Once upon a time a steamer was going from Hamburg to South America. The ship was as large as a street of sixty houses. Hundreds of people were in her: sailors and stokers, poor emigrants, and rich ladies and gentlemen. Among them, too, was a little girl about five years old, with the dearest little round face and two short braids. Her name was Rieke, and she was the child of a young couple, who had not been very well off at home in Mecklenburg, and were going to Argentina. The father was sitting on a coil of rope in one corner of the ship, where he was out of the way of the sailors moving to and fro, studying Spanish, and the mother was busy nursing a very little sister of Rieke. During the first two or three days after leaving the Elbe, Rieke stayed with her mother. She did not yet feel at home on the ship, and was a little afraid of the engines, the various things she had never seen before, and all the strangers. Besides, she had been a little seasick, and was obliged to keep quiet, that she might not be ill. When she felt better and the cargo was stowed away, everything in order, and [222]the steamer far out in the open sea, she ventured to leave her mother’s side and look about on board.

Climbing carefully up the iron stairs, she reached the deck. In the bow, that is, at the front end, she stood still and let her bright blue eyes wander curiously from the water to the sky, and from the masts to the wheel. The sailors did not trouble themselves about her, for they had other things to do. Only one old man suddenly noticed her, fixed his eyes sharply upon her, and cried, “Hello, little girl, what are you doing here?”

“I am travelling, and this is my ship,” she answered fearlessly.

The man burst into a loud laugh, slapped his thigh with the palm of his hand till it smacked, and cried over and over again: “Just look at the Hop-o’-my-Thumb! Such a little girl needs such a big ship to travel in!” [223]

Then, taking her by the arm, he led her to the foremast to measure her. Rieke did not even reach to the iron ring which surrounds it near the foot. She was no taller than the leg of a riding-boot.

“It’s enough to make one laugh till one is crooked,” said the old sailor. And the mast, which had looked on, really began to laugh itself crooked and rocked to and fro, creaking and groaning, and the flag which waved at the top, that is, at the masthead, also shook with merriment, and both of them, in their rustling, squeaking language, told the wheel about the little girl who was travelling in the big ship. The wheel laughed till it turned and rolled so that two steersmen could hardly keep it steady, and it told the news to the davits,—the curved iron rods from which the life-boats hang over the edge of the ship,—and the davits told the boats which they carried, and the boats told the fat, merry porpoises which were swimming beside the ship to snap up any scraps, and the porpoises gossiped about it, and so it was talked over far and wide in the sea, till the merman and his daughters heard of it too; and they were all curious to see the funny little girl who was travelling [224]in the big ship. But they had to wail till night, for so long as it is light, they cannot come up, because they don’t wish to be seen by grown people. They don’t mind children.

Meantime, little Rieke had no idea that there was so much talking about her on the ship, in the air, and in the water. So she left the old sailor, who laughed heartily as he looked after her, to continue her voyage of discovery on board. She gazed in astonishment at the smoke-stacks, which looked as wide and as high as towers; she peeped timidly down the engine shaft, where huge steel rods were moving noisily up and down; glanced at the bridge, and at last reached a staircase in the middle of the ship—a staircase with a costly carpet, and shining gilt railings on both sides.

Rieke hesitated a moment, then she boldly went down the steps and into a large room, more beautiful than any she had ever seen in all her life. Mirrors and pictures hung on the walls; a thick carpet, into which the feet sank as if it were soft moss, covered the floor. Ladies and gentlemen were sitting in easy chairs or on sofas talking together, or reading books and newspapers. Rieke was standing near the door, gazing at all the splendid things she had never seen before, when a man in uniform, apparently a servant, came up and asked roughly, “Whom do you want here?”

“Nobody,” replied Rieke, shyly.

“Then be off. No one is allowed here except the [225]first-cabin passengers.” The man saw very plainly that the little girl was not travelling first-class, for she wore poor, shabby, though clean, clothes.

Rieke did not instantly understand what the cross servant wanted her to do, so she made no movement to leave the cabin. The rough man seized her rudely by the arm to lead her out. Rieke was not used to such treatment; for she was so pretty and gentle and polite that people were always kind to her. She began to cry, and said, “Let me go, you hurt me.”

An elderly lady, sitting on the sofa, had seen all that had happened, and called to the child, “Come to me, little one.”

Now the servant had to release her. Rieke went to the lady, who patted her fair little head, wiped her eyes and cheeks with a fine lace handkerchief, and questioned her about her home and her parents. Rieke was not at all shy, but answered plainly and sensibly. Other passengers came up, and, pleased with the brightness of the beautiful child, they all wanted to talk with and pet her. Among them was an Argentine landowner, who was going home with his wife. Their only child had died, and they went to Europe to try to escape from their sad thoughts.

“It is strange,” said the gentleman to his wife, who wore deep mourning, “that poor people have such beautiful, healthy children, and we rich ones such delicate, frail darlings, whom we cannot bring up.” [226]

The lady in mourning made no answer, but she thought of her dead child, her eyes filled with tears, and, drawing the little one to her side, she kissed her again and again.

An hour passed. Rieke’s parents became anxious because she did not come back, and her father went to look for her. He asked here and there if any one had seen her, and, after many questions, he found out that she was in the first cabin. He knew that a poor steerage passenger, like himself, would not be allowed to enter it, so he asked a sailor to bring his little girl. The sailor told the cross servant, and the cross servant went into the cabin and said to Rieke, “You must come to your father, he is waiting for you outside.”

“Oh, what a pity!” murmured the old lady who had first noticed the child.

“Come back again very soon, directly after dinner,” added the lady in mourning.

“The little girl mustn’t come in; it is strictly forbidden,” answered the servant, sharply. His words caused a great uproar, especially among the ladies. “We won’t allow it!” cried one. “We will have the child here!” exclaimed a second. “Three weeks without a single child is far too long,” said a third.

“Then you must go into the steerage, or speak to the captain,” replied the man, trying to lead Rieke away.

“Let her go,” said the Argentine landowner, and, [227]taking Rieke by the hand, he went upstairs where her father was waiting. He wanted to see him. He found a respectably-dressed young man who pleased him at once. Entering into conversation with him, he perceived that he had to deal with a modest, sensible, well-educated person.

“What are you?” he asked.

“I am a farmer.”

“And what do you want to do in Argentina?”

“I shall look for a position as manager of an estate. If I prosper, and make a little money, I shall perhaps later buy or lease a farm of my own.”

“That’s the very thing,” said the landowner. “I want a capable manager, and I prefer a German. If you suit me, you can do well in my employ.”

The little girl’s father gladly accepted the offer. It relieved him from all anxiety, especially as the Argentine gentleman promised a larger salary than he had hoped to receive, and proposed to have a written agreement made at once. He wanted to hurry off to his wife to tell her the good news, but the landowner stopped him.

“One thing more. My wife wants to have your little girl with her while we are on the ship. But we do not wish to separate her from her parents. So you must all move over to us. You will permit me to make your little Rieke a present of the necessary tickets?”

The change was quietly arranged with the captain, [228]the little girl’s parents were moved to a largo, airy stateroom, with a round window looking out upon the sea, and at dinner sat like princes at the first-cabin table, Rieke beside the lady in mourning, who put the daintiest morsels on her plate and gave her almost too much, so that her mother was obliged to watch carefully, that she might not be made ill.

After dinner all the passengers amused themselves with the child, who went from one to the other, talking with everybody whose language she understood. Among them was the head of a museum of ethnology, who had come to Europe to buy curiosities for his collections. He invited the whole company into his stateroom to show them his treasures. He explained the weapons, utensils, and ornaments of the ancient and modern peoples; but modestly confessed that he also had many things whose use he did not know. Taking up an oddly shaped bit of ivory, covered with carved lines, he said: “Look, I don’t know what this is. Probably it may be a porridge spoon; but perhaps it is the badge of some unknown rank.”

Rieke began to laugh, exclaiming, “Why, that’s a shoe-horn.”

“A shoe-horn?” replied the scholar in astonishment. “That is impossible. The people who made this article probably wore no shoes.”

“But it is a shoe-horn,” Rieke persisted, and the ladies all agreed with her. The director, shaking his [229]head, examined the article again very carefully, and saw in one corner a drawing which he had not noticed before. It represented a savage, with feathers in his hair and shoes on his feet, which probably could not have been put on without the help of a horn.

“You are right, little one,” he said. “And since you are so clever, perhaps you can tell me what this one is, too.” He gave her, with a smile, a wooden object which looked like an ordinary cross.

“That’s a cross,” remarked a passenger, who was standing near.

“It can’t be,” replied the scientist, “for it is a thousand years older than Christianity.”

Rieke took the mysterious article in her hand, looked at it a moment, and said:—

“That is a winder.”

“What is a winder?”

“Don’t you know? It’s the cross people wind yarn on to make a ball. Else how can you knit?”

“Be polite,” her mother said; but the scholar cried joyfully, “Never mind, the child is perfectly right to laugh at me a little because I am so ignorant.” And, turning to Rieke, he added, “I thank you, little girl; I have learned from you gladly.”

After supper Rieke and her parents went back to their stateroom, where it was so much more pleasant than in the steerage. As the sea was calm, and the weather warm, Rieke’s mother let her open the little round [230]window and put out her head. As soon as her face appeared, a voice outside called, “There is the little girl who travels in the big ship.”

She looked around curiously, and saw the merman with his long beard calling his daughters out of the water, that they might see the little girl, too. Three, four, five girls’ heads appeared, shaking back long, wet, green hair; their hands came above the surface of the sea, too, and clapped, and the mermaids cried, “Look at the pretty little girl who travels in the big ship.”

“We’ll give her something,” said the merman.

“Yes, yes, yes,” screamed the mermaids, diving down so quickly that the water gurgled. The next minute they were back again, and handed their father all sorts of things, which he passed up to the window on the forked end of a long piece of coral.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “take them for a keepsake from my daughters. They were once little girls like you.”

The first one gave her a mother-of-pearl shell, the second a branch of red coral, the third a pearl, the fourth a long, curved narwhale tooth, and the fifth a soft, wet, shapeless thing, which at first she did not want to touch. But the merman pushed it quickly through the window with his coral staff; then there was loud laughing outside by many voices, after which all became still, and nothing more was heard of the merman and his daughters. [231]

Rieke’s father pulled the wet thing into the window, and, looking at it, saw that it was the rolled-up skin of some unknown creature. He opened it, and was astonished at its great length and width. It had queer green and black spots, long spines on the back, a red crest on the neck, and the head ended in a snout like a turtle’s. He rolled it up again, intending to show it to his fellow-passengers.

The next day, when they heard that the merman had talked with the little girl the night before and given her all sorts of beautiful things, everybody wanted to see the presents. The ladies particularly admired the pearl, but when the snakeskin was unrolled, a young man fairly leaped into the air, exclaiming:—

“The sea-serpent! The famous sea-serpent, in which people would not believe. Now we have it! Hurrah! We have the sea-serpent!” This young man was a naturalist, on his way to South America to try to make some discovery in the vast forests. He wanted to become a professor, so that he could marry a young girl, whose father would not give his consent because the lover was not a famous man, and had neither office nor title. The young naturalist told Rieke’s father this, and begged him to sell him the sea-serpent’s skin. For if he could describe and make a picture of it, and have a book published about it, he would become famous at once, and would certainly be a professor, and could marry the girl to whom he was engaged. [232]

“Take the serpent’s skin,” said Rieke’s father; “I will give it to you, and may it bring you good fortune.”

The young man insisted upon paying for it, until Rieke’s father grew almost angry. “I will not sell the skin for money. Every one ought to help his neighbor as he can.”

The young man already saw himself sure to win his bride, and could not keep his happiness secret. He told every one of the change in his fate, and what he owed the little girl who was travelling with them. A gentleman who had been very silent and did not join the others, drew Rieke to his side, smoothed her fair hair, and said:—

“Tell me, what shall I do to get a little girl just like you?”

“Haven’t you any?” answered Rieke.

“No,” said the gentleman.

“Why not?”

“Because I am not married.”

“Well, then, get married,” cried Rieke, so loud that everybody heard her and began to laugh.

“Yes, but whom shall I marry?”

Rieke looked around, pointed to a young lady sitting modestly in a corner, and said: “Marry her. She is beautiful and good.”

The young lady blushed, the passengers laughed, and the gentleman went up to her and begged her pardon for having unintentionally embarrassed her. In [233]this way they became acquainted. It turned out that the gentleman was a very rich man who had nothing to do, and did not know how to dispose of all his money, so he went travelling over the world to pass away the time. The young lady was an orphan, going to an aunt in Brazil, so that she might not have to live alone. When they had talked together, and become better acquainted, they liked each other, and, three days later, the gentleman called the little girl and said: “Well, Rieke, I have taken your advice. I am going to marry the beautiful, good young lady.” Rieke ran joyfully to her parents and told them the news, so everybody heard of the engagement, in whose honor the gentleman gave the sailors a great feast, with singing and dancing, so that pleasure reigned through the steamer, and people said, “It’s very plain that there is a little girl travelling on the big ship.”

The elderly lady who had first taken little Rieke’s part when the cross servant tried to put her out of the cabin continued to be her best friend, and wanted to have her always near, so that the lady in mourning really grew jealous and said very seriously: “You must let me have the little girl part of the time. Her company consoles me a little for the child I have lost.”

“I have lost my only child, too,” replied the old lady, sadly.

The wife of the Argentine landowner wished to hear about it, but at first the other would not speak freely. [234]At last, however, she was persuaded to tell the whole story. She had an only child, a grown daughter. And she had lost her, but not by death. The daughter had married, against her mother’s will, a man whom she did not want for a son-in-law. In punishment for such disobedience, she would have nothing more to do with her, and told every one that she no longer had a child. But she knew very well that this was not right, and she secretly longed for her only daughter, whom she had treated so harshly. True, she would receive no letters from her nor hear anything else about her, yet she had learned that she had a little girl with fair hair and blue eyes. The child must now be just about Rieke’s age, and doubtless quite as pretty and amusing. The old lady could not help thinking constantly about this grandchild, when Rieke was playing by her side and talking with her, and whenever she embraced and kissed the child, which she did very often, she fancied she clasped her own little grandchild in her arms.

When the lady in black had heard this story, she urged her to forgive her daughter at once; and Rieke, who had heard everything that was said, and understood most of it, exclaimed at the same time: “Yes, yes, you must forgive your daughter and let your grandchild come here. I want to see her and play with her. I’ll give her something, too,—my shell, or my pearl, or my coral, or whatever she wants. Only not my narwhale tooth. I suppose that’s too big for her.” [235]

Tears filled the old lady’s eyes, and, clasping Rieke in her arms, she said: “You are right, dear. I will do what you ask.”

“But this very minute!” said Rieke.

“That cannot be,” replied the lady, smiling through her tears, “but as soon as we land.”

Rieke was satisfied, and the lady in mourning congratulated the old lady because she would now find her lost daughter and have a dear little grandchild, too. The story of the mother’s forgiveness of her only daughter became known among the passengers, and the gentleman who was engaged to the orphan said: “Rieke, you are surely the angel of peace. Suppose you try to make peace for some one else.”

“Whom?” asked the child.

“Do you see those two gentlemen over there, one in the right corner and the other in the left?”

Rieke looked and answered, “Yes.” She had known them a long time, and had noticed that they never spoke to each other, never went near each other, and always managed to have the whole length or width of the cabin between them.

“Well, those two gentlemen are the presidents of two South American republics.”

“What is that?” asked Rieke.

“It would take too much time to explain it,” said the gentleman. “The countries of those two presidents have been enemies a long while, many years, and people say [236]that they want to make war on each other. Then a great many men will be wounded and killed.”

“Little girls, too?” asked Rieke, in terror.

“Little girls, too,” replied the gentleman. “So go and beg the two presidents not to make war, but be friends with each other.”

Rieke did not wait to be asked twice. She went to the younger one, who looked more good-natured and had smiled at her once, and told him how terrible it would be to wound and kill people, especially little girls, and he ought not to make war. Rieke spoke German, and the gentleman understood nothing but Spanish, so he listened, smiling, and asked his neighbors what the pretty child wanted. An interpreter was at once found, who faithfully translated the little girl’s words. Then the gentleman patted Rieke’s cheeks, saying, “Tell all that to my colleague over there.”

Rieke seized the president’s hand and, though at first he resisted, she drew him with her to the other corner, and repeated to the second gentleman her entreaty for peace. The second gentleman was old, and looked gloomy. At first he frowned when the little girl’s words were repeated to him. But as the first gentleman had bowed politely when he came up, he was obliged to return it, and Rieke would not go until she had received some kind of a reply. The eyes of all the passengers were fixed upon him, and unless he wanted them to take him for a very rude fellow, he could [237]do nothing except stroke Rieke’s hair, too, and say with rather a sour smile, “Little girls don’t understand such things.”

“Yes, yes,” Rieke persisted, taking hold of the gloomy man’s hand and putting it into the other president’s. The two began to talk together, at first stiffly, then more and more cordially, and, after some time, they both went to the older one’s stateroom. From that hour they were a great deal in each other’s company, sat side by side at table, and after several days the good news spread through the steamer that the two presidents had become friends, and there would be no war between their countries. The captain ordered a salute to be fired in honor of the event, the crew had another feast and more presents, and everybody on board, both passengers and sailors, perceived [238]that the little girl was the most important person on the big ship.

The carpenters hammered and carved for the little girl in the big ship a small ship with a big girl in it, and when, a few days after, the steamer reached South America, they gave it to her for a remembrance of her first sea voyage, on which she had won the good-will of the merman and his daughters, obtained a good place for her father, explained to the director of a museum the use of his ancient things, helped a scholar to secure fame, a professorship, and a wife, aided an old bachelor to become engaged to a beautiful orphan girl, persuaded a mother to forgive her daughter, and made peace between two hostile countries. Was not that a voyage well worth remembering? [239]

Once upon a time there were two children, a little boy and a little girl, who belonged to poor people, a locksmith, who worked in a machine-shop, and his wife, who attended to her housekeeping and took in washing. The father was never at home, except on Sundays and holidays, and the mother had too much to do to look after the children. So they were usually left to themselves, and grew up like nettles on a refuse heap. The boy was wild and careless, and would not do as he was told. He wandered far outside of the city, and did not come home at meal times. He climbed trees and tore his trousers. He joined street urchins, fought with them, and came back with his nose bleeding and his body covered with black-and-blue spots. Who knows what might have happened to him, how often village curs would have bitten him, gypsies stolen him, or automobiles run over him, if he had not had his little sister.

True, she was a year younger than he, but she was far more sensible, always stayed with him, and prevented him from doing too much mischief. As he loved her [242]dearly, he usually obeyed her, though not always, and thus was saved from worse injuries.

One summer day the brother again invited his little sister to ramble with him through the fields and woods. The little sister did not want to go, because their mother had forbidden them to stray far from home. “Well, if you won’t come with me, I’ll go alone,” said the sly fox, pretending to set off. He knew very well that she would not let him.

“You are a regular ne’er-do-weel,” she replied, but she went with him.

They walked gayly along, soon left the city behind them and were on the high-road, among farms and hedges, running in the meadows through the tall grass and clover, picking cherries, gathering flowers, and catching white and blue butterflies. So, still playing and walking happily on, they reached a wood, passed through it, and at last came to the bank of a rushing river, where they could walk no farther.

“Now we will turn back,” said the little sister.

“No,” replied the brother; “it is too beautiful here.” He took his little sister by the hand, and drew her along by the water. At a bend in the shore he suddenly saw a little boat, tied to an old willow. Shouting with delight, he instantly sprang into the skiff, which began to rock dangerously.

“You must get out at once,” screamed the little girl in terror. [243]

[245]

“I’ve no idea of it,” replied the rascal; “it rocks so gloriously that I feel like a bird in the air. Jump in quick, little sister, we will have a row.”

“I won’t do it,” said the little girl; “the boat doesn’t belong to us. If the owner catches you, he will box your ears. And mother always forbids us to go on the water.”

“Mother won’t see; come with me, come,” said the naughty boy, untying the boat. Unless the little sister wanted to stay alone on the bank, she was obliged to follow him, whether she liked it or not.

She timidly put first one foot and then the other in the boat, trembling a little as it rocked. Her brother laughed at her, pulled her down on the seat, and pushed the oar against the shore. The skiff moved off, at first slowly, then faster and faster. Before the children were aware of it, they were in the middle of the river, where the current [246]was the strongest, shooting along with the utmost speed. The banks fairly flew past them. Each bend in the stream showed them new pictures: at first flowery meadows, then dark woods, finally lofty mountains, which constantly drew nearer together and cast gloomier shadows over the surface of the water. The stream flowed with tremendous force through a narrow ravine between high cliffs, its waves dashing against the rocks with a thundering roar.

“It frightens me,” said the little sister, softly.

“I’m not afraid,” replied the brother; “it is so wild here, and the water sings so merrily.”

“But where are we going?” asked the little sister.

“I don’t know, and that’s just the beautiful part of it,” the boy answered; “we will shut our eyes and let ourselves go—we shall land somewhere.”

The little girl did so, for she was afraid of the mountains, towering so close at hand, and the raging river. Again the stream curved sharply around a projecting cliff, and both brother and sister screamed with fright. They had felt a violent shock, and were flung headlong into the bottom of the boat.

Opening their eyes quickly, they saw that an invisible power had jerked their boat out of the water and was lifting it high in the air. They raised themselves as well as they could, and now saw that the boat was in a huge net as thick as one’s arm, hanging from a pole as big as a tree. This pole was held by a terrible giant, who [247]sat on the top of one of the high, steep cliffs that lined the shore, dangling legs ten times as long as a man’s. In a trice the net was drawn up and thrown on the rock so roughly that every seam in the boat creaked. A hand so large that there was plenty of room in the palm for the little skiff reached in for it, disentangled it from the confusion of meshes, and held it before two eyes as big as cart wheels. A mouth like a barn-door opened, and a voice which echoed through the river valley like thunder said: “A good catch at last! My old woman will be pleased with it.” The hand closed around the boat, and the two children saw between the fingers, as if looking through the chinks in the rafters of a steeple, that the giant rose, shouldered his net, and began to walk away. His head towered above the tallest trees, and his walk was faster than the swiftest railroad train.

The brother was half dead with fright, he howled at the top of his lungs and stammered almost unintelligibly: “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! It’s all over with us.”

The little sister, too, did not feel very comfortable; but she kept up her courage and reproached her brother for his useless whining. “You have brought us into the scrape,” she said, “now at least keep quiet. Perhaps all giants do not eat human beings.”

“Why did he fish us out of the water, unless he meant to eat us?” wailed the boy.

“He is carrying us home to his wife,” said the little sister, soothingly; “we will beg the giantess very prettily [248]to let us go home to our mother. I don’t believe a woman would do children any harm, even if she is a giantess.”

The brother was only half comforted; he nestled close to his sister, threw both arms around her neck, and sobbed: “Oh, little sister, help just this time. I will never be naughty again.”

It was not long before the giant reached his house, built on a high, wooded mountain, and larger than the largest church that the children had ever seen. Before the door stood the giantess, smiling at her husband.

“I’m bringing you something!” he shouted in his thundering voice, while still at a long distance, waving the hand that held the boat to and fro before his face, till the children grew dizzy.

“What can it be?” asked the giantess, curiously, and went quickly into the sitting room.

The giant followed her, set the boat on the table, took the boy between his thumb and forefinger, and held him up before his wife’s face: “Just look at this little Hop-o’-my-Thumb! He was floating along very happily with this other pygmy on our water, in a little nutshell, and I fished out the whole cargo of food.”

The boy struggled with all his might in the fingers that held him, roared as if he were being put on the spit, and twisted his face into such ugly shapes that his little [249]sister cried out, “Don’t behave so, little brother, the master and mistress are not eating you yet.”

“Not yet, little Miss Pert, not yet,” said the giant, and began to laugh loudly.

The giantess took the struggling boy out of his hand, put him on the table, where he again fell on his little sister’s neck and hid his face in her bosom, and scrutinized the little pair. Her eyes, in spite of their size, looked kind, and her face was mild and gentle, which the little sister noticed very plainly. The giantess had no children herself, and her heart grew soft when she saw these two little human creatures so near her.

“I haven’t tasted any human flesh for a long time,” cried the giant. “Prepare the little ones for my supper. I’ll have them baked.”

“No,” replied the giantess, quickly, covering the children with her hand. “They are too small. Both wouldn’t make you a mouthful. We must fatten them first. We have four roebucks for to-night, besides two pecks of potatoes and a hundred weight of cherries. Let me have the children awhile for playthings.”

“Well, for aught I care,” growled the giant, and went out to put away his fishing tackle.

The giantess, when she was left alone with the children, sat down before the table, looked at the two a long time in silence, then as the boy was the larger, leaned nearer to him, and said in a voice which she tried to make very gentle: “Don’t be frightened, little mouse. [250]I will do you no harm if you are very good and sensible. Will you be?”

“Oh, Lady Giantess,” replied the boy, whining, and trembling from head to foot, “I’ll do my best. But my sister is much nicer and more sensible than I am.”

“Is this true, little one?” asked the giantess.

“We ought not to praise ourselves, Lady Giantess,” answered the little sister, making a pretty courtesy.

The reply and the little girl’s manner greatly pleased the giantess. She smiled and said: “We will see presently [251]which of you two is the smarter. I will ask you three questions, and if you answer them correctly, you shall have your liberty.”

The little sister clapped her hands, and, taking one of the huge fingers of the kind giantess, pressed a kiss on the tip. True, it seemed as if she had kissed the end of a log, but it pleased the giantess.

“Now pay attention,” she said. “You too, boy. Why do we eat fruit for dessert, and not at the beginning of the meal?”

“Because fruit is so good,” replied the brother, quickly.

The giantess shook her head. “The fruit is just as good at the beginning of the meal as it is at dessert. A bad answer. Do you know any better, little one?”

The little sister nodded, saying, “Because we could eat nothing more if the fruit did not give us fresh appetite.”

“There’s something in that,” said the giantess. “So go on. Why is there a cock instead of a hen on the top of the church steeple?”

“Because the cock is bigger,” replied the boy, “so it can be seen better.”

The giantess shook her head again. “The hen can be made as large as we desire. A bad answer. Do you know a better one, little girl?”

The little sister said without hesitation: “A hen cannot be on the top of the steeple. If she lays eggs, they would fall down, and be broken into a thousand pieces.” [252]

“Rather good,” said the giantess. “Now for the third question. Collect your thoughts, boy. Why do women have long hair and men short, or none at all?”

“I needn’t collect my thoughts much for that,” replied the boy, boldly; “because the men have their hair cut, and the women don’t.”

The giantess shook her head for the third time. “You would have done wisely to think the matter over. Why do not women have their hair cut? That is just the question. You have answered badly. We will see whether your sister can do better.”

The little sister remembered an exclamation which she had often heard from her sorely tried mother, and said precociously, “Women must have long hair so that they can tear it out when the men commit follies.”

The giantess burst into a loud laugh, ran to her husband, called him in, and told the little girl to repeat her answer. The little sister did so bravely, and now the giant laughed, too, till he had to hold his sides. “A woman will be a woman,” he shouted, “whether she is as small as a mouse or as big as a house.”

When the kind giantess saw that her husband was in a good humor, she said, “We will let the little ones go; there is really nothing to them yet.”

“I caught them for you; do what you please with them,” replied the giant, shrugging his shoulders, and he went back to his work.

He had scarcely left the room when the giantess [253]took the brother and little sister by the hand, went quickly out of the house and into the wood with them, and when she had reached the foot of the mountain she put them on the ground, saying: “Get away before my husband changes his mind. And since you are such a clever child, little girl, I will give you something.”

Drawing out of her pocket a small silk purse, she handed it to the little sister. “Take this, and keep it carefully. Whenever you have a clever idea, you will find a gold piece in it. I think you will be a rich girl.”

The little sister wanted to thank her, but the giantess hurried off with her huge strides and was out of sight in an instant.

The children were now free; that was certainly delightful, but they were all alone in the deep forest, saw no path, and did not know where they were or which way they ought to go. The brother sat down in the moss, and again began to weep bitterly. “Oh, dear, little sister, what is to become of us! How shall we ever get home to mother!”

The little sister sat down by his side and tried to encourage him; but she herself was on the point of crying, and was wondering whether the wolves might not eat them, now that they had so fortunately escaped from the giants.

Just at this moment she saw a stork flying high above them. “Stork! Hey! Stork!” she called as loud as she could, started up, and beckoned with all her might. [254]An idea had flashed through her brain. At the same moment she felt something hard in the soft little purse which she held in her hand. She opened it, a glittering gold coin shone before her. So she had had a good idea.

The stork flew slowly down, alighted on the bough of a neighboring tree, and clapped: “What is it? What do you want?”

“Stork,” said the little sister, “you have already brought us to our mother once. Take us to her again. We are lost and cannot find our way home.”

“We never take a child to its mother twice,” clattered the bird, preparing to fly away.

“But surely you will not leave us here to die,” screamed the little sister in terror. “Please, please, be kind, we will love, you very, very dearly.”

The stork reflected, as is its custom, then it said: “You are too heavy for me. I’ll bring a companion.”

Off it flew with the speed of an arrow, but in a few minutes the children heard a great rustling in the air, and saw seven storks, which swooped straight down to them. Four seized the brother by the arms and legs, three took the little sister by the sleeves and belt, and away they went, up and down, through the blue air, over forest, and field, mountain and valley, so swiftly that the children closed their eyes, that they might not grow dizzy. This lasted for some time; the children did not know how long, then suddenly there was a crashing, a fall, a rushing noise. They opened their [255]eyes quickly and found themselves lying in their mother’s bed, while the storks were soaring out of the open window.

Their mother, who had been very anxious about them, screamed with joy when she saw them, and forgot to punish them as she had intended when they did not come home to dinner. She forgave them fully when the little girl told her about the giants and showed her the giantess’s costly gift, and the gold piece which had rewarded her first bright idea.

“Now we shall be rich,” said the boy, who admired his little sister more than ever; “you will have lots of good ideas every day.”

“I think so, too,” replied the little sister, with a touch of conceit. She now devoted herself to finding good ideas. She made all sorts of smart, affected speeches, which seemed to her very clever; and whenever she thought she had said something extremely bright, she secretly felt for the little silk purse in her pocket. Only, to her surprise and anger, she found no gold piece there, and she consoled herself by thinking that the giantess had fooled her. Yet she had once found a gold piece in the purse, so it could not be a mere hoax on the part of the giantess. She thought about the matter a long time, and suddenly the idea darted through her head, “What if all the smart sayings, of which I have been so vain, were not clever ideas at all, but stupid nonsense?”

At the same moment she felt something hard in her [256]pocket, opened the purse with a trembling hand, and there was another beautiful glittering gold piece. So this was her first good idea since the one with the stork. From this she learned to be modest and natural, no longer struggled to force herself to think up bright ideas, which, however, now came of themselves,—sometimes many, sometimes only a few,—but always some, so she never lacked shining gold coins; and her father no longer had to go to the machine-shop, but could build a factory of his own; and her mother no longer needed to take in washing; and her brother became a fine, well-educated young fellow, and they were all happy and remained so as long as they lived. [257]

Once upon a time there was a little girl whose name was Maxa. She was a pretty child, always happy, and very inquisitive. The word which people heard Maxa say more often than any other was “Why?” She wanted to know where everything came from, and who made everything,—the flowers, the birds, the golden beetles, and the gay butterflies. When she saw a violet on which a ladybug rested, or a rose-bush with a butterfly fluttering about it, she exclaimed, “Oh, if I could only make something like that!” But her mother said, “Human beings cannot make such things.”

One spring day, Maxa was playing in the garden alone. She drove her hoop to the fence that separated it from the next meadow. There she suddenly saw a man sitting on a little folding stool, with his back against the fence. Before him was an easel, supporting an unframed canvas on which he was painting. She did not feel afraid, for she was in the garden and he in the meadow, with a thick hedge between them; and, besides, he did not notice her or trouble himself about her. So she stood still, rested the hoop against the fence, kept as quiet as a little mouse, and watched. The meadow was very large [260]and rather marshy, with a low, white wall at the far end. Neither man nor beast was visible, and buttercups were almost the only flower that covered the brown earth. The canvas before the artist was still blank. He was just preparing to paint the sky. Under his brush appeared a beautiful expanse of blue, on which floated several fleecy white clouds.

“Oh,” thought Maxa, “that isn’t right. The sky is perfectly clear.” And she looked up to compare them. But behold—the heavens, which had just been cloudless, now showed here and there a few thin cloudlets, just as the artist had painted them.

He worked on industriously with his nimble brush. Maxa saw the meadow appear, but at its end in the picture, instead of the white wall, there was a green river, from which the sunshine was reflected. She glanced quickly in that direction—what did it mean? The well-known white wall had vanished, and in its place flowed a stream which she had never seen there.

The little girl wondered and watched even more [261]eagerly than before. Now the man was painting a row of tall poplar trees along the river bank. Yes, there in the distance rose the poplars. He scattered over his canvas red and blue flowers which she had never seen. A swift glance at the meadow showed her that everywhere, among the yellow buttercups, the strange blue and red flowers had sprung in great numbers from the brown earth. Maxa watched still more closely, and when the artist painted in one corner of his canvas a flock of shining sheep and lambs, in whose midst was a shepherd with a broad-brimmed hat and long staff, and a black dog with a white head, and in the meadow also appeared a shepherd with a broad-brimmed hat and long staff, and a lively dog with a flock of sheep and lambs, she could contain herself no longer, and cried out, “Why, everything you paint grows out of the earth!”

The artist turned quickly and looked at her. She wanted to run away, but she could not do it. She was forced to stay; she did not know why. Maxa had already noticed that he wore long hair. Now she saw that he had a long beard, and blue eyes which sparkled like the brightest stars at night.

“What! Do you see that everything I paint grows out of the earth?” he asked.

“Of course I see it. Why shouldn’t I?” replied Maxa.

“Then you are a Sunday child,” said the artist.

“So I am,” Maxa answered. She knew this, for her [262]mother had often told her that the stork had brought her one Sunday afternoon.

“Yes, yes,” the artist murmured, his eyes resting kindly on the beautiful little girl. “Sunday children see what forever remains invisible to others.”

“And you,” asked Maxa, who had grown familiar,—“what are you?”

“I am an artist.”

“What is an artist? A painter?”

He laughed. “Not every artist is a painter, and not every painter is an artist. I am an artist who paints.”

“But you don’t merely paint—you make a river, and trees, and little white lambs, and even a shepherd with a hat and cane and a dog. Is all this real, too?”

“It is real, since you see it.”

“Then you are the one who makes the flowers and the birds, the golden beetles and the butterflies?”

“I am not the only one who makes them, but I make them too. The artist makes whatever he wishes, and what he makes is really there, whether it is things or flowers, animals or human beings.”

“And do they live?”

“They live if there is anything living in them, and they live much longer than what nature has created, and always remain as young and beautiful as the artist has formed them.”

Then Maxa clapped her hands, crying: “Oh, if I could only make them too! Won’t you teach me, dear artist?” [263]

The man with the long beard looked thoughtfully at her a little while with his sparkling blue eyes, then he said: “Every one cannot learn. But you are a Sunday child, and you have bright eyes. Perhaps I can teach you. Come, child, we will go to your mother, and ask if she will allow you.”

“But how can you get over the hedge? It is so thick, and it pricks so terribly.”

“Don’t be troubled,” replied the artist, as he rose from his stool and waved his hand. The hedge parted and let him pass through; his stool, easel, and paint-box followed like dogs, and when they were all in the garden, the hedge closed again. So they went to the house together,—the tall man walking in front with the little girl, the easel striding stiffly along on its three legs, the folding-chair hobbling before, and the paint-box jumping in short hops like a toad. On the [264]way the thrushes, wrens, and blackbirds, whose nests were in the garden, flew about them, singing a joyous greeting to the artist, which he answered with a friendly nod, and the acacias and horse-chestnuts scattered blossoms on his long hair as he passed under their boughs. The cat, however, which was sunning herself on the door-step, ran hastily away. She knew nothing about art, and was afraid of the easel, and folding-chair, and paint-box, which she thought were hostile animals.

The little girl ran on before and told her mother about the stranger, as well as the easel, folding-chair, and paint-box, which had come shambling and hopping with them. But the artist left them all outside, and went in alone. He told the mother that her little daughter wanted to learn to paint; she seemed to have the right eyes for it, and she was a Sunday child, too, so she would probably succeed. He was ready to teach her until she knew as much as he did. Her mother did not object, only there must be no expense. The artist relieved her economical mind on that score, and it was settled that Maxa should become his pupil.

“Where will you have your studio?” the mother asked.

“Wherever you wish,” replied the artist; “in your garden.”

“In the open air, then?”

“No. If you will allow it, I’ll build a little house.”

The mother looked troubled. “H’m,” she said, [265]“that will take months, and all the masons, carpenters, and locksmiths, with their noise and dirt.”

“Nothing of the sort,” interrupted the painter. “Don’t be afraid of either dirt or disorder. Everything will be finished in an hour, and I can invite you to inspect the building.”

The artist went away, and Maxa followed him. She wanted to know how he would manage to build a house in an hour.

He found a sunny, grass-grown spot near the hedge, without trees, sat down on his folding-chair, took from his paint-box a small, new canvas, put it on the easel, reflected a moment, and then began to paint a wonderfully pretty house, which looked like a jewel box. The walls were marble, pillars stood at the right and left of the entrance, the roof was made of green copper, and through the clear panes of the large windows gleamed yellow silk curtains. And what the artist painted on the canvas actually appeared; so when the house in the picture was finished, it was also ready in the garden, and taking Maxa by the hand, the painter went in with her, sat down again, and began to paint suitable furniture, beautiful old tapestries of silk and gold threads, Turkish carpets in soft, faded hues, low, broad sofas, light gilded chairs, tall, carved, ebony wardrobes, and, for the corners and niches, coats of mail, bronze statues, and large porcelain vases. He did not forget his little friend either. For her he painted six dolls, each one in a different [266]costume, and the prettiest of all was a fair-haired Swiss, with a silver chain on her bodice. When Maxa saw her, she fairly shouted for joy, ran to her, and, clasping her in her arms, exclaimed, “I want to show her to mamma.”

“No,” said the artist, “you must carry nothing out. You can only play with your dolls here in the studio, and when your mother comes, she will see them.”

But he had not yet finished. When the room was magnificently furnished, he painted two young negro women in striped silk gowns, with red kerchiefs on their heads. After the last stroke of the brush, they stood alive in the studio, approached the artist, and bowed low before him and Maxa. “They are to do the work here,” said the painter. “They will obey you if you order anything sensible. But they will answer only with their eyes, for they are dumb.”

“Can’t you make them speak, too?” asked Maxa.

“No,” he answered, “I can’t do that. I should have to beg other artists, the poets, to help me. But, for these negro girls, it isn’t necessary.”

The hour was not over by several minutes when the painter went back to Maxa’s mother and invited her to visit his house in the garden. The mother was very much astonished to see the charming little marble palace, the costly furniture, the black maid-servants in their gay silk gowns, and Maxa’s six dolls, and said: [267]“You are a clever man. I will trust my Maxa to you. She will learn something worth knowing.”

Maxa came to the studio every morning. If the day was cloudy, or the master in a bad humor, he sent her away. If he was in a good mood, and the weather was sunshiny, he gave her a lesson. She went to work eagerly, and wanted to paint with brush and colors on the canvas at once. But the artist would not allow this. “You must first learn to draw well,” he said, and gave her ordinary paper and a lead pencil. She drew with an untrained hand all sorts of crooked marks, looking up eagerly from the board to see whether what she was scrawling on the paper would actually appear. But nothing came. Then she threw the pencil down, exclaiming impatiently: “If I can’t make anything real, it isn’t worth while. You must teach me your art, and nothing else.”

The artist looked at her gravely, and replied: “Art cannot be learned in a day. People must work long and patiently.”

“Even a Sunday child?”

“Even a Sunday child. A person who is not cannot learn it at all. You must begin at the beginning, as we have all done. You must not open the paint-box until you know how to use the pencil perfectly. Just think, child, if I should allow you to paint before you were able to draw faultlessly, and you should make a monster, when the unfortunate creature stood alive before you, [268]crooked, misshapen, and crippled, what would you say then?”

“I should be very sorry,” said Maxa, sadly.

“That wouldn’t help the poor cripple. So you are strictly forbidden to touch the paint-box until you can draw perfectly.”

Maxa was a sensible child, and saw that the master was right. She drew diligently, though at first it wearied her, and soon gained a taste for it. She wanted to reach quickly the point where she could use the paint-box; but the master was strict, and nothing except what was perfectly correct, the very best, would satisfy him. Many months passed before she had made so much progress that he said one day, “It will do now.” Maxa blushed with pleasure, and asked, “May I have the paint-box?”

The artist looked at her for a while silently and thoughtfully, then he said: “Very well. We will try.”

Maxa, in great delight, sprang up to bring the paint-box from the corner, but the master stopped her and [269]beckoned. The easel stalked forward, the paint-box hopped to its side, and the negro girls brought a mahl-stick, a canvas, and a new palette, and set everything in order. The little girl took the magic brush from the box, squeezed a few bits of color from the tubes upon the palette, and stepped before the canvas. Her hand trembled, her little heart beat violently, and her eyes grew dim. It was a great moment. Now, for the first time, she was to accomplish, as a real artist, the miracle of creation.

She was just touching the brush to the canvas when the artist caught her arm.

“Stop, child. No hurry. What do you want to paint?”

“A little girl,” she answered firmly.

The master smiled and shook his head. “No, not yet. That is too difficult. Try something lifeless first.”

“But I want to make a living creature!” cried Maxa, stamping her foot impatiently.

“No one must do that until he is perfectly sure of himself,” replied the master. “Try something lifeless first.”

A mischievous idea darted into the child’s head. With a few swift strokes of the brush she painted in the middle of the canvas a gray cloud of smoke. Instantly a thick vapor filled the room, and the two black maids began to cough pitifully. The master laughed and quickly painted the cloud over with the ground [270]color, the smoke vanished as suddenly as it had come, and the artist said reprovingly: “No nonsense, child, or I shall take away the paint-box. Art is too lofty for sorry jests.”

She begged forgiveness, promised to be good and sensible, and now began to work earnestly. “I’ll paint a doll,” she said, and the master consented. Oh, wonder! The Alsatian peasant girl, with the big butterfly bow on her fair hair, which she began to paint, grew before her on the floor of the studio, just as it did under her brush. When she saw the doll’s head and body lying there, she wanted to throw down the painting implements and rush to it, to convince herself by feeling that it was real. Again the artist sternly reproved her.

“Keep on, you restless butterfly. What has been begun must be finished. First complete the doll, then you can play with her.”

Maxa added the arms and legs, but she did it rather carelessly, and they were incomplete. She would not take the time to paint shoes and stockings, so the poor Alsatian remained barefooted. The master shook his head, but did not prevent her running to the doll and lifting it tenderly in her arms. Maxa would not notice that the limbs were strangely crooked and pitifully thin, and it was by no means as pretty as the six dolls which the artist had made for her. She liked it better, because she had created it herself. [271]

The artist let her play with the work of her hands, locked away the brush and palette, sent the paint-box back to its corner, and said: “Now you know how an artist feels when he has created something. Whoever has done it once will do it again. But I forbid you to touch the paint-box in my absence. You can use it only when I am here.”

Maxa came to the studio even more eagerly every day, and was happy when permitted to paint with the magic pencil. She never grew tired of filling the room with the works of her imagination. First, she made toys of every description; then vases, china figures, and bronze busts; then she ventured upon foliage, plants, and flowers; and finally even on all sorts of flying and creeping things, gay caterpillars, ladybugs, little beetles, and butterflies of the most magnificent colors; and when the beetles ran over the leaves, and the butterflies were hovering in the air, she exclaimed: “See what I can do! Now I want to paint some living people.”

“Not yet,” said the master. “Beware of pride; it is the greatest foe of the artist.”

Maxa would not understand, and begged and coaxed him to let her paint human beings. But he would not permit it. This vexed her, and she thought: “Just wait! I’ll give him a surprise.” She watched in the garden until the master went out, slipped into the studio, and seized the paint-box. The negro girls hastily placed themselves in front of it, warning her by gestures not to [272]disobey the master’s command; but Maxa cried, “Begone, you black creatures, or I’ll paint a dog that will bite you.” Then the mute maid-servants drew back in terror, while Maxa opened the paint-box, placed a large new canvas on the easel, thought for a moment, and then resolutely began to paint a young girl.

She had long been planning what she desired to make—just the girl she wished to be herself, tall and beautiful, with loose golden hair and shining gray eyes, in a pink dress with a long train.

The first strokes of the brush she made boldly, without hesitation. She began with the head, and was completely absorbed in the work. But when it was successfully finished and looked out at her from the canvas with shining gray eyes, she could not refrain from glancing into the studio beside the easel to see what was being done. Her eyes instantly met two sparkling gray ones, gazing at her with an unspeakably loving, longing expression.

This look was an electric shock, and confused her so that she did not venture to glance there again, but hastily painted on. But she no longer had her former sure touch. Now she had seen it: what her brush painted became actual life, and every stroke was part of a living creature—if it failed, the creature was injured. Maxa’s hand trembled, and she felt inclined to throw down the brush. But dared she do that? She could not leave unfinished what she had commenced—how [273]terrible it would be to have half a human being lying in the studio! She trembled with fear at the bare thought, and painted on hurriedly. The master might come back at any moment. Only let her finish—quick—quick—

But alas! Nothing perfect can be accomplished by over haste. The young girl’s body would not succeed like the head. It was crooked and misshapen, the shoulders were uneven, and the folds of the pink dress with the long train showed that the material covered very ill-formed limbs. Maxa perceived, with increasing fear, that she had bungled, and she was just going to try to correct some of the most faulty lines in the sketch when the door suddenly opened and the master entered.

Maxa screamed and ran behind a curtain to hide. The artist saw at once what had happened: the picture with the beautiful head and the miserable body, the poor crippled girl in the studio, the negro maids who stood in the corner as if paralyzed by fear, and he called in a terrible voice, “Maxa, what have you done?”

Maxa came out of her hiding place, clasped her hands, and pleaded:—

“Forgive me, master, I could not help it. I had to do it.”

“Look at your work, you disobedient child! All that lives for you is a monster, with a pretty face and crippled limbs.” [274]

“Make amends for what I have done,” Maxa begged, beginning to cry.

“I cannot do that,” said the master, sadly. “Your creation lives. It belongs to you alone. Will you destroy it, and make another?”

“No!” shrieked Maxa in horror, hurrying to the girl as if to save her from destruction. The young girl knelt before her, laid her head in her lap, and looked at her very mournfully. Maxa, being a Sunday child, was, without knowing it, a poetess, so she could give the mute girl speech, and she began to say in sorrowful tones:—

Maxa hugged and kissed her, and tried to comfort her. She was not ugly, she whispered into her ear, but beautiful as the day; no one could help loving her, and she would give her the handsomest clothes and the most splendid jewels. But the young girl, shaking her head, answered:—

Maxa, in her distress, turned to the master, who stood [275]with folded arms, gazing sadly at her and the complaining girl. “Master, dear master, help me just this once. I will never be disobedient again. I cannot bear to have the creature I have made so unhappy. Help me, or kill us both.” The master made no reply, but paced up and down the studio several times, absorbed in thought. Some minutes passed in this way, while Maxa followed him anxiously with her eyes. At last he stopped and said, “Your girl must remain as she is, but I will do what I can to make her happy.” Going to the canvas, he began to paint. He made a young prince, handsome as the day, slender as a fir tree, with kindly eyes and smiling face, who stretched both hands toward the girl and gazed at her tenderly. And there, too, stood the young prince in reality, stretching both hands toward the girl as he did in the picture. Then the master said: “He loves you, and will marry you, and always be your faithful husband. He cannot speak, but you can talk enough for both. If you like him, give him your hand.”

The young girl, blushing, rose and went slowly toward the prince. She limped slightly, but the prince did not seem to notice it. Gazing joyously into her sparkling gray eyes, which she cast down, he clasped her in his arms. The negro maids clapped their hands in delight and danced around the pair. The easel stalked along shakily, the paint-box jumped merrily, but Maxa said mournfully:— [276]

“What good will all this do? The lover won’t make the girl more beautiful.”

“You don’t understand,” said the master. “When one loves anybody with all one’s heart, one thinks her more beautiful than anything else in the whole wide world. Ask the bride what she says about it.” Maxa cast a searching glance at the young girl, who nestled closely to her prince, saying with a happy smile:—

The prince nodded and kissed his future bride.

“Well, then,” said Maxa, “if you are both satisfied, I will be, too, and I thank you, master, for having made everything turn out for the best.”

But the artist answered: “I could help once, but never again. Let this be a lesson to you. Great power is given to the artist. But woe betide him if he uses it recklessly! Farewell. I can teach you nothing more.”

Before she could speak a word, he had vanished, and with him the lovers, the black maid-servants, the easel, and the paint-box; but the studio and all its contents remained, including the picture with the prince and the girl. Whenever Maxa saw it afterward, her heart grew both sad and joyous—sad because the girl she had created had disappeared, and joyous because she felt that she must be happy with her prince. Maxa [277]herself grew up into a tall, beautiful girl, whom everybody recognized as a Sunday child. She continued to paint, but no longer with a magic brush, and this was well for her.

Who can be sure that his work will always succeed?—and it is far too dangerous to make a mistake when, for each error, a living being must suffer all through life. [279]