Once upon a time there was a large clearing in the midst of a thick beechwood, and in the middle of this clearing was a big, deep pond, on whose shores grew rushes, and on whose surface floated water-lilies. In this pond lived many elves, who slept all through the day on a bed of fine sand and soft plants, but in the evening came up to breathe the air of the upper world. Then they sat down on the grass in the glade, parted and braided their golden hair, wrapped themselves in rainbow-colored veils, adorned themselves with pearls and precious stones from little mother-of-pearl caskets, ate fruit and honey, drank dew and sweet flower juices, and played forfeits and blindman’s-buff. During the weeks when the nightingale sang and also at other times, when there was a full moon, they formed into a large ring and danced until the cock crowed. The gnomes, too, often came from the neighboring mountains, and if they were very well behaved, and the elves were in a good humor, they were allowed to dance and play with them until the gray dawn drove them home, too. In the meadow where the elves held their summer festivals, the grass grew more luxuriantly and more beautiful, [174]flowers bloomed in the places where their silver-white feet had floated in dancing. The inhabitants of the wood knew that the glade was used by the elves of the pond for a playground, and timidly avoided it; for they were aware that the beautiful water women, though they did not usually trouble themselves about mortals, and did them no harm, grew very angry if they were impertinently watched, or even surprised by accident at their games.

Now it happened that there lived in the village at the edge of the wood a young fellow, who thought of nothing but mischievous tricks and practical jokes. When he was a little boy he used to let loose in the school-room and church, beetles, to whose legs he had tied bits of paper with pieces of thread. When he grew larger, he sawed the back legs of the schoolmaster’s chair three-quarters through, so that it broke down when the teacher sat in it. When he was a half-grown lad, he tied dogs and cats together by their tails, and laughed maliciously when the poor animals fought furiously with one another. Of course such a fellow always robbed birds’ nests, and stole fruit from the trees. This rascal had often heard of the elves of the pond in the forest meadow, their dances in the moonlight summer nights, and their sports with the gnomes, and he could not rest until he had seen the merry pastime with his own eyes. One warm June evening, when the moon was full, he stole through the forest and across the glade to [175]a spot on the shore of the pond, where the rushes grew thick, and, hidden among them, waited with some little anxiety for what would happen.

During the first hours after sunset he heard nothing except the croaking of the frogs near by, and the bell-like tones of the more distant bullfrogs, and saw in the twilight owls and bats flying noiselessly hither and thither. Just after midnight the moon rose, the pond and the woodland meadow were lighted almost as brilliantly as day, and suddenly the impudent scoundrel cowering among the rushes started, almost frightened to death. Close beside his hiding place a silvery laugh rang out and, at the same moment, a young elf rose from the water and clapped her hands loudly. Instantly dozens of other elves appeared in the pond, surrounded the first one, shouted joyously, splashed the water till it foamed, dashed drops and streams into one another’s faces, and at last swam swiftly, in a long line, to the shore. There they had apparently concealed clothes and jewels in the bushes, or in holes in the ground, for in a short time they glided out of the reeds, clad in shimmering, floating veils, and glittering with gems, and frolicked about on the meadow.

The first elves were young girls. After them came young mothers with little elf children, many of whom could already walk alone; others fell down when they tried to stand on their small fat legs, and not a few were still on pillows. The mothers who had children at the breast [176]nursed them, rocked them in their arms till they fell asleep, laid them in the tall grass on the shore, and hurried back to their companions to join their games and ring dancing. One baby in long clothes was laid by its mother among the rushes so near the spy that he could almost touch it with his outstretched hand. It was as beautiful as the angels in the pictures of Paradise, more beautiful than any mortal child he had [177]ever seen. But he did not look at it long, for the scene in the meadow attracted his attention far more strongly. Some were playing blindman’s-buff, others tag, others still were dancing or striking shuttlecocks, then they all joined in songs with choruses, which sounded so sweet that even the hardened rascal in the reeds felt his eyes fill with tears, and finally they sat down in the grass and amid jests and laughter began to feast. At this part of the nocturnal festival the gnomes appeared, queer little men with long beards, who came tripping along laden with all sorts of dainties, and were received by the elves with shouts of joy. They were allowed to sit on the grass beside them and share their banquet, to which they contributed sweet fruit juices and delicious fruit. The water and mountain folk talked together for several hours, during which time an elf mother ran once or twice to the baby that lay near the rascal, to see if it was sleeping. Then the gnomes turned up their noses, beckoned to each other, pointed to the sky, where the first dim light of dawn was appearing in the east, took leave of the elves with many bows, and skipped hastily off to the forest, in which they vanished. The elves, too, felt the morning air and prepared to depart. Just at that moment the young rascal was possessed by the idea that he would play them a trick. At first he had had such a dread and horror of them that it almost stifled his breath. But after he had watched them awhile, and found them so beautiful and [178]merry, so delicate and dainty, all fear had vanished and he did not believe that they could do him any harm. So, yielding to his natural spitefulness, he crept gently to the elf child, which was sleeping sweetly near him with its little fists tightly shut, hastily picked it up, and ran with it as fast as he could out of the rushes, across the clearing to the edge of the wood.

The elves saw him as soon as he stood up, and uttered a loud cry. Some sprang nimbly into the pond, others hastened to their children to protect them. A shriek of horror told the fugitive that the young elf mother had discovered the theft of her child. He turned his head and saw that several elves were pursuing him. Laughing scornfully, he increased his speed in order to reach the forest. Then there was a rushing noise in the air, fierce shouts echoed through the glade and across the pond, a strange whistling and hissing were heard, the rascal looked back again, and now he saw a large number of terrible serpents, which dashed out of the water and chased him with tremendous bounds. Terror seized him, he dropped the stolen child, and ran as if Satan and all his imps were at his heels.

Though the little elf fell softly on the moss, it was waked by the shock, and began to cry piteously. At the same moment a lively cock began to crow in the distant village, a heart-rending shriek answered him from the woodland meadow, then all was still. The wicked youth ran on with all his might, and did not stop until he had come [179]out of the forest and saw his village before him. He was glad that he had escaped from the serpents, and did not trouble himself at all about the elf child whom he had left in the woods.

The cock’s crow had risen on the morning air before the mother had reached it, and the elf, in spite of her despair, was obliged to return to the pond without her child. The baby remained all alone on its bed of moss, weeping loudly, the forest animals came running from every direction to guard it, warm it, and lull it to sleep again. The hares sat close about it, the roes surrounded it in close ranks, the squirrels fanned the flies away from it, even a few lynxes which were left in the wood forgot their usual bloodthirstiness against the other forest creatures, passed their rough tongues tenderly over the child’s little face, that they might not hurt its silken-soft skin, and kept guard against foxes and badgers, which they would not allow to come near the infant. A hind gave the little elf its milk to drink, and after it was satisfied, it fell asleep.

The sky gradually brightened and began to glow with the hues of dawn, as two dogs, barking violently, ran up to the slumbering child. The animals that were lying and standing around it ran away from the baying, and were pursued for some distance by the dogs, until a shout brought them to a stand. A young forester, who had come into the wood with them before daybreak, called them back, for it was mating time and against [180]the law to hunt game. The dogs returned and found the elf child, before which they stood a long time, snuffing it, and then, with uplifted forepaw, from time to time, giving a loud “wuff.”

The forester thought that they had found some kind of game, hurried to them, and was greatly surprised to see a sleeping child in the moss. He hoped at first that its mother was near, and had the neighborhood searched by his dogs. But, after circling around for a long distance, the intelligent animals returned without having discovered any human creature, so the forester took the child in his arms and carried it carefully to the forest house, five miles away.

“What sort of prey are you bringing there?” cried the chief forester in astonishment, when his assistant entered his room with the child. The young man told him that he had found it in the forest, near the elf pond, and asked what he should do with the foundling.

The chief forester, who had a sickly wife, numerous children, and a small house, looked troubled, and said: “It is certainly a beautiful baby, and I would gladly rear it, but that won’t do; there are plenty of us here already. The child must be taken to the orphan asylum.”

As soon as he spoke, he had his carriage brought, drove to the city with the child, and left it at the asylum. He had not looked at it on the way, that his heart might not be too heavy when he was obliged to part with it.

At the orphan asylum they found that the baby was a [181]little girl. Everybody admired its beautiful little face, its dainty limbs, its fine coverlet, pillow, and clothes, and supposed it belonged to an aristocratic family. No distinction was made between the children in the institution, all were treated alike. The elf child was named Irene, for the saint of the day on which she was found, the garments which looked as if they had been woven from moonbeams were taken from it, a little shirt and jacket made of coarse, brownish yellow cloth, woollen socks, and a small cap were put on, and she was laid in a very hard bed with another child.

Irene felt the harsh touch of the coarse clothes on her tender skin, and began to cry violently. But no one came to her. The children were allowed to cry until they were tired and fell asleep. So Irene soon saw that it was useless to grieve, and gradually became used to the rubbing of the hard cloth. She was obliged to grow used to many other things besides: to the bottle which she received, instead of her mother’s breast, to being washed rarely and not thoroughly, to being left alone for hours, to having no loving arms clasp, carry, and rock her, or tender glances meet her blue eyes, when she gazed around seeking something, she herself did not know what.

Weeks, months, and years passed away. Irene grew in the usual way. She could soon stand, walk, and run, in doing which she often fell down, bumped her forehead, and made her little nose bleed. She learned to talk, and to make dolls out of rags and shavings; for [182]there were no playthings in the orphan asylum, and, before she was five years old, she was obliged to do regularly light tasks, such as picking over coffee beans, shelling peas, and washing vegetables.

The nurses, teachers, and children in the asylum had always noticed that Irene’s eyes sparkled strangely, as if blue flames were blazing in them; but they thought it was a disease, and had the oculist of the institution examine them. He gazed a long time into the shining blue eyes, shook his head, prescribed a harmless eye wash and said it would pass away in time; the child would outgrow the trouble.

Irene, of course, had not the slightest remembrance of her origin; for she had been too small when the wicked rascal dragged her away. She did not know what it was to rest on a mother’s breast, to be embraced by a mother’s arms, to feel the kisses of a mother’s lips. But when on fine days, at recess, she was in the courtyard of the orphan asylum, and went to the fence which separated it from the street, she saw little girls passing by holding their mothers’ hands, and such a longing seized upon her that her little heart quivered, and tears ran down her cheeks. The other children who were there called her a cry-baby, and the matron threatened not to let her go outdoors any more if she wept in that way without any reason; for people in the street would think that the orphan children were badly treated, and the institution would get an ill name. [183]

[185]

Something else was noticed, which brought many scoldings and even punishment upon Irene. As soon as she went outside of the door, either to breathe the fresh air in the courtyard or to walk in a long, dreary line with the other orphans, the birds of the sky flew from every direction,—sparrows, swallows, doves, singing birds, crows, even the most timid little birds of prey, such as hawks, sparrow-hawks, and kites, fluttered around her head with low cries, swept past her ears as if they wanted to whisper something quickly to her in their flight, and would not be driven away from her. The throng of birds frightened the other children, so that they scattered screaming. The matron reproved Irene for the disturbance, for she was certain that the child did something to draw the birds, and did not believe her when she protested that it was not her fault. She was considered a sneak and a liar, who, in some unknown way, had learned sly, secret arts; and one day the superintendent of the institution said that Irene was probably a gypsy’s child, who was obeying the promptings of her nature; they must keep a sharp eye on her, or she would never amount to anything good; the teachers distrusted her, the children shyly avoided her and, in spite of her gentle disposition and her beauty, she was eyed askance by everybody in the institution and always left to herself.

Lonely, unhappy, and silent, she had nearly reached her eighth year when one day a little girl of her own age, who in a great railway accident had lost father, [186]mother, brothers, and sisters, and was the only one of her family left, was brought to the asylum.

Little Elizabeth—this was the poor child’s name—was already wise enough to understand fully her cruel fate. She had been the spoiled darling of her parents, and now she met with nothing but indifference. She had lived in comfort, and now learned the meaning of poverty. Instead of her pretty clothes, she wore the coarse, shapeless uniform of the institution. Instead of being dressed and undressed by her loving mother, she was obliged to do this for herself, and was scolded if she was clumsy at it. She wept quietly and constantly, until it almost broke Irene’s heart. Timid and reserved as she was to others, she went to little Elizabeth, spoke gently to her, and begged her to cheer up. But Elizabeth only shook her head, sobbing: “Oh, I cannot, I cannot! Why wasn’t I killed, too? Then I would now be with my mother. I cannot live without my mother.”

“Yes, you can,” replied Irene; “see, I have never known my mother; I believe I never had any. Yet I live.”

“If you have had no mother,” said Elizabeth, through her streaming tears, “then you do not know what it is to lie in her arms, or how it feels when she is gone.”

“No, I do not know,” replied Irene, sadly.

“But I know,” cried Elizabeth, with a fresh outburst of grief, “and I cannot live without my mother. What is the use of living, if nobody loves me?” [187]

“I will love you,” said Irene, earnestly. Elizabeth looked at her with her wet eyes, and threw herself impetuously into her arms.

This had happened in the dormitory, before the children went to bed. Others had seen how the two hugged each other, and the next day at recess they went to Elizabeth, took her aside, and warned her against intimate friendship with Irene. Some called her the little girl with the diseased eyes, others the bird witch, a third the gypsy child. All said that she was a queer, unsocial creature, whom the teachers and matron did not like. Elizabeth, it is true, did not allow herself to be misled by the little slanderers, but she repeated everything to her new friend. Irene took the evil gossip and the enmity of her companions so much to heart that she could neither eat nor sleep, and was constantly in tears, which prevented her from doing neatly the sewing on which she was now engaged. In punishment the matron locked her up in a dark room. Elizabeth would not be separated from her, and wept and screamed so violently that she was whipped and also locked up in a room. When she was let out again, she was forbidden to walk or talk with Irene in the future, and threatened with severe punishment if she did not obey.

Irene met Elizabeth for the first time after her release from the dark room in the dormitory. When she rushed up to her and threw herself into her arms, Elizabeth whispered in her ear: “We must take care, the teacher [188]has forbidden me to talk or walk with you or I shall be punished. But I will not give you up, even if I am.”

“You shall not be punished on my account,” said Irene, and went away from her, weeping silently. Both children were unable to sleep that night from sorrow. When all the others were in a sound slumber, Elizabeth rose softly from her hard bed, stole to Irene’s, and saw that she, too, was lying awake.

“I can bear it no longer,” said Elizabeth, in a low tone.

“Nor I,” replied Irene, in the same voice.

“Irene, let us get up and go away.”

“But where, Elizabeth?”

“Wherever our feet may carry us, sister; any place is better than this.”

“Now? This very moment? In the dark night?”

“No. The house is locked now. We cannot get out. But early to-morrow morning when we are dressed. Then it will be light, and the door will be opened and we can run away. Directly after breakfast. Will you, Irene?”

“I will, Elizabeth,” said Irene. The two children hugged each other affectionately. Elizabeth went back to bed comforted; Irene was somewhat consoled, too, and both fell asleep.

Little attention was paid in the morning to the children who were large enough to dress themselves alone, so it was not difficult for Irene and Elizabeth to slip unnoticed out of the wash room, beside the dormitory, into the [189]courtyard, and from there into the street. When they were outside, they began to run, and kept on straight ahead until they were completely out of breath. Dogs chased them barking; but when they reached Irene, they snuffed at her, wagged their tails, and turned back. The two little girls had left the city behind them, and found themselves in the open fields. Seeing that no one was pursuing them, they went more slowly in order to recover their breath.

“Oh, dear Irene,” said Elizabeth, “how hungry I am!”

“I cannot give you your breakfast, sister,” replied Irene, sadly.

They were just under a tall tree, where many crows had built their nests. Irene had scarcely spoken when the whole flock of crows flew up screaming and vanished in the direction of the city. The children had not gone much farther when they heard above them a great [190]rustling of wings and loud bird calls. It was the crows, which, returning from the city, dropped all sorts of things before the children and flew back to their tree again with the speed of lightning. Elizabeth stooped and picked up in paper horns small cakes and juicy cherries. She did not stop long to wonder, but divided lovingly with Irene, and both ate till they were satisfied. Then they walked on and on, the sun rose higher in the heavens, it was almost noon, and Elizabeth again began to complain, “Oh, dear Irene, I am so warm!”

“So am I, sister,” answered Irene.

“And I am so hungry and tired!” Elizabeth went on.

“So am I,” answered Irene.

“I can go no farther, Irene.”

“I see a wood over there, Elizabeth; let us go to it. We shall find shade, and can rest a little while.”

Irene held out her hand to her little friend and, with her help, she dragged herself to the edge of the wood, where they threw themselves down in the soft moss under the shade of the first tree. Irene sat down by her side, exclaiming, “If the crows would only come back now, and bring us more little horns of cakes and cherries!”

She had hardly spoken the words when there was a cracking and rustling in the underbrush, the bushes parted, and a hind sprang out and stood beside Elizabeth. The child started up with a cry of terror; but Irene said soothingly: “Don’t be frightened, sister, the [191]animals will do us no harm. They have kinder hearts than human beings.”

In truth, the hind licked Elizabeth’s face with her big tongue, lay down by her side on the ground, and showed her full udder, from which drops of milk were trickling. Then Elizabeth understood that the kind animal wanted to feed her, and she began to suck the teat. When she was satisfied, Irene followed her example. Refreshed by the milk, and wearied by the unusually long walk, the heat, and the wakeful night, the two children lay down on the moss, and in a few minutes were sound asleep.

When they opened their eyes again, they saw the hind, which had kept faithful watch beside them all the time, and now knelt before Irene, turned her head toward her, and seemed to be inviting her to get upon her back.

“The dear friend wants to carry us,” said Irene; “we will ride a little, Elizabeth.” She helped the little girl to mount the hind. Irene climbed up behind her, and when the animal felt the children on its back, it rose and trotted carefully, that they might not lose their balance, into the forest.

“Oh, this is nice,” said Elizabeth, sighing; “I could not have walked any farther. My legs ache so, and my feet are so sore.”

They had slept many hours without knowing it, and now the sun was low, and the summer day was drawing [192]to a close. The hind pressed farther and farther into the forest, the air grew cooler, the shadows became darker, and suddenly the children reached the wide clearing, where lay the broad pond as smooth as a mirror. The hind knelt down on the shore, shook herself a little, so that the children could not help sliding gently from her back into the grass, then sprang up, and in a few bounds was again in the forest, where she vanished.

“What shall we do now?” asked Elizabeth, anxiously.

“I don’t know,” replied Irene, softly.

“I am so frightened,” Elizabeth added, hiding her face on her little friend’s breast.

“Why?” asked Irene, stroking her hair caressingly.

“It’s so still and lonely here, and the mists are rising from the water. Night will soon come, and then we shall be all alone in the wild woods. What will become of us? Who will give us anything to eat to-morrow? And where shall we find a house and a bed?”

“Don’t be troubled, sister. Perhaps I am really a gypsy child, as our naughty companions called me. I am not afraid in the forest. We shall find our way through it, and the kind animals will help us do so.”

But Elizabeth shuddered and began to cry. “I am too miserable, sister,” she said, “and life is too hard. I wish I was with my mother.”

“Where you want to be, I want to be, too,” replied Irene, embracing her warmly.

Owls and bats began to fly noiselessly over the children, [193]and the bell-like tones of the bullfrogs were heard.

“Irene,” said Elizabeth, “I will not suffer any longer. Look, the water before us is deep and cool. I shall sleep well at the bottom. I want to go down there.”

“Then I will go with you,” answered Irene.

The two little girls rose, kissed each other, clasped hands, and let themselves slip from the shore into the pond.

Just at this moment the sun set, and at the same time countless elves rose with loud shouts from the still water, caught the two children in their arms, and carried them to the shore.

“An elf child!” cried one, when she had looked into the sparkling eyes of Irene, who was gazing at her in timid surprise. “Your lost little one, Woglinde,” exclaimed a second. Then Woglinde, with a piercing cry, rushed forward, cast one glance at Irene, clasped her impetuously in her arms, and, laughing and weeping, covered her with a thousand kisses.

Irene now learned for the first time how a child feels in its mother’s arms. It was so warm! It was so soft! It was so happy! And it was so sweet to feel her mother’s kisses on cheeks and lips, eyes and hair, and to return them. She understood poor little Elizabeth’s grief at losing this joy, after she had once known it; and after the first exchange of caresses with her new-found mother, she gently released herself from her arms, [194]saying, “Beautiful mother, let me go to my sister Elizabeth, she is all alone.”

The child was sitting on the shore, dripping wet and trembling, weeping quietly. Several elves were standing near, staring at her, and not knowing exactly what to do with the little girl. Irene made her way between them, hurried to Elizabeth, embraced her, and said, “Ah, Elizabeth, I am so happy; just think, I have found my mother in the water.”

“Why did not I, too?” wailed Elizabeth, weeping still more violently.

“Be calm, sister,” replied Irene, trying to comfort her. “My mother will take you, too, and then she will have two children.”

The elf Woglinde smiled, patted the wet cheeks of the mortal child, and was preparing to take off her dripping garments, as well as her Irene’s, clothe them in the glittering elf veils, adorn them with pearls and rubies, and refresh them with sweet juices. The nightingales were singing, the crickets chirped, the elves stood watching curiously, and the gnomes also came up, shaking their bearded heads in astonishment and dissatisfaction at this strange adventure.

Meanwhile the elf queen had also risen from the pond with her little gold crown in her hair, and while her subjects were dressing her and adorning her with jewels, they told her that Woglinde’s stolen child had returned and, with her, a little mortal. [195]

The queen ordered the two little girls to be brought before her, kissed Irene kindly, and said to her in her silver-toned voice: “Welcome to your home, little daughter. We will keep you in the palace below until you have lost the unpleasant human odor. But you must send this little mortal child back to her relatives; for we will have no human beings with us.”

When Elizabeth heard this, she clung to Irene and whispered in her ear: “I will go back into the water again. That is the best place for me.”

But Irene threw her arm around her neck, and said to the queen: “I will not leave my Elizabeth. If she cannot stay here, I will go with her. And you will come with us, won’t you, beautiful Mother?”

Woglinde flushed and paled, struggled with herself, and suddenly threw herself at the elf queen’s feet. “Queen Mother,” she entreated, “be gracious, make an exception for once. Permit the mortal child to live among us.”

“That I cannot do,” replied the queen, raising Woglinde. “It is against the law of nature, which is our law. No mortal can live among us. Your little daughter has the choice of parting from her playmate, or giving up her elfin rank.”

“I will give it up,” cried Irene, firmly.

“And so will I,” said Woglinde, clasping both children in her arms.

A great wailing and lamenting arose among the elves, [196]and a murmur of disapproval among the gnomes. No one thought that night of dancing, games, and banquets. The elf queen tried to change Woglinde’s resolution; but when she saw that the elf would not lose her child for the second time, she ordered the gnomes to provide her with an outfit. They obediently hurried away, and instantly returned with a large quantity of gold and gems, handsome new mortal clothes, a carriage, and two splendid horses. The treasures were packed on the carriage, Woglinde entered it with the two children, the elf queen, after having taken leave of her, gave her permission to come to her sisters’ summer night festivals, but without the mortal child, and, just before dawn, all the elves kissed Woglinde and Irene for the last time, and went sorrowfully back into the pond. At the first cock crow the wise horses started, and, when the sun rose, they were outside of the wood with the carriage and its inmates. They needed neither curb nor whip, but trotted straight to the city and stopped in front of a beautiful house, with a fine garden, which was just for sale. Woglinde bought it with her gold, and, when she moved into it, all the birds in the garden flew up and greeted her as their mistress. The kitchen tenants, too,—the mice and other vermin,—came timidly and wanted to pay their respects to her; but as Elizabeth was afraid of these creeping, swarming creatures, Woglinde ordered them to leave the house, which they humbly did at once. [197]

The gnomes’ treasures had made Woglinde a rich lady and, as she was so beautiful and looked so aristocratic, the neighbors thought she was some foreign countess who had moved to their city, invited her to their houses and tried to become acquainted with her. She was soon the most courted lady in the city, was presented at court, and one of the king’s courtiers wanted to marry her. But she only smiled at it, and replied that she did not wish to marry again, but desired to devote herself to the education of her children.

She used her connections and her influence, however, to discover the malicious rascal, who, years before, had stolen her child. And she succeeded. The youth, meantime, had grown to manhood, and continued to do all the mischief that was possible in the village. Woglinde determined to punish him as he deserved. Going alone to the forest meadow one night, she begged the queen for more gold. The gnomes again brought a load of it, and Woglinde placed it in the garden of a widow, who was said to be the most spiteful, quarrelsome, shrewish woman in the village. This hateful creature found the treasure in the morning, and rejoiced loudly over it. Everybody learned, with the speed of lightning, that she had grown enormously rich in a single night, and several fearless young men hastened, in spite of her evil reputation, to sue for her hand. Among them was the good-for-nothing, who thought, “I can probably manage you.” She preferred him to [198]the others, married him, and then he was soon made to see that he could not cope with her. She ruled the house, kept him under strict discipline, beat him with fists and cane, and tormented him day and night till he was often tired of life. This was his punishment for all the miserable tricks which he had played in his youth.

But Irene and Elizabeth grew up into beautiful girls, and, when they were twenty years old, the elf child married a great artist and Elizabeth a prince, and though Woglinde often longed for the fairy palace at the bottom of the pond, she was on the whole happy in the happiness of her children, both of whom had become equally dear to her. [199]

He was called Rough-leg, and he deserved the name.

He was probably the very ugliest dog that ever was seen: long-legged, rough-haired, with pointed ears lopping down a little at the ends, a long nose, and yellow eyes. Nobody could have told to what breed he belonged. He had the head of a wolf, the legs of a hound, the body of a bull-dog, the hair of a Spitz, the bushy tail of a setter, and the color of a badger dog. He was thin as a herring, and as dirty as a sewer cleaner. Matted tufts of hair hung from his body like the rags of a tramp. His torn ears told tales of many a fierce fight. The violence and perseverance with which he bit and scratched showed what an unpleasant multitude of hopping brown guests he had in his dirty hide.

But under this ugly hide Rough-leg had excellent qualities. He was as strong as a bear and as brave as a lion, but he was also faithful as a good dog ought to be, and good-natured, even though he fared very badly, and had every reason to complain of his fate.

Fortune certainly did not favor him. He belonged to an old scissors-grinder, who went with his cart from village to village. He had to help drag the things for [202]him, and his master gave him very little to eat, because he usually had nothing himself, but plenty of kicks and blows when he wanted to vent on somebody his rage for earning so little.

Yet Rough-leg always forgave his master for everything. When the old fellow was drunk,—and that happened every time he had a few pennies to buy a drop of something strong,—he was kind to Rough-leg, patted him, and talked to him like a sensible, beloved companion. And when he had poured out his heart to him, he lay down wherever he was, in the grass, the moss in the forest, or in the ditch by the road, and began to snore, while Rough-leg stretched himself beside him, and watched his sleep and the cart, which was everything in the world that his master could call his own.

One evening the old scissors-grinder, after a carouse, again fell asleep in the ditch, and did not wake any more, for he was dead. Rough-leg perceived that there was something strange about his master, when he no longer heard him snore. He snuffed at him, licked his face, pushed him with his muzzle, scratched his breast with his paws, and when the old man, in spite of everything, still lay silent and motionless and began to grow cold, Rough-leg set up such a terrible howling that all the dogs for miles around answered, and very early in the morning people came running up, who saw that the old man had died in the night. [203]

[202]

They wanted to take away the body and the cart, [205]but Rough-leg thought he must not allow it, and rushed furiously at everybody who came near. The constable drew his sword, and would certainly have killed him if he had not jumped away from his blows and thrusts. But he did not escape the sticks and stones of the peasants, who beat him unmercifully until he saw that he could do nothing against them. So he no longer tried to prevent their taking the body away, and dragged himself off a short distance, badly hurt, whining and moaning as they carried his master to the village churchyard.

There was not much ceremony over the poor scissors-grinder. After a few official inquiries, and a little writing, he was put into a grave, and then nobody thought any more about him. Rough-leg had dragged himself to the churchyard, and watched behind a tombstone, as they laid his master in the earth and filled up the grave. When all the people had gone, he crept out of his hiding place, went to the fresh mound, and began with the greatest energy to dig his master out. He had already made quite a large hole when the grave-digger [206]saw him and ran forward with uplifted shovel and loud shouts. Rough-leg saw that he could do nothing against the angry armed man, so he limped out of the churchyard, and the grave-digger locked it. It was impossible to jump over the wall again, it was too high. He could not stay with his master’s body, so he went back to the place where he had died, and lay down on the edge of the ditch, determined not to leave the spot.

Near by was a castle with a large garden in front, separated from the road by a fence. Here, surrounded by her servants, lived an old countess, who had a pug-dog, of which she was extravagantly fond. His name was Darling; he was yellow, with a black face, and a little short, stubby figure. He was a very aristocratic dog. His hair looked well kept, for he was bathed, perfumed, brushed, and combed every day. On his left forepaw he wore a gold bracelet, around his neck a white collar with a light blue border, and when he went out, he had a fine cloth blanket with a silk lining, on one corner of which a coronet was embroidered. If it had rained before his walk, he wore rubber shoes to keep his paws from being wet or muddy.

He was very handsome in his rich clothes and costly jewelry, but all these fine things gave him no pleasure. They were only troublesome. How gladly he would have run barefoot through the puddles, and trotted along in the dust. How gladly he would have shaken off the heavy clothes and, with nothing but his smooth [207]skin, raced about like the other dogs, whom he envied when he watched them through the fence of the castle courtyard running, jumping, rolling, and romping with each other to their hearts’ content. He was not allowed to join them. A servant of his own constantly watched to prevent his having any acquaintance with strange dogs. His prison was his mistress’s room. Only twice a day would she let him go out a short time in the castle yard, under the care of a man, usually on a leash, to get a little exercise, breathe the fresh air, etc. These walks were so tiresome that he preferred to stay with the old countess. From lack of exercise, and an oversupply of dainties and rich food, he became a shapeless lump of fat, grew short-breathed, gouty, and had a perpetual itching of the skin, so that, though he was kept so clean, he was obliged to scratch as often and as hard as poor Rough-leg, who had never made acquaintance with brush and comb, warm bath or soap.

The discovery of the dead scissors-grinder in the ditch had brought a great crowd before the castle fence, and the castle servants had also run out to look. Darling was there, too, pressing his black face, with its snub nose and short muzzle, against the rails to see what was going on. When the people set upon Rough-leg with clubs and swords, and almost broke his bones, the pug was furious, and barked as loud as his short breath would permit. The human beings did not understand, but he knew Rough-leg’s faithful heart, and would have [208]gone to help the dead man’s friend, whom they so unjustly abused, if he had only been able.

Lying on his dark blue velvet cushion in his mistress’s room, he thought all day long of the scene which he had witnessed the day before. The dog outside there was shamefully abused; he was apparently of the most humble origin, he was certainly ill-bred, rough, not even clean; he was dirty and ragged. But he was much better than he, the aristocratic pug, the trained and wealthy pet.

The strange fellow owed his master nothing, for he had not even fed him, his leanness showed that. And yet he was faithful to him unto death; he would not leave his lifeless body; he would rather endure the most cruel treatment than to neglect his duty as guard. Would he, Darling, have been capable of such heroic steadfastness? He perceived with shame that it was doubtful. His mistress spoiled him. She was rich and titled. Her rank made every one treat her with respect, and on her account he, too, received the honor due to the pug of a lady of quality. She fed him with cake and roast beef. And yet, if she should die, he would not show his teeth at everybody who came near, and he would not expose himself to any special danger of being beaten with swords and clubs. These thoughts filled him with self-reproach and, at the same time, with admiration for the ugly cur on the high-road, who seemed to him a model of faithful duty. [209]

When Darling, attended by his servant, was allowed to go out again into the castle courtyard that evening, he waddled to the fence as fast as his fat and shortness of breath would let him. He at once saw Rough-leg, who had returned from the churchyard, and was lying in the ditch with closed eyes, his nose between his forepaws, moaning.

“Here! You! Come over to the fence!” called Darling. Rough-leg took no notice.

“You are a brave dog! You have my full respect and friendship!” Darling went on. “I must have a chance to press your paw. Unluckily I can’t get out to you.”

He was so unused to talking loud, that it made him cough and at the same time the itching began, which tortured him so much that he fairly writhed, because his fine blanket and handsome collar and harness prevented him from scratching to his heart’s content.

Rough-leg now raised his head, opened his eyes, and blinked at him. “Does anything ail you?” he asked in his hoarse voice.

“Oh, dear, I am so miserable!” replied Darling, piteously, when he had recovered his breath. He took no offence at plebeian Rough-leg’s familiarity. “But don’t let us talk about me, but you. I suppose you loved your master very much?”

“I had no one but him, and he had no one but me in the whole world. I will not outlive him.” [210]

“Listen to reason, my dear fellow,” cried Darling, in horror. “Surely you don’t mean to kill yourself?”

Rough-leg made no answer.

“Your master was a poor tramp,” Darling continued.

“Like me,” interrupted Rough-leg, growling.

“Well, then, surely you owe him nothing. He has not been able to do anything for you. He is dead. You can’t change that. Now think of yourself. What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. I shall stay here.”

“In the night? On the bare ground? Under the open sky?”

“I’m used to it.”

“You have no rheumatism and no asthma, like me. I should die. And who will give you your food?”

“Nobody. I want to starve to death.”

Darling pitied the despairing fellow more and more. “Be sensible, dear friend and cousin,” he said. “We must learn how to find comfort. What would become of us if people took everything so much to heart? I pity you. I’ll do what I can for you. Wait, I’ll bring you something to eat presently.” He waddled away from the fence, back into the castle, and up to his old countess, from whom he begged. She gave him, as usual, with many pats and loving words, a piece of nice cake. He scarcely thanked her by a hasty lick of the hand and a quick wag of the tail, and hurried back to the fence, which he reached panting for breath. [211]

“Here, friend, I have something good for you. But you must come into the courtyard to me. I can’t get out,” he called to Rough-leg, who was still lying just where he had left him.

Rough-leg rose and came slowly forward. Darling’s sympathy cheered him a little in his loneliness. When he reached the fence, Darling pushed the bit of cake under it and wagged his tail eagerly. He was rejoicing to think how nice the dainty would taste to the poor, starved fellow. Rough-leg drew it out with his paw, snuffed at it, and then left it.

“Who can eat such stuff as that?” he growled.

“But that’s cake, my dear fellow!” cried Darling, in astonishment; “that’s the very nicest thing there is!”

“I don’t know anything about it. It’s not fit for sensible dogs. If you have a bone, I should like it. If not, leave me alone.”

Darling shook his head, but went back into the castle, looked into the garbage pail, which he usually was not allowed to meddle with, and found a big bone, which he dragged to the fence. “Here is a bone, since you want it,” he said; “but I can’t understand how you can do anything with this dry, hard thing.”

Rough-leg made no reply. He raked the bone out from under the fence with his strong paws, broke it in two with one bite, cracked and splintered it, and, in the shortest possible time, reduced it to very small pieces and swallowed it. Darling watched the work of his [212]new friend’s powerful wolf jaws with mingled admiration and horror. When the latter had finished, he turned toward the fence, licked Darling’s muzzle with his big tongue, and muttered: “Thank you. You are a good fellow.”

Darling’s heart leaped with joy. “Ah, if I could only get out to you!”

“Come, then,” answered Rough-leg.

“I dare not,” whined Darling, looking round anxiously for his servant who, luckily for him, was just talking with one of the countess’s coachmen, without noticing the pug placed in his care.

“Are you not ashamed to be such a timid fellow?” cried Rough-leg. “The idea of a dog’s allowing himself to be forbidden a little run.” He turned as if to go away.

“Don’t go,” called Darling. “I will try to slip out.”

He went cautiously to the gate, which was only ajar, and, seeing that the servant was still talking, he ventured to steal out.

“Now run,” said Rough-leg, breaking into a long, swift trot. Darling tried with all his might to keep up with him. But he could not do it. After a few minutes he fell breathless on the ground and writhed there panting and moaning. Rough-leg looked at him a moment scornfully, and yet compassionately, seized him by the skin of the neck, and carried him along in his mouth, as a mother dog does her puppies. It [213]seemed to give him no more trouble than if Darling had been a feather. He ran on until the castle was entirely out of sight, then set him on the ground and wagged his tail kindly.

“How good you are,” sighed Darling, who had recovered his breath while in his friend’s mouth. But now the excitement brought on the itching again, and he scratched piteously, yet without success, on account of the cloth blanket and other things he had on his body.

“Booby,” growled Rough-leg, after watching him awhile.

He rushed upon Darling so violently that he frightened him and, with a few bites, tore the fine blanket and collar from his body in ribbons, broke the bracelet from his paw with one snap, and said, “There, now you look like a decent dog again, and I need not be ashamed of being seen in your company.”

Darling had never felt so comfortable since he could remember. He could scratch himself to his heart’s content, and already the itching was less because he was entirely undressed and the fresh air blew freely all around him. Yet, glad as he was, he thought with a [214]few pangs of conscience of his old mistress, and murmured—“What will they say at the castle?”

“You can go back there, if you repent,” replied Rough-leg, harshly, moving as if he were going to trot along.

“Don’t go away,” Darling begged anxiously. “Don’t leave me alone, I shall be lost without you.”

“Then hold your tongue, and come.”

It had grown dark. Rough-leg’s bones still ached from the beating he had had, he was tired out, and he saw that his companion was exhausted. So leading him to a hay-rick in a ploughed field, he said, “We’ll spend the night here.” He dug out a hole in the hay, pushed the tender Darling in, and lay down before him. Darling slept better than he had ever done before. It was very different lying on the hay from being on a velvet cushion in a curtained, closed apartment. He scarcely felt even the pains in his limbs, because his friend had warmed him with his big, strong body.

When he woke early in the morning, he felt like another dog. “You are a wonderful fellow, Rough-leg,” he said, licking his long, rough muzzle gratefully. “But I don’t know what ails me—I feel so queer around my stomach—”

“You are hungry, simpleton, and so am I,” replied Rough-leg.

Hungry! That was a feeling which Darling had never known, or had forgotten long ago. It gnawed very [215]sharply, but it was far, far pleasanter than the repugnance which his rich, costly food at the castle had inspired.

“Where shall we find anything to eat?” asked Darling.

“You must go and look,” was the short answer. He snuffed a little around the hay-rick, then suddenly made a spring and drew out of a hidden sparrow’s nest a peeping young bird, which he killed with one bite and tossed to the wondering Darling.

“There, eat it,” he cried, and himself devoured the rest of the brood, which still remained in the nest.

Then the two went to a neighboring farm-house, and Rough-leg began to rummage in the dung-heap.

Darling was just going to follow his example, when out rushed the house dog, barking furiously, and threw himself on the pug, which with a cry of terror, fell on the ground under the shock. In an instant Rough-leg was by his side, and a fierce fight began, in which the farm dog was soon beaten. Off he ran with bleeding ears and lips, howling piteously.

“You have saved my life,” groaned Darling, as they hurried out of the yard.

“Nonsense!” said Rough-leg, but he ran his tongue tenderly over the pug’s black face.

A new life, which he had never known before, began for Darling. He could do just as he pleased, he was always in the open air, he trotted until he was tired, and [216]lay down to rest wherever he happened to be. He often fared badly in regard to food. He had to take just what he could get! in the best case boiled turnips some cow had dropped from her trough; in the worst, bones picked up on some dung-heap. But this poor and scanty living, from which he would formerly have turned aside with loathing, seemed excellent, and even dainty, because he saw how much Rough-leg enjoyed it. The two friends were often obliged to fight the village curs; but this no longer frightened Darling, for he knew that he could depend on Rough-leg. His health daily improved. His rheumatism and the intolerable itching disappeared, he lost flesh, and, with the extra flesh, his shortness of breath vanished; he could vie with Rough-leg in running, and soon made such progress that, to his joyful surprise, he could help a shepherd, who was driving a flock of sheep over a cross-road, as well as his nimble Pomeranian, which could not manage the work alone. The shepherd wanted to keep him, but this did not suit Darling. “When I want to enter service, I will go back to my mistress,” he said, and went off with Rough-leg. In the castle the people were inconsolable over Darling’s disappearance, the servant who had not watched him properly was dismissed at once, and the countess advertised that she would pay a large reward to any one who returned her pug. But no one brought him, because he was not recognized from the description [217]which mentioned his fine blanket, collar, and bracelet. But Darling thought of the old countess, and Rough-leg of his dead master, and, after about a fortnight, the pug said one morning, “Suppose we should go and see how things are at the castle.”

“Very well,” Rough-leg answered, and the two trotted straight toward the castle. They were obliged to run many hours before they reached it. When they arrived, the gate stood open, and Darling walked boldly in. The servants did not recognize him, for he was as slender and active as a greyhound, and as dirty as a pig which had just come out of the mire. But his eyes were bright, his nose was moist, and his bark was as loud and long as the alarm bell in the steeple. They tried to drive him away, but he rushed upstairs to the old countess’s room and scratched at her door. When she heard the familiar sound, she uttered a cry of joy, started up, and opened it as quick as she could. Darling jumped up on her and, barking loudly in his delight, licked her face. But she pushed him away in horror, for he smelled so badly and was so terribly neglected. She called for perfume and a warm bath, but Darling ran swiftly away. He would not have them any more, nor his fine clothes, gingerbread, and velvet cushions.

Rough-leg was lying outside in the ditch, waiting to see whether his rich friend would forget him or come back to him. In a few minutes Darling returned. “Won’t you go into the castle with me?” he cried joyously. [218]

“Yes, so that they can break my limbs or chain me up,” growled Rough-leg.

“They must kill me first,” answered Darling, urging him along.

At first the people in the courtyard wanted to ill-treat the ugly tramp dog. But Darling covered him with his body, and they saw that he was his friend. The case was reported to the countess, who looked out of her window at the ugly, strong, strange dog; the affection her pug showed him touched her, and she ordered the servants to let him stay with Darling. The pug was obliged to allow himself to be thoroughly cleaned, but he would not lead his former life. So he was permitted to wander about the courtyard and high-road with Rough-leg, and only came for a quarter of an hour every morning and evening to the countess, who, however, could not bear his smell, and in spite of his caresses, was glad when he went away again. Darling and Rough-leg always remained the best of friends, and the former often said: “I, the insolent rich dog, owe to you, the poor fellow, health and life. If the rich would only always make the poor their friends!”

“It would be a good thing for both,” growled Rough-leg, in his deep voice. [219]