting and running to and fro in the crowd. They asked what had happened, and, after some time, learned that many children who had eaten the brown-skinned dealer’s lozenges had been taken ill. The candy was colored with poisonous things, and those who had eaten it were writhing in pain and in danger of their lives. The crowd wanted to kill the rascally dealer, but he took to flight. People pursued him with loud shouts, there was a great tumult, and the little girl’s parents had the utmost trouble in escaping with their children from the confusion. They hurried on along the road, to find a free space where there were no more booths and the throng was less dense; but the little girl could not keep step with her father; she had to run, and, stumbling over a stone, fell on the ground. Her mother sprang forward to lift her up, when, behind the child lying in the road and her parents, cries of terror were heard, and they saw a frightened horse come dashing [62]toward them at full gallop. The next instant the foaming animal must have trampled upon the group. It seemed as if nothing could save them. At the last moment, when the hot breath of the frantic creature was already fanning the face of the terrified father, a sparrow flew suddenly straight at the horse’s right eye with so much force that the animal neighed loudly with pain, reared high in the air, and made such a spring aside, that it lost its balance, rolled in the ditch, and was caught by the people who came running up.

The little girl, in spite of her fright, had seen very well what the sparrow had done, and said, “So the sparrows are good for something.” But the others were so benumbed in every limb by fear that they did not answer. All the pleasure of the fair had been destroyed by the excitement, and they decided to go home. Unless they went a very long way round, they were obliged to return past the booths, and enter the crowd. The little girl stopped an instant to look at a big picture of wild beasts, giraffes, and elephants, which hung in front of a show where animals were exhibited, and when she looked around, she discovered that she had been separated from her family by the throng. She was very much frightened, and tried to run forward to overtake them. But the crowd stood like a wall before her on every side, and she could not pass. She pushed against the people among whom she was wedged, the rough men pushed back, and the little girl began to cry bitterly, [65]partly because she was hurt, partly because it frightened her to be all alone, among so many strangers. Then a hand clasped hers and drew her quickly and skilfully out of the throng in front of the animal show, where she was penned. She looked up and saw through her tears an old dame with a brown face and rough gray hair, who resembled the rascally lozenge seller, and said in a harsh voice and foreign accent: “Come, little one, come with me quick. Don’t be afraid!” [63]

[65]

“Where?” asked the little girl, timidly, trying to stop.

“Come, come,” repeated the old woman, who looked like a witch. “Away from here. Out of the crowd. Then I will take you home. To your parents.”

When the little girl heard of her parents, she followed willingly. Yet it seemed to her that the old woman was not leading her toward the city, but in the opposite direction.

“We don’t live there,” she said, “but on the other side!”

“I know, I know,” replied the old woman. “We are going to my cart. It’s too far for you to walk home.”

In a few minutes they reached a cart, which stood by the side of the road. It was a queer old vehicle, with a faded cover made of darned linen, drawn by two little nags, which were so thin that their bones seemed to be coming through their skins. The little girl would not [66]get in, so the brown witch seized her quickly round the waist, lifted her like a light bundle, flung her into the cart, and jumped in after her. The little girl called for help, but the cart was filled with men and women, and little half-naked brown children, who all began to scream louder still, so that her voice was not heard at all. At the same time the old witch urged up the half-starved horses, and the rattling cart rolled off in the midst of a cloud of dust with astonishing speed.

The little girl had fallen into the power of a band of gypsies, who wanted to carry her away. When she began to cry bitterly, the old witch said to her: “Keep still. No harm will befall you. You will fare well with us. You shall have nice things to eat, and a gown with gold spangles. You shall learn to dance and tell fortunes, and always have plenty of fun. So be quiet.”

The little girl did not know what to do. Drawing back into the farthest corner of the cart, she wept silently, thinking of her parents and her brother, who were now searching for her so anxiously.

The gypsy band must have done a good business at the fair. Men and women were drinking from big bottles of wine, singing, laughing, and talking in a strange language. They soon stopped in a wood, where they lighted a fire and prepared a camp for the night. They cooked in large kettles an ample meal, and wanted to give the little girl some of it, too; but, though she was very hungry, she refused with disgust. [67]

After the wild, brown vagabonds had finished their supper, they all lay down to sleep, some around the fire, others under the cart, the women and children in it. The little girl was obliged to get in, too, and lie beside the other children; but she kept awake, and when she saw that all were in a sound slumber, she rose softly, climbed down from the cart, slipped out of the circle of snoring gypsies, and began to run as fast as her little legs would carry her, until she was so far from the gypsy camp that she could no longer see the light of their camp-fire. Then she stopped for breath and found herself in the midst of a dark wood, where she did not know which way to turn. She dared not call out, so she sat down in the thick moss at the foot of a tall tree and began to cry piteously.

Suddenly she heard a small voice at her side, twittering in the well-known sparrow language: “Don’t cry, friend. Come. Follow me.”

“Who are you?” asked the little girl, also in the sparrow language, which she tried to speak as plainly as possible.

“Oh, how stupid you human beings are!” was the merry answer. “Don’t you know me? I am your neighbor, and you feed me every day.”

“Indeed!” cried the little girl, joyously, putting out her hand to her feathered friend.

But the sparrow fluttered quickly away. “Don’t touch me,” it chirped; “we don’t like that. But now [68]let us go home. I’ll fly very slowly. Keep your eyes on me.”

The bird fluttered in front, just at the height of her head, and the little girl followed trustfully. There were a few stumbles and falls in the darkness, a few bumps and bruises, but, after half an hour’s walk, she came out of the woods into the high-road, and then it was easy to move forward. Near the city she met a policeman, who was very much astonished to find a little girl alone on the road so late at night, and questioned her. She told him the whole story, her name, and where she lived, and the worthy man took her by the hand and led her home.

Her parents, who had been searching for her in vain for hours, and notified the police without finding any trace of their missing child, had not gone to bed, and were sitting in despair around the table, vainly trying to comfort each other. When, long after midnight, the policeman rang and brought back their little daughter, there was such rejoicing that the whole neighborhood was roused. The sparrow which had guided the girl back was perched on the window-sill, gazing through the panes into the room, flapping its wings and twittering at the joy of the parents, who could not stop kissing their recovered child, although she was very tired and only wanted to go to bed.

The father was very grateful to the sparrows for having saved his little daughter’s life three times in one day. [69]The next morning he made a regular feast for them. On every window-sill in the whole house he spread cakes and raisins, fruit and honey, and the sparrows came and banqueted, and invited their friends and relatives from far and near. There was a great fluttering and chirping, twittering and screaming, but nobody complained of it. And, from that time, food was always scattered for the house sparrows and strangers, too, and human beings and sparrows remained the best of friends to the end of their lives. [71]

During the June nights the meadow at the edge of the forest was as merry as a peasant wedding or a country fair. The nightingales sang, the crickets chirped, the plover drummed, the night wind whistled, old May and young June bugs lay in their taverns in the grass, the bushes, and the foliage of the trees, and drank dew till they were full, and even the sober ladybugs, which usually lead no gay lives, were persuaded to share the lively meetings of the idlers. As soon as it grew dark, the six little glow-worms that lived in the meadow crept out of their tiny room in the earth and lighted their lanterns, so that the place was brightly illuminated by their shining, bluish white light. So, when the revellers broke up at as late an hour as possible, thanks to their living lamps, they found their way as easily and safely as if it had been noonday, without striking against roots and stones, or falling into moleburrows. Then, standing in front of the glow-worms, they cheered them with their hoarse throats, and sang this little verse:—

[74]

The little glow-worms said nothing, only let their light shine softly. They were indulgent to the harmless gayety of the revellers, and enjoyed the merry life which surrounded them during the short festival season of the year.

Not far from the meadow, where there were such gay doings, stood an old castle with a lofty tower. Here lived an aristocratic owl family, with a numerous colony of bats for servants. The mistress of the house, an owl of mature years, was a very learned lady, who had one son, whom she urged to study. But the young gentleman was an idler and sluggard, who would rather wander about than learn. Whenever he could, he stole away from his books and slipped out of the tower, to rob nests, catch birds, or, with the young noblemen from the owl-eyries in the neighborhood, join in hunting hares and marmots.

This troubled his mother greatly, and she remonstrated earnestly with him.

“The examination is close at hand, and you are not preparing yourself. Do you mean to disgrace me by failing?”

The young owl obstinately remained silent and looked sulky.

“Answer me, you unmannerly scapegrace!” cried the owl, angrily. “What am I to do with you? All your ancestors are lights of learning and members of the academy. You alone wish to remain an idle, [75]ignorant blockhead. Are not you ashamed of yourself?”

“It isn’t my fault,” replied the owl nobleman, defiantly.

“Not your fault?” asked the owl in astonishment. “Whose fault is it, then?”

“Why, Mamma,” cried the youth, boldly, “do have some consideration. When am I really to study? During the day, as a member of a respectable owl family, I must sleep, and at night it is so dark in this confounded lumber room that I can’t see a line. I’m near-sighted already. If I must strain my eyes over my books in this pitch-black darkness, I shall be blind entirely.”

“What nonsense are you talking?” replied the owl, sternly. “We have lived here a hundred years and more, and no one ever complained of our home before. They all found it comfortable. On moonlight nights, it is almost too light and, when the moon doesn’t shine, you have our roof cat, by whose eyes you can read easily.”

The youth remained obstinate. “Pardon me, Mamma,” he said defiantly. “There are so few clear moonlight nights that they don’t count, and our cat’s eyes may have been enough for our ancestors, but in our days of electricity it is no light at all. Besides, we have so much more to learn now than you did in old times. So either give me some decent light, or [76]don’t complain if I cannot prepare for my examinations.”

And, without waiting for his mother’s answer, the rude youth vanished through the tower window, to amuse himself with his companions in the usual way and let study alone.

The owl called the oldest of her bats, and said anxiously: “There is no living with the young people any longer. Hasn’t my good-for-nothing son taken it into his head that it isn’t light enough here, and therefore he cannot study?”

“Foolish talk, Mrs. Professor,” squeaked the bat.

“I know that just as well as you do,” answered the owl; “but I must not let him have the excuse for his idling. What shall we do to get a better light for the lazy fellow?”

“Our roof cat—” began the bat.

“Isn’t enough,” interrupted the owl. “Between ourselves: it really is a dim light, and I wonder whether our eyes are not constantly growing worse because, up to this time, we have been satisfied with our cat’s light. We must find something else.”

The bat reflected a little while, then she said: “How would it do to try glow-worms, Mrs. Professor? They give a good, steady light, do not heat the head, and are not dangerous on account of fire.”

“A clever idea,” said the owl. “Bring some here as soon as possible.” [77]

The bat obediently flew away and hurried to the meadow on the edge of the forest, where the spring festival was in full course. From all the tree-tops, bushes, and grasses echoed the notes of fiddles, the sound of flutes, and merry drinking songs; everywhere there was dancing, playing, and dew drinking, and the little glow-worms, with quiet pleasure, held the light for these gay doings. Without troubling herself in the least about the company, the owl’s faithful servant seized one of the glow-worms with her teeth, and carried it in a swift flight to the tower, where she put it on a beam. It was trembling in every limb with fright, and in its terror almost let its lantern go out.

The owl looked at the little creature closely, and said discontentedly, “This light, too, is not enough.”

“No, Mrs. Professor,” replied the bat; “it shone far more brightly in the meadow outside. These glow-worms are queer creatures. Alone they are not good for much. There must be several of them together. Then the rascals want to outshine one another, each tries to do his best, and the result is something very acceptable.”

“Then get several,” ordered the owl.

The bat called her relatives, they went to the meadow together and brought away the other five glow-worms. When all six sat side by side on the beam in the tower, they were so glad that no harm had happened to them, and that they were together again, that they quickly [78]forgot their fright, and let their lanterns shine with full brilliancy. The walls of the tower chamber glittered and sparkled as if they were hung with silver cloth and adorned for a royal festival. It was a very beautiful sight, which pleased even the bat, though usually she cared little for wealth and magnificence.

“Wonderfully pretty,” she said; “but too dazzling. I could not bear it long.”

“Nor I, either,” answered the owl, sighing. “But what can we do? The young folks will have it so.”

The six little glow-worms shone conscientiously until the approach of dawn, then they turned off their light, crept close to one another on the beam, fell asleep, tired out, and dreamed of the merry fair, from which they had been stolen to serve in the owl tower.

When the first flush of dawn was appearing in the sky, the young owl returned, laid a hare at his mother’s feet, and wished her a pleasant sleep.

“Very well, you idler,” she muttered before she went to her bed. “You shall have a surprise to-night.”

In fact, when darkness came, the owl went to the lie-a-bed and shouted into his ear: “Get up, you sluggard. Up with you quick, and go to work!”

The young owl opened his eyes, but instantly shut them again to escape the glare which met him. The six little glow-worms had lighted their lanterns, and were shining as brightly as they could.

“Now you can no longer tell me that you cannot see [79]plainly enough,” the owl went on. “I have given you a light which will make your eyes water. Now bring your books, and study steadily.”

The young owl was obliged to get up, whether he liked it or not. He made his toilet, ate something, and sat down with his books. But he had no love for study, and only waited until his mother, accompanied by two young bats, flew away to attend to some business. Then he went quickly to the little glow-worms, and said in a subdued voice, yet very impressively: “You vagabond lantern-bearers, what do you want here? Who sent for you? If you don’t put out your worthless eye-spoilers, I’ll break your bones for you.”

The little glow-worms were terribly frightened, and lowered their light almost entirely, so that it only glimmered very faintly. But the bat, who, in her corner, had seen and heard all this, shot out, hissing: “Just wait, sir, I will tell your mother about this. And you glow-worms will turn up your light again at once, or you’ll have to deal with me.”

The little glow-worms did not know what to do. The young owl threatened their lives if they shone, and the bat if they put their light out. But they understood that the young owl had more authority here than the bat, and the bravest of them summoned courage to say to him, as he stood before them with angry eyes and ruffled feathers: “My young lord, we should be very glad to obey you, if we only could. We did not [80]come here voluntarily. Your servants dragged us by force from our home and family. We would like nothing better than to return to our own people. But how are we to get out of this terrible high tower, and reach the earth? We can never do it alone. Help us, my young lord, and we will be grateful to you all our lives.”

The young owl was a rough fellow, yet he had a kind heart. He pitied the frightened glow-worms, and did not want to throw them out of the tower window. Besides, he was afraid of his mother, who would certainly ask where they were.

He drove the old bat rudely back into her corner, and said softly to the trembling little glow-worms: “Now pay attention to me. When my mother comes home, summon up your courage and declare a strike. My mamma is a little severe in her language, but she will do you no harm. She doesn’t eat things like you. I hope she will drive you away, and then I will carry you home.”

Things happened just as the sly fellow had planned. When the owl came back, she found the room perfectly dark, and the six little glow-worms were visible only as faint, bluish sparks.

“What does this mean?” shrieked the owl, angrily. The bat was rushing out of her corner, but the young owl flow to her side and whispered fiercely, “Hold your tongue, or it will cost you your life!” then, hurrying back to the glow-worms, he hissed: “Go on now! Be brave!” [81]

The glow-worm which had spoken before again began, “Pardon us, Baroness, we cannot shine.”

“Why not, you lazy rabble?” cried the owl, fiercely.

“Because we get nothing to eat and drink,” replied the glow-worm, boldly.

“H’m,” said the owl rather perplexed. She had not thought of that before, and could not deny that the glow-worm was right. “What do you want?”

“Four meals a day, at each meal twelve fat plant-lice and a pint of fresh dew. That is what we are used to. Then a soft moss bed with thyme in the pillows, and permission to go out twice a week—or we can do nothing.”

“You shall be choked first, you gluttons,” cried the owl, in the greatest rage. “Here, Bat, break these blockheads’ necks! Eat them all.”

“Out with your lights!” whispered the young owl to them quickly, while the bat was flying as fast as possible to obey her mistress’s orders.

The little glow-worms instantly put out their lanterns, and were now perfectly invisible in the dark room, so that even a sharper-sighted creature than the half-blind bat could not have found them.

“Quick! Sit on my claws, each on one toe,” said the young owl, very softly. They crawled and crept, as fast as they could, upon the owl’s feet, which he had placed on the beam, and when he felt that they were all clinging fast with their little thin, weak legs, he sailed noiselessly out of the tower window. [82]

Outside in the open air, when they knew that they were out of danger, all the glow-worms lighted their lanterns and shone with all their power, so that the young owl, in his flight, looked like a wonderful shining constellation. On reaching the meadow at the edge of the forest, the rough fellow shook his travelling companions from his claws with a sudden movement, because it was disagreeable to him to feel their little thin legs on his toes, and went off without any word of farewell.

The glow-worms fell to the ground from a considerable distance, and were somewhat bruised. But the pleasure of being again at home with their relatives was greater than the pain. They were greeted with universal rejoicing, for it had been very dull on the meadow since the bats had carried away their living lanterns. The night festival had been interrupted, all the revellers wanted to hurry home and, in doing so, some had fallen into pools and were drowned, others had stumbled over roots and stones, and broken their legs or even their necks, and cries of pain and groans had followed the merry songs. When the revellers now had their usual light once more, the fiddles and flutes sounded gayly, old and young May and June beetles, crickets, and grasshoppers, and even the sober ladybugs, danced around the six little glow-worms, singing joyously:—

[83]

[85]

After this trial the owl gave up her effort to make her son a learned man. She let him become a hunter, and in this career, for which he had inclination and talent, he advanced so far that his mother, after all, was satisfied with him. [87]

Michel was a good lad. He was the only son of a widow, who, after her husband’s early death, was left alone with him and two little girls. By great sacrifices she had brought up her three children, kept them warm and clean, sent them to school, and educated them. Michel, from his tenth year, had faithfully helped her. At first he had picked up dung on the highway and caught cockchafers, for which the parish paid him a few pennies a quart. Then he had tended sheep and helped to gather the fruit at harvest time. When he was sixteen, he went into a farmer’s service, and from that hour, he not only supported himself but also aided his mother and sisters. Several years after, both the girls married, one the village carpenter, the other the schoolmaster; for, in spite of their poverty, they were known and respected by all the villagers for their modesty, their beauty, and their clever brains.

One Sunday, soon after his younger sister’s marriage, Michel went to his mother and said: “Mother, I am twenty-one years old, tall and strong, and skilful in all farm work. Without praising myself, there is not a farm hand for ten miles around who can make a [90]straighter furrow or build so good a hay-rick as I, to say nothing of mowing, threshing, and cattle tending.”

“I know that, my boy,” replied the widow, somewhat surprised by this speech; “but why do you tell me this?”

“Because I have determined to see a little of the world. I want to go on my travels.”

“Stay in the country and support yourself honestly,” warned the mother.

“I can accomplish nothing here,” Michel answered. “In foreign countries I shall learn all sorts of things, save something, and if I have good luck, in time I shall rule as owner on my own farm.”

“That would be fine, surely,” murmured the mother; “but it is not easy.”

“Nothing in this world is easy, at least for people like us,” said Michel; “but I can try hard things, too; I have the bones for it.”

The mother could not help admitting that he was right, though it was hard for her to part from her good son. In order not to be alone, she moved into the house of her daughter, the carpenter’s wife, and Michel promised always to send her money, whenever he had any to spare. His master, the farmer, gave him three gold coins, his brother-in-law, the schoolmaster, a knapsack and a hymn-book, his brother-in-law, the carpenter, a stout knotted stick, and his mother her blessing, to take with him on his way. Thus equipped, after a touching leave-taking with his family, he left [91]his village one sunny autumn morning and set forth into the wide world. After some time a fellow joined him on the highway and, when they had exchanged greetings, asked: “Where did you come from, and where are you going? To what country do you belong? What is your trade, and what is your name?”

Michel answered frankly, only he could not say where he should go. He would follow his nose, he thought, and it would lead him somewhere. The fellow laughed and replied: “Join me, then. I am a better guide than your nose. I am a printer, have wandered over the world, and know something about nearly everything. That comes from education, my dear fellow. One learns more behind the compositor’s case than behind the ox-plough.”

“All due respect to your education,” said Michel, raising his eyebrows, “but I’m content with the plough. It can always stand beside your case without shame.”

“You are right, Brother,” replied the printer; “the man who will have nothing said against his trade is a fine fellow. Have you been in the city yet?”

“No,” said Michel.

“That’s fine,” cried the printer, “I’m at home in the city and will show you everything. You are lucky to have fallen in with me. For in town one must open one’s eyes and keep a sharp watch, unless one wants to be cheated at every corner. Tell me, Brother, have [92]you any money? For in the city you must pay well. There it’s nothing for nothing.”

Michel unsuspiciously took his three gold coins from his pocket and showed them to the printer. The other hastily pulled out a few silver pieces and dirty scraps of paper, held them before Michel’s face a moment, and said, “This is my money; as you see, I am richer than you.” The truth was that Michel had seen nothing distinctly, for he had no skill in counting money. “Give me your yellow boys,” the printer went on; “we will put our cash together and make one purse. Then you’ll be sure that none of the city thieves will rob you.”

This suited Michel. He gave his three gold coins to the printer and the two walked on, talking merrily, until they reached the city. Going into a tavern, they drank what was good and dear. In the afternoon, the printer showed Michel the sights of the city, and in the evening they had a fine meal of beer and sausage. When it grew late, the printer said: “Now we’ll stop work. I will take a separate room. You, I suppose, are an early riser. I like to stay a long time in bed, if I am not obliged to get up. You would wake me, if we slept in the same room. So, good night, Brother Michel.”

The next morning, according to his habit, Michel rose with the cocks, went to the coffee room, and said to the tavern-keeper, who was also there, “I suppose my companion is still in bed?” [93]

“Why, no,” replied the host, “he is earlier than you. He started half an hour ago, and left his regards for you.”

“What!” cried Michel, startled. “He has gone?”

“Yes, indeed, bag and baggage!” answered the tavern-keeper.

“But my money?” shrieked Michel, turning pale.

The tavern-keeper knew nothing about it.

Michel told him how he had given his gold to the printer, and the innkeeper grew almost angry at his story. “What a simpleton you are!” he exclaimed, “it serves you just right; you are more stupid than a new-born calf. You have paid your apprentice money. At least let it be a warning to you for the future. But you can’t stay here, if you have no money. I give nothing on credit.”

Michel was obliged to pack his knapsack, and leave the inn and the city with an empty stomach.

As he wandered sorrowfully along the highway, he saw at some distance a pear tree, full of ripe fruit, at whose foot a man sat on the ground, with his back resting against the trunk, smacking his lips over the juicy pears, a whole heap of which he had piled beside him.

This man was an ill-looking fellow. He was barefooted, very ragged, uncombed, and unwashed. But Michel’s stomach was complaining, his mouth watered, and he involuntarily stopped in front of him. [94]

“Will you join me?” asked the barefooted fellow, grinning.

“Gladly, for I have had nothing to eat to-day,” replied Michel, taking several pears.

“Where are you from, and what are you doing?” asked the shabby fellow.

Michel told him frankly his unfortunate adventure with the printer, who had basely robbed him, and complained that he did not know how he was to get on without money.

The tramp had pricked up his ears at Michel’s story, and eyed him sharply with a side glance. “Money lost is nothing lost,” he said, when the other had finished. “It happens so that we two can now become equally rich. Do you see the poplar tree yonder?” He pointed to a very tall tree, which grew a few steps farther down the road.

“Certainly! What of it?”

“Do you see the magpie’s nest in the highest boughs?”

Michel searched for a while with his eyes, and said, “Yes, I see that, too.”

“Well, then, the magpie has stolen a large gold chain, set with diamonds, somewhere. I saw her just now as she carried the jewel to her nest. It is lying there still. I wanted to climb up at once and take it away; but I have rheumatism in all my bones from sleeping on the ground so many nights, and I can’t manage climbing. [95]But it will be child’s play for you. So up with you at once, and fetch the treasure out of the nest.”

“Child’s play—that’s saying a great deal,” muttered Michel, measuring with his eye the height of the tree. “And besides, the chain doesn’t belong to us. We must give it back to the owner.”

“Of course,” cried the tramp. “Do I look like a thief? But, at any rate, we can demand the reward, and that is something.”

Michel hesitated no longer. He took off his knapsack, rested his stick against the pear tree, and was beginning to climb the poplar.

“Hold on,” said the tramp, “that won’t do. You must take off your coat and boots, too, or you’ll never get to the top.”

Michel knew that this was true. He pulled off his handsome new boots, removed his nice cloth coat, folded them neatly according to his custom, laid both beside his knapsack, and said: “Take good care of them for me. I have nothing else in the world.”

“Depend upon it, Brother, depend upon it,” cried the barefooted tramp, rubbing his dirty hands together with a grin.

Michel began to climb the tall poplar. He was strong and skilful, but it was a hard piece of work. At last, however, he reached the nest, and peered in with the greatest curiosity. There were four half-fledged magpies, which made a great outcry, flapped their wings violently, [96]and pecked his hand with their yellow beaks, as he felt for the necklace, but there was no sign of a gold chain. He found a safe seat in a forked branch, and called down: “Holloa—you must have dreamed about a gold chain; there’s nothing here but downy feathers—no necklace.”

As he received no answer, he parted the branches and looked down. To his horror, he saw that the tramp had disappeared, and with him his knapsack, staff, boots, and coat. Gazing into the distance, he discovered him with all the stolen clothes on running along the road far away. “Stop thief!” shouted Michel at the top of his lungs, slipping and jumping down the tree so fast that he ran the risk of breaking his neck. But no living soul was in sight, no one heard his calls for help, no one stopped the flying thief, and it was useless to follow him, for he had a long start, and a bend in the road soon hid him from Michel’s sight.

There stood poor Michel, now barefoot and in his shirt sleeves, with nothing left, not even the cane and hymn-book which his brother-in-law had given him, or the underclothes which his mother had packed in the [97]knapsack. He did not know what to do. Should he go on, or simply turn back and again enter the service of his master, the farmer? But he was too much ashamed to go home in such a plight, after just starting out into the world with such proud hopes, so he determined to try to get work as he was.

He walked sadly on until he came to a broad and tolerably swift stream, across which was a ford. When he went down the bank and was preparing to roll up his trousers and step into the water, he suddenly heard loud weeping, as if from a child. He looked around in surprise, but saw nothing. Yet the crying did not stop, and Michel had too kind a heart not to wish to find the cause of the trouble. He followed the sounds, which seemed to come from a thick clump of willows, and after some searching, discovered a queer little man, with a gray beard, who was trying to hide from him in the moss. Taking up the tiny creature carefully, that he might not hurt him, he said kindly: “Don’t be afraid, I will do you no harm. What is the matter, that you are grieving so? Tell me whether I can help you?”

The little man hastily took from a case which hung on his back a pair of horn spectacles, with round blue glasses, as big as he was himself, held them before his eyes, for he could not put them on because his nose was far too small, and gazed intently at Michel. The examination seemed to satisfy him. He folded up the spectacles, put them carefully back in the case again, and [98]said in a weak little voice: “I must cross the river, and I can’t, for it is too deep.”

Michel’s curiosity was roused, and he asked, “What have you to seek on the other side?”

“It would be too long a story to tell you,” replied the little man. “In a few words, I can give only this: I belong to a race of dwarfs, which, until now, lived in this neighborhood. But men have grown too wicked, and we cannot stay here any longer. My people have gone and taken their boats with them. I was delayed because I wanted to help a poor woman, who has been kind to me, in gathering some healing herbs. They have left me behind all alone, and now I don’t know what will become of me.”

“It seems to me,” said Michel, “that your dwarf brothers are at least as wicked as men, since they did not trouble themselves about you.”

“It is my own fault,” wailed the dwarf; “a whole nation cannot wait for one person.”

“Shall I carry you across the water?” asked Michel.

“Ah, if you only would do it! Then I should be saved, for on the other shore I could overtake my people.”

“Come then, little fellow,” said Michel, rolled up his trousers above his knees, took the dwarf in his hand, and waded carefully through the roaring river. When he had reached the opposite bank, he asked the little man: “Shall I carry you farther? You are not heavy.” [99]

“No,” replied the dwarf, hastily, “just put me on the ground, I can find my way alone now.”

Michel obeyed the dwarf’s wish. The little fellow took from his back the case with the spectacles, laid it in Michel’s hand, and said: “I want to show you my gratitude. We dwarfs have no money. But I will give you these spectacles. When you put them on, you can read the thoughts of men in their heads. You already know how useful that is.”

Michel hesitated to accept the gift. “You will need them yourself,” he said.

“Take them, take them,” replied the dwarf, “we are going to a distant country, where we shall live among ourselves. We dwarfs say what we think, and think what we say. There we shall no longer need the spectacles for reading thoughts. I thank you. Farewell.”

Before Michel knew it, the dwarf had vanished, and Michel, who would gladly have talked with him a little longer, searched for him in vain. So he put the blue spectacles into his pocket, and continued his way in a very sorrowful mood. After walking some time, he came to a field of turnips separated from the road by a fence. Before this fence several men, who looked like field laborers, were standing, and behind it a stout man, with the perspiration streaming down his face, was digging up the turnips. The workmen appeared to be laughing at the fat fellow, and the fat fellow was toiling as if he wanted to vent his rage on the earth and [100]the turnips. Michel, curious to see what was going on, stopped, and the fat man called: “Holloa! do you want to earn a penny instead of staring at these gaping idlers? Then come. There is work enough here for every man.”

Michel noticed that the laborers looked at him angrily, and he thought, “something is wrong here.” It occurred to him that this was a good chance to try the dwarf’s spectacles, and he put them on his nose. The glasses were scarcely before his eyes when the heads of the people appeared to become as transparent as crystal, and he could read their thoughts as plainly as in a book of clear, large type.

In the fat man’s head he read: “You seem to be a strong fellow, and very poor; come, work for me, I will pay you as little as possible, and this gang, which refuses to work for my wages, and leaves me in the lurch in the middle of the harvest, will pull long faces. The rascals will probably break your bones because you are spoiling their game, but that’s your affair, not mine.”

Michel was troubled and turned to the laborers, who were closing round him threateningly. There he read: “What! Does a tramp like you mean to work cheaper here, and serve the rich skinflint for a song? We had brought him to a point where he would be obliged to add a little, and now you cross our plans, and help the rich extortioner against us. May—”

Michel knew enough. “If there is plenty of work here for everybody,” he said to the fat man, “then these [101]people have more right to it than I.” With these words he turned to go.

“Idler!” shouted the fat man, furiously.

“What!” Michel answered, “you want to rob me of my day’s work, and yet call me an idler? For shame, you penny-squeezer!”

The laborers burst into a loud laugh, and one held out his hand to him: “Clasp hands, you are a good fellow. Come and drink a glass of beer with us.”

“Willingly,” replied Michel, and they all left the fat man standing in his turnip field, and went on together until they came to an inn by the roadside, which they entered. On the way they told him that they were engaged in a struggle about wages with the fat man, who was the richest landowner in the neighborhood, and Michel answered that he needed the day’s wages greatly, but he would not take the bread out of their mouths. They now made him tell them how it happened that he was wandering about the world barefoot, and in his shirt sleeves, and pitied him for having been twice outwitted by rascals. So they offered to get him a coat and boots on credit, and obtain work in the neighborhood. Michel was greatly delighted over it, the more so, as he saw through his blue spectacles that their thoughts were sincere, and they meant honestly by him.

In the tavern the laborers ordered food and drink to be set before Michel, and clothed him out of the landlord’s [102]chests and trunks, so that he no longer looked like a tramp. When he was fitted out and had eaten, he glanced around the room. In one corner he saw at a table three fellows, who sat there silently, pledging each other from time to time in large glasses of brandy. One had squint eyes, the second a nose twisted completely on one side, the third was disfigured by a hare-lip. They looked so evil, that Michel was horrified, and quickly seized the dwarf’s spectacles. He was curious to learn what kind of thoughts lurked behind such ugly faces. What he read in their heads made him shudder. They were all three thinking of nothing except that that night they would break into an old castle near the inn, murder the old countess, her young daughter, and two maid-servants, who were living there alone, while the old count was in attendance at court, and steal all their gold and silver. Behind these thoughts, which he saw with terrible distinctness, he read others a little less clearly. The squint-eyed man was imagining how he would stab the women with his dagger, while they knelt before him begging for mercy. The crooked-nosed man fancied he had a pile of gold, into which he was plunging his blood-stained hands. The hare-lipped man meant to attack his two comrades in their sleep, after the crime had been committed, kill them, and rob them of their share of the booty.

Michel asked himself in horror what he could do to prevent the crime and deliver the wicked fellows to [103]punishment. Tell the laborers what he read in the heads of the three monsters? They would not believe him and perhaps think he was crazy. Go to the police and denounce the scoundrels? But how could he prove what they meant to do? If they denied it, he would stand there like a simpleton, and the police would perhaps take him for a rascal who wanted to fool them. After thinking over the matter for a long time, it seemed to him that he could do nothing except deal with the three rogues all alone.

He agreed to meet the laborers the next morning, at the same inn, to go with them to a place to work, took leave of them, and hurried off in the direction that he supposed the castle stood. After questioning all the shepherds and market women he met on the way, he at last reached a thick forest, and there, in a clearing, was the old castle with its solid walls and small windows.

He knocked at the heavy oak door until it slowly opened a little, and in the crack appeared an aged maid-servant, who asked what he wanted. He begged to see the countess, for whom he had an important message.

He was kept waiting a long while outside the door, but at last the maid came back and sulkily invited him to follow her. Michel went behind her to a little tower room, where the old countess received him. Beside her sat her daughter, a young girl, as beautiful as an angel, whose blue eyes were as friendly as the bright day. Michel felt his heart grow as warm as if sunbeams had [104]entered it, and he could not make up his mind to frighten this lovely creature by his story. He told the countess that he must speak to her alone, and, after a little hesitation, she sent her daughter and the servant out and ordered Michel to deliver his message at once.

“Your ladyship,” he said, “three murderers intend to attack your castle to-night, kill you all, and steal your treasures.” Seeing her turn pale, he added quickly: “Have no fear, I will remain to defend you and, so long as I have a drop of blood in my body, no one shall harm a hair of your heads.”

“One against three—” sighed the countess, anxiously.

“I would fight with five, if I only had weapons.”

“There is no lack of arms here,” said the countess. “But would it not be wiser for us to fly to the city at once?”

“The road is long, it is almost dark, and the forest is not safe,” replied Michel. “Besides, your flight would not prevent the robbery of the castle.”

The countess saw this. She was naturally a brave woman, and Michel’s presence somewhat soothed her. She gave him from her husband’s weapons a gun, two pistols, and a dagger, ordered a dainty supper to be served for him, sent her daughter and the two maids to bed early, and then kept watch with him in the castle hall. No persuasion from Michel could induce her to go into her tower and protect herself behind locks and bolts. “If I am warned, I can defend myself,” she [105]said firmly, and so it was settled. Just before midnight the countess and Michel, who were listening behind the oak door, heard soft, stealing steps approaching and whispering voices consulting about the best way of breaking into the castle. Various plans were refused, and at last they agreed that the most nimble robber should climb, by projecting stones, to a window on the second story, fasten a rope wound about his waist to the cross-bars, and drag the others up.

“Now we have the rascals,” Michel whispered into the countess’s ear, and ran before her up the stairs into the room whose window the scoundrel meant to enter. With his gun ready to fire, he waited in the dark until a head appeared above the sill, and then pressed the trigger. A flash, a report, a shriek, a fall, followed one another in an instant. The two robbers who had remained below saw, with terror, their comrade drop at their feet, and turned to fly. Michel and the countess fired at the same time, and saw both fall.

“Hurrah!” shouted Michel, joyously, and, without listening to the countess’s warning, he ran down the [106]stairs, seized a lantern, unbolted the door, and rushed out. At the foot of the castle wall he saw the man with a crooked nose lying with a broken skull, and the one with a hare-lip had a bleeding wound in his breast. The squint-eyed man was not dead. He had received a bullet in the leg, and had fallen, but rose again, and was limping off. Michel pursued him like the wind. But the vagabond suddenly turned and struck fiercely at him with a knife. Michel fired a pistol which stretched the murderer in the grass; then he, too, with the blade in his breast, fell to the earth.

Meanwhile the countess’s daughter and the two maids, roused from their sleep by the firing, came hurrying down. The countess called to them that the danger was over, and all four carried the wounded Michel into the castle, without heeding the three ruffians, who lay dead or senseless.

Michel, too, became unconscious after the four women had laid him on a couch. When he came to himself again, many hours had passed since the adventure of the night. A maid had brought a doctor from the city at dawn, and now the count, who had been informed by a messenger of what had happened, also arrived. Michel heard the doctor tell the count that he would recover, and the countess speak with the highest praise of his courage, to which they all owed their lives. He wanted to raise himself and say that he did not deserve so much honor, but they all ordered him in the same breath to say nothing and keep quiet. [107]

It was many days before Michel’s wound healed. The countess and her daughter nursed him tenderly, and he was always happy whenever he saw the lovely girl beside his bed. His eyes rested constantly upon her, and when they met hers, a faint flush mounted into her cheeks. He longed to know what was passing through her little head, and asked for his blue spectacles. The countess and her daughter wondered at this desire, and wished to know what use he could have for blue spectacles in a darkened sick room. But he only repeated the request, until they yielded and brought the spectacles. He hastily seized them, put them on with trembling hands, and gazed with all his soul at the white brow of the young countess. He read: “Why does he stare at me so strangely? Has the poor young fellow gone crazy?” And beyond were many half-distinct thoughts, which were something like, “That would be a great pity, for he is such a dear, brave fellow, and I am so fond of him that I wish he would stay here with me till the end of my life.”

When he had read this, tears filled his eyes. He took off the glasses, which were dimmed, and did not utter a word. But when the countess left him alone with her daughter, he suddenly seized the lovely girl’s hand and said in a trembling voice: “Beautiful Countess, I am only a poor peasant boy, but I love you very, very dearly, and I know that you love me, too, so I dare to ask you, Will you be my wife?” [108]

“Yes, I will,” she answered softly, sinking into his arms. So the countess found the young couple when she entered. At first she was very angry, and would not consent to have her only daughter marry a peasant lad. But the young lady said: “I will have him or no one. And if you will not let me marry him, it will break my heart.” Then, whether willing or not, the mother was obliged to consent, and even beg the count to give his blessing to the union. Michel was now almost well, so he was again allowed to talk, and the count inquired how he had discovered the plans of the three murderers, two of whom were dead and buried, and the third lay wounded in prison. Michel did not wish to have any secrets from his future father-in-law. He told him about his meeting with the dwarf, who had given him the blue spectacles, and what power these spectacles possessed. The count wanted to try their wonderful magic himself, and was convinced that Michel had not attempted to deceive him.

“You must show the dwarf’s spectacles to the king,” said the count and, when Michel was allowed to rise, he took him to court with him and presented him to the king, who heard his story with amazement. He, too, put on the spectacles, and looked a long while at the courtiers who surrounded his throne.

“Your most gracious Majesty, I will gladly give you the dwarf’s spectacles, if you will accept them from me.” [109]

The king slowly shook his head, took them off, and returned them to Michel. “No,” he said, “I do not want them. I would rather not be compelled to read the thoughts of men. It does not give happiness. I will even try to forget what I have read. I will appoint you the chief judge of my kingdom. Then you can apply the dwarf’s spectacles to a useful purpose.”

Michel was now a person of importance, whom even a count would willingly accept for a son-in-law. He brought his mother from the carpenter’s home in the village, married the beautiful young countess, moved into a splendid palace in the capital, and performed his duties as chief justice, with the blue spectacles on his nose.

Nobody among the people knew their power, but soon all trembled before it. For through them Michel read the truth in the head of the most hardened criminal and most skilful sharper; no lie could stand before him, and no injustice remained concealed. No innocent person was condemned, and no guilty one escaped punishment; henceforward law and justice reigned throughout the kingdom. Michel was feared by the bad, honored by the good, and praised by all as the wisest man in the whole country, and so it remained to the end of his long life. [111]