"My dear, my dear, what do you think has happened? Here, written by her own hand, the hand of the Princess Madge, are the happy words which drive away all our fears. She will marry, my dear, she will marry; and listen: she cares not what may be his rank or age or condition—he must be a contented man, that is all. Oh, what a child, what a child!"

"Oh, Rudolpho, my love, is it true? Why, why, I am so happy! Is it really true? Do give me my fan. Yes, thank you. Fan me, dear; a little faster. It quite took my breath away. Just to think of that! Now go at once and issue a royal edict summoning every contented man in this kingdom and in all the surrounding kingdoms to a grand feast here in the palace. After the feast we will hold a trial, and the Princess Madge shall be the judge."

Away rushed the king, the pages in waiting outside the door vainly trying to catch the end of his fluttering robe.

The next day a cavalcade of heralds set out from the palace gates, bearing posters which were hung in the market-place of every village for leagues about. In blue letters on a gold ground were these words:

Ho, ye! Hear, ye! Ho, ye!

On the twenty-third day of the month now present, every contented man throughout the universe is summoned to the court of King Rudolpho for a feast and a trial for the hand of the Princess Madge. He among you all who is absolutely contented shall have the princess's hand in marriage, together with half the kingdom. Every man will be tried by the princess herself. Every man who falls short and stands not the test shall never again enter King Rudolpho's court.

My hand + My seal +. RUDOLPHO, Rex.

The day dawned, brilliant and glorious. How the contented men jostled each other, and frowned at each other, and scolded each other as they thronged through the palace gates! They all gathered in the banquet-hall, where a wonderful feast was spread—a roasted ox, with wild boar and lamb and turkey and peacock, and a hundred kinds of fruit, and fifty kinds of ice-water; but as a dinner-party it was not a success. Conversation was dull, each man glowered at his neighbor, and all seemed eager to finish the feast and begin the trial.

Finally it was over, and five hundred and fifty contented men assembled in the royal court-room. The king and queen were seated on their thrones, but the princess was nowhere to be seen. There was a moment of breathless waiting—then suddenly a door at the side of the court-room opened and the Princess Madge, carrying Pussy Willow, entered and was followed by her train-bearers and maids of honor. She wore a wonderful gown all white and gold down the front, with the foamiest of sea-foam green trains hanging from her shoulders away out behind her. Slowly, majestically, she walked across the room, and stopped before a table on which lay a golden gavel. A quick tap of the gavel silenced the little murmur that had arisen at her entrance. The king glanced at the queen, and they both smiled with pride in their stately daughter. The princess tapped again and began:

"Princes, baronets, honorables, commons of this kingdom and our neighboring kingdoms, I bid you welcome. You have come to sue for my hand and my fortune. I know full well, my noble men, that if I asked it you would gladly give me some great proof of your bravery and goodness—but I ask you to take no risk and make no sacrifice. I merely wish to know whether I can find in any of you that secret of all true courage and happiness—contentment. Now let every man of you who is contented, thoroughly contented, rise. Remember, there are no degrees in contentment; it is absolute."

The black-robed throng arose—some eagerly, some impatiently, some disdainfully, some few slowly and thoughtfully, but they all stood and waited in utter silence.



"As I put the test question, if there is any one who cannot answer it, let him go quietly out through yonder door and never again show his discontented face in this court. You say you are contented—happy, unselfish, and satisfied with what the gods have given you. Answer me this! Why, then, do you scowl and jostle one another? Why do you want to marry any one—least of all, a princess with half the riches of a great kingdom as a dowry, to spoil your happiness? Greedy fortune-hunters! Do you call that contentment?"

The contented men stood a moment in baffled silence, then turned, one and all, and slowly marched out of the room. As the door closed upon the last one of the disappointed suitors, the princess picked up her pretty kitten and, turning to her father and mother, said:

"Would you have me marry one of those? Why, they aren't half so contented as a common, everyday pussy-cat. Good-by!" And she laughed a merry laugh, threw a kiss at the astonished king and queen, and ran from the room.

III

At luncheon one day many months after the dismissal of the discontented suitors, the prime minister entered the dining-room and announced to the king that a man had been found within the palace gates without a royal permit, and had been immediately put in the dungeon. He was a handsome fellow, the prime minister said, but very poorly clad. He made no resistance when he was taken prisoner, but earnestly requested that his trial might come off as soon as possible, as he rather wanted to make a sketch of the palace and gardens, and he couldn't see very well from the slit in the top of the dungeon; but he begged them not to put themselves nor the king to any inconvenience, as he could just as well remain where he was and write poems.

"In sooth, your Majesty," said the prime minister, in conclusion, "from all we have heard and seen, it seemeth that at last we have found a contented man."

As soon as the king finished his royal repast he disguised himself in the long cloak and hat of a soldier and went with the prime minister and the turnkey to catch a glimpse of the prisoner. As they approached the dungeon they heard a rich bass voice singing:

"Let the world slide, let the world go! A fig for care, and a fig for woe. If I must stay, why, I can't go, And love makes equal the high and low."

The king drew nearer, stooped, and peeped through the keyhole. Just opposite the door, on a three-legged stool, sat the prisoner. His head was thrown back and he was looking at the sky through the bars in the top of his cell. The song had ceased and he was talking softly to himself. The king, in a whisper, told the prime minister to bring the princess and have her remain hidden just outside the door. Then he motioned to the turnkey to throw back the bolts, and he entered the dungeon alone.

"Why are you talking to yourself, man?" he asked. The man answered:

"Because, soldier, I like to talk to a sensible man, and I like to hear a sensible man talk."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the king. "Pretty good, pret-ty good! They tell me that all things please you. Is it true?"

"I think I can safely say yes, soldier."

"But why are you so poorly clad?"

"The care of fine clothes is too much of a burden—I have long ago refused to be fashion's slave."

"But where are your friends?"

"Of those that I have had, the good are dead, and happier so than here; the evil ones have left me and are befriending some one else, for which I say, 'Joy go with them.'"

"And is there nothing that you want?" As the king asked this question he looked at the man in a peculiarly eager way, nor did the answer disappoint him.

"I have all of the necessities of life and many of the luxuries. I am perfectly content. I know I have neither land nor money, but is not the whole world mine? Can even the king himself take from me my delight in the green trees and the greener fields, in that dainty little cloud flecking heaven's blue up yonder like a bit of foam on a sunlit sea? Oh, no! I am rich enough, for all nature is mine—"

"And I am yours," said a sweet young voice. The man looked up in surprise, and there before him, holding out her pretty hands toward him, stood the Princess Madge, who had slipped into the cell unnoticed.

The man sprang to his feet, clasped the little hands in his, and said:

"I know not what you mean, sweet lady, when you say that you are mine; but oh, you are passing beautiful!"

"Papa," called the princess, "this is quite dreadful. Quick, take off that ugly soldier's coat and tell him who we are and all about it!"

The king, starting as if from a dream, threw off the rough coat and hat and stepped forth into the beam of sunlight, resplendent in gold and ermine.

"Thou dost not know me, my man? I am the king. Hast thou not read our last proclamation?"

"No, your Majesty; I never do read proclamations."



"Then thou didst not know that the hand of the princess is offered to the first contented man who enters the palace?"

"No, your Majesty; I knew it not."

"Then know it now, and know, too, that thou art the man. To thee I give my daughter, together with half my kingdom. No, no—not a word. Thou deservest her. May you be happy!"

The prisoner, almost dumb with astonishment, almost dazed with joy, knelt and kissed the princess's white hands, then looked into her eyes and said:

"Ah, well it is for me that I saw you not until now, for I should have been miserably discontented until you were mine!"



THE FLYING SHIP

A Russian Tale

Once upon a time there was a Princess who was always wanting something new and strange. She would not look at the princes who came to woo her from the kingdoms round about, because, she said, they all came in the same way, in carriages which had four wheels and were drawn by four horses. "Why could not one come in a carriage with five wheels?" she exclaimed petulantly, one day, "or why come in a carriage at all?" She added: "If one came in a flying ship I would wed him!"

So the King made proclamation that whoever came to the palace in a flying ship should wed the Princess, and succeed to the kingdom. As the Princess was very beautiful and the kingdom very rich, men everywhere began to try to build ships that would fly. But that was not so easy. They could build ships that would sail—but flying was quite another thing!

On the far edge of the kingdom dwelt a widow with three sons. The two elder, hearing the proclamation, said that they wanted to go to the city and build each a flying ship. So the mother, who was very proud of these sons, and quite convinced that should the Princess see one of them it would not be necessary for him to have a flying ship, laid out their best clothes and gave each a satchel containing a lunch of white bread and jam and fruit, and wished them good luck on their journeys.

Now the third son was called Simple, because he did not do as his brothers did, and cared nothing for fine clothes and fine airs, but liked to wander off in the woods by himself. When Simple saw his brothers starting off all so grandly he said: "Give me a lunch, and I will go and build a flying ship."

The truth was that the idea of a flying ship very much appealed to Simple, though he did not give much thought to the Princess.

But his mother said: "Go back into the woods, Simple, that is the place for you."

But Simple persisted, and at last she gave him a satchel containing a lunch of black bread without any jam, and a flask of water.

As Simple neared the woods he met a Manikin who asked him for something to eat. Simple was ashamed to open his satchel with the black bread and water in it. "But," he reflected, "if one is hungry black bread is better than no bread." The Manikin certainly looked hungry, so Simple put his hand into the satchel and took out the roll of bread—and lo—it was not black at all, but white, made of the finest flour, and spread with rich, golden butter. The flask, too, when he took it out, was not as it had been when his mother put it in, but was filled with red wine.

So Simple and the Manikin sat down by the roadside and ate together. Then the Manikin asked Simple where he was going, and Simple told him that he was going to build a flying ship. He almost forgot about the Princess, but remembered, as an afterthought, and he told the Manikin that when the ship was done he would fly in it to the palace and marry the Princess.

"Well," said the Manikin, "if you want to do that take this ax with you and the first tree that you come to strike it three times with the ax, then bow before it three times, and then kneel down with your face hidden until you are told to get up. There will be a flying ship before you. Climb into it and fly to the palace of the Princess, and if you meet anybody along the way take them along."

So Simple took the ax and went into the wood, and the first tree that he came to he struck three times with the ax, then bowed three times before it, then knelt down and hid his face. By-and-by he felt someone touch his shoulder and he looked up, and there was a ship with wings outspread, all ready to fly. So he climbed into it and bade it fly away to the city of the Princess.

As he flew over a clearing in the woods Simple saw a man with his ear to the ground, listening.

"Ho!" he cried, "you below! What are you doing?"

"I am listening to the sounds of the world," said the man.

"Well," said Simple, "come up into the ship. Maybe you can hear more up here."

So the man climbed up into the ship, and they flew on. As they passed over a field they saw a man hopping on one leg, with the other strapped up behind his ear.

"Ho!" cried Simple, "You below! Why do you hop on one leg, with the other bound up?"

"Because," said the man, "if I were to unbind the other I would step so far that I would be at the end of the world in a minute."

"Well," said Simple, "come up into the ship, that will be less tiresome than hopping so far."

So the man came up into the ship and they flew on. As they passed a clear lake of cold water they saw a man standing beside it looking so disconsolately at the water that Simple called out, "Ho, you below! Why do you look at the water so sadly?"

"Because," said the man, "I am very thirsty."

"Well," called Simple, "why don't you take a drink? There is water enough!"

"No," said the man, "it is not right that I should drink here, for I am so thirsty that I would drink all of this at one gulp, and there would be no lake, and I would still be thirsty."

"Well," said Simple, "come up into the ship. Maybe we can find water enough for you somewhere."

So the man climbed up into the ship and they flew on. As they passed over a village they met a man carrying a great basket of bread. "Ho!" cried Simple, "you below! Where are you going?"

"I am going to the baker's at the other end of the village to buy some bread for my breakfast," replied the man.

"But you have a big basketful of bread now," said Simple.

"Oh," said the man, "that is not enough for the first morsel. I shall eat that up in one bite. There are not bakers enough in this village to keep me supplied, and I am always hungry."

"Well," said Simple, "come up into the ship. Maybe we shall find some bread in the city."

So the man climbed up into the ship and they flew on. As they passed over a meadow they saw a man carefully carrying a bundle of straw.

"Ho!" cried Simple, "you below! Why do you carry that straw so carefully, when there is straw all about you in the meadow?"

"But this is no ordinary straw," said the man. "It has a magic power, and when it is scattered about it will make the hottest place as cold as ice."

"Well," said Simple, "bring it along and come up into the ship. It may be hot in the city."

So the man climbed up into the ship and they flew on. As they passed over a wooded park they saw a man carrying a bundle of sticks.

"Ho!" cried Simple, "you below! Why do you carry those sticks so carefully when all the woods about you are full of sticks?"

"But these are not ordinary sticks," said the man. "If I were to throw them on the ground they would become soldiers, armed and ready for a battle."

"Well," said Simple, "they are wonderful sticks indeed! Bring them up into the ship. There may be a need for soldiers in the city."

So the man climbed up into the ship and they flew on. Soon they came to the city, where the word soon went about that a ship was flying over, and men and women came out into the streets and on to the roofs of the houses to see what it might be like. And the King came out on his balcony and saw Simple and his strange crew flying straight toward the palace.

"Now, now," said the King, "what sort of a fellow is this? I cannot have him marry my daughter. He has not a knight in his train—and as for him—!" the King had no words in which to express his thought.

The Princess, too, looking out and seeing the flying ship with Simple in the bow and the other strange folk behind him, repented of her rash word, and said: "You must give this fellow some impossible task to do, so that he will fail, for it is certain that I cannot wed him."

So the King sent for his courtiers, and bade them wait upon the man in the flying ship and say to him that before his daughter could be given in marriage a flask of water must be brought this day from a spring at the end of the world.

The man with the wonderful hearing had his ear to the deck of the ship, and he heard this order, and reported it to Simple, who lamented, and said: "How can I bring a flask of water from the end of the world? It may take me a year to go there and back—perhaps even the rest of my life."

But the man with the bound leg said: "You forget that I am here. When the summons comes I will take the flask and go for the water."

So when the messenger came Simple answered quietly that the order would be obeyed at once.

The man with the bound leg unfastened his leg from behind his ear and started off to the end of the world, and when he came there he filled the flask and came back with it, and Simple went with it to the palace, arriving just as the King and the Princess were finishing their dinner.

"That is all very well," said the King, "but we cannot have this fellow wed the Princess. We will prepare a feast, and tell him that it must be eaten at once. Let forty oxen be killed, and five hundred loaves be prepared and five hundred cakes be baked, and all of these must this fellow and his followers eat."

The man with the wonderful hearing having his ear to the deck of the ship reported this conversation to Simple, who lamented and said: "How can we eat forty oxen, and five hundred loaves and five hundred cakes! It will take us a year to eat so much, or maybe all of the rest of our lives."

"Oh," said the hungry man, who had long since eaten the few loaves from his basket, "you forget that I am here. Perhaps now for the first time in my life I shall have enough to eat."

So when the feast was served they all sat down to it, and ate as they wished; then the hungry man ate the remainder of the forty oxen and the five hundred loaves and the five hundred cakes and there was not a crumb left. When he had quite finished he said that he could have eaten at least two more oxen and another hundred cakes, but that he was not quite so hungry as he had been.

When the King's messengers told him that the feast was all eaten that same night he said: "That is all very well, but we cannot have this fellow wed the Princess. We will prepare a drinking, and serve five hundred flagons of wine, and tell him that it must all be drunken that same night, or he cannot wed the Princess. Let the flagons of wine be prepared and served to him, and all of them must this fellow and his followers drink."

The man with the wonderful hearing having his ear to the deck of the ship reported this to Simple, who lamented and said: "How can we drink five hundred flagons of wine? It will take us a year to do so, or maybe all of the rest of our lives."

But the thirsty man said, "You forget that I am here. Perhaps now for the first time in my life I shall have enough to drink."

So when the wine was served they all gathered around the table and drank as much as they wanted of it; then the thirsty man picked up flagon after flagon and drank them off until all were empty. And at the end he said that he could have drunken at least fifty flagons more, but that he was not so thirsty as he had been.

When the messengers of the King reported that the wine was all drunken, the King said: "Now are we put to it, for we cannot have this fellow wed the Princess." So he sent his messengers to the ship bidding Simple come to the palace and make ready for the wedding, and prepared a bath for him. And when Simple entered the room for the bath he found that it was heated so hot that the walls burned his hands when he touched them, and the floors were like red-hot iron. But the man with the straw had come in behind him, warned by the man with the wonderful hearing, and seeing what was afoot, scattered his straw all about the bathroom, and at once it became as cold as one could wish, and, the door having been locked, Simple climbed up on the stove and went to sleep, and there they found him in the morning, wrapped in a blanket.

When this was reported to the King he was very angry, and he said, "This fellow is evidently very smart, but for all of that we cannot have him wed the Princess. I will give him an impossible task. Go you to him," he said to the messenger, "and tell him that he must come to me at to-morrow's sunrise with an army fitting the rank of one who would wed the Princess."

When the man with the wonderful hearing reported this to Simple he was in despair, and lamented and said: "Now at last am I beaten, though, after all, I have a flying ship, even if I do not wed the Princess. It will take me a year to raise an army, perhaps it would take all the rest of my life."

But the man with the sticks said: "You forget that I am here. Now all of these others have proven that they could help you to win the Princess, let me at least do my share."

So at dawn they flew out over the parade ground, and the man with the sticks threw them down upon the ground, and immediately there sprung up soldiers, in platoons and regiments, with armor, and captains and colonels and generals to command them. And the King and his courtiers had never seen such an army, and the Princess, standing on the balcony beside her father, as they rode by the palace, seeing Simple riding at the head of the band, with the generals paying him homage, said: "This man must be a very great prince indeed, and, now that I look at him he is not so uncomely, after all."

And Simple, riding at the head of his army, looking up at the balcony and seeing the Princess there said to himself: "A flying ship is all very well, but the Princess is very beautiful, and to wed her will be the most wonderful thing in the world."

So Simple and the Princess were married, and the crew of the flying ship were at the wedding, and all of the captains and the colonels and the generals of his army, and never had there been such a wedding in the kingdom. And by and by the King died, and Simple became the King, and the Princess became the Queen, and they lived happily ever after.



ROBIN OF THE LOVING HEART

BY EMMA ENDICOTT MAREAN

"Please, Mother, tell us a story. Have him a wood-chopper boy this time. Please, Mother, quick, for Elizabeth is sleepy already. Oh, Mother, hurry!"

So here is the story.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived all alone with his parents in the heart of a deep wood. His father was a wood-chopper who worked hard in the forest all day, while the mother kept everything tidy at home and took care of Robin. Robin was an obliging, sunny-hearted little fellow who chopped the kindling as sturdily as his father chopped the dead trees and broken branches, and then he brought the water and turned the spit for his mother.

As there were no other children in the great forest, he made friends with the animals and learned to understand their talk. In the spring the mother robin, for whom he thought he was named, called him to see the blue eggs in her nest, and in the autumn the squirrels chattered with him and brought him nuts. But his four dearest friends were the Owl, who came to his window evenings and gave him wise counsel; the Hare, who played hide-and-seek with him around the bushes; the Eagle, who brought him strange pebbles and shells from the distant seashore; and the Lion, who, for friendship's sake, had quite reformed his habits and his appetite, so that he lapped milk from Robin's bowl and simply adored breakfast foods.

Suddenly all the happiness in the little cottage was turned to mourning, when the good wood-chopper was taken ill, and the mother was at her wits' end to take care of him and to provide bread and milk. Robin's heart burned within him to do something to help, but he could not swing an ax with his little hands.

"Ah," he said that night to his friend the Owl, "if I were a great knight, perhaps I could ride to the city and win the Prize for Good Luck."

"And what is the Prize for Good Luck?" asked the Owl, who knew everything in the world except that.



Then Robin explained that the lovely princess, whose hair was like spun gold and whose eyes were like the blue forget-me-nots by the brook, had lost her precious amulet, given to her by her godmother, which kept her, as long as it lay on her neck, healthy and beautiful and happy. One day, when she was playing in the flower-garden, the little gold chain snapped and the amulet rolled away. Everybody in the palace had searched, the soldiers had been called out to help, and all the small boys had been organized into an amulet brigade, for what they cannot see is usually not worth seeing at all. But no one could find it, and in the meantime the princess grew pale, and, truth to tell, rather cross. Her hair dulled a little, and her eyes looked like forget-me-nots drowned in the brook. When the court philosopher reasoned the matter out and discovered that the amulet had been carried far away, perhaps outside the kingdom, the king offered the Prize for Good Luck for its return.

"Now, if I could win the Prize for Good Luck," said Robin, "we should have bread and milk all the time, and Mother need not work so hard."

Then the Owl in her wisdom called a council of Robin's best friends, and asked them what they were going to do about it. They waited respectfully for her advice; and this was her wonderful plan:

"Robin could win the Prize for Good Luck," declared the Owl, "if only he were wise and swift and clear-sighted and strong enough. Now I will lend him my wisdom, the Hare shall lend his swiftness, the Eagle shall lend his eyesight, and the Lion shall lend his strength." And thus it was agreed.

Then the Owl went back to little Robin's window and explained the plan.

"You must remember," she said warningly, "time is precious. It is almost morning now. I cannot long spare my wisdom, for who would guide the feathered folk? If the Hare cannot run, how can he escape the fox? If the Eagle cannot see, he will dash himself into the cliff if he flies, and he will starve to death if he sits still. If the Lion's strength is gone, the wolves will be the first to know it. Return, then, without delay. At the stroke of nine o'clock to-morrow night, we shall await you here. Now go quickly, for rather would I die than live like the feather-brained blue jay."

Immediately Robin felt himself so strong and so brave that he hesitated not a minute. Swift as a hare he hastened to the palace, and at daybreak he blew the mighty horn that announced the coming of one who would seek for the amulet. The king groaned when he saw him, sure that it would be a vain quest for such a little fellow. The truth was that the court philosopher feared the amulet had been stolen by the Ogre of Ogre Castle, but no one dared to mention the fact, much less to ask the Ogre to return it. The princess, however, immediately sat up and took notice, charmed by the brave light in Robin's eyes and his merry smile.

Robin asked to be taken up into the highest tower of the palace, and there, looking leagues and leagues away to Ogre Castle, he saw with his Eagle sight the amulet, glowing like sunlight imprisoned in a ruby.

The Ogre was turning it over and over in his hand, muttering to himself, in the stupid way ogres always have: "It must be a nut, for I can see something good inside." Robin could not hear him, but he was sure, by the help of the Owl's wisdom, that it was the amulet.



In a thrice—that means while you count three—Robin was speeding away with the Hare's swiftness toward Ogre Castle, and in a few minutes he was demanding the amulet from the Ogre.

Now usually the Ogre was not at all a disagreeable fellow, and the Owl's wisdom would have easily sufficed to enable Robin to secure the amulet without trouble, but he had just tried to crack the amulet with his teeth. It broke off the very best tooth he had in his head, and his poor jaws ached so that he was in a very bad temper. He turned fiercely, and for a few minutes Robin needed all the strength the Lion had given him.



After all, the Ogre was one of the pneumatic-tire, hot-water-bag kind of giants, who flat out if you stick a pin into them and lie perfectly limp until they are bandaged up and set going once more. That is really a secret, but Robin knew it by the help of the Owl's wisdom, and he was not the least little bit afraid.

So Robin managed to get the amulet away without too much difficulty, and the Hare's swiftness quickly took him back to the palace. When the princess, who was watching from the tower window, saw the rosy light of the amulet in the distance, pinkness came back to her cheeks, and her eyes shone like stars, and she waved her lily hand to Robin in perfect happiness.

Ah, such a merrymaking as they planned for that evening! Robin was to receive the Prize for Good Luck, so much gold coin that it would take three carts and six mules to carry it back to the cottage. The king counted out money all the afternoon, and the queen put up tarts and jars of honey for Robin to take to his mother, and the princess gave him her photograph.

Now comes the sad part. It had taken so much time to reach the palace, to explain to the king, to ascend the tower and find the amulet, to conquer the Ogre of Ogre Castle, and to return to the palace, that it was almost night before Robin realized it. When the money had been counted out and the tarts wrapped in paraffin paper and the pots of honey packed in excelsior, it was seven o'clock.

Now the party was to begin at nine, for the princess had to have her white satin frock sent home from the dressmaker, and her hair had to be curled. The Punch and Judy was to come at ten, and the ice-cream was to be served at eleven, for in palaces people keep terribly late hours, not at all good for them. Just as Robin had dressed himself in a beautiful blue velvet suit, thinking how fine it was that he should open the dance with the princess and how lucky it was that he had the strength of a lion, so that he could dance at all after his busy day, he suddenly remembered his promise to the Owl.

It was such a shock that, in spite of the Lion's strength, he nearly fainted. Then he went quickly to the king and told him that he must go away at once. The king was very angry and bade him have done with such nonsense.

"Faith, you must stay," he said crossly. "There would be no living with the princess if her party is spoiled. Besides, you will lose the Prize for Good Luck, for the people have been promised that they shall see it presented to somebody to-night and we must not disappoint them."



Poor Robin's heart was heavy. How could he lose all that he had gained and go away as poor as when he came? That wasn't all nor half of all. To lose the money would be bad, but he had much more to lose than that. For one day he had enjoyed the fun of being stronger and wiser and swifter and keener-sighted than anybody else. Isn't that better than money and all the prizes for good luck? Yes, indeed, his heart answered over and over again. How could he go back and give up the wisdom and the swiftness and the clear sight and the strength, even if he could give up the money?

"I know now," he thought bitterly, "how the Owl felt when she said she would not be a feather-brain like the blue jay. And it is much more important for a boy to be strong than for a common old lion, who is pretty old anyway. And there are lots of hares in the forest and eagles on the mountain."

Then Robin slowly climbed the stairs to the tower, for he thought he would see what the Owl and the Hare and the Eagle and the Lion were doing in the forest. He looked over to the cottage, leagues and leagues away. There, under a big oak, lay the Owl, her feathers all a-flutter. She had had no more sense than to go out in the brilliant sunshine, and something had gone wrong inside her head. The saucy blue jay stood back and mocked her. Robin's heart gave one little throb of pity, but he was wise enough to see the value of wisdom, and he hardened himself. "I don't believe she has sense enough to know that anything is wrong," he said to himself.

Then he looked for the Hare. "Oh, he's all right," said Robin, gladly. But just then he saw a dark shape, only about a mile away, following the Hare's track.

Robin's heart gave two throbs of pity. "Poor old Hare!" he said. "I have had lots of fun with him."

Then he looked for the Eagle, and his heart beat hard and fast when he saw him sitting alone on the dead branch of a tree, one wing hanging bruised, perhaps broken, and his sightless eyes turned toward the tower, waiting, waiting. Blind!



Robin looked quickly for the Lion. For a time he could not find him, for tears came in his eyes as he thought of the Eagle. Then he saw the poor creature, panting from thirst, trying to drag himself to the river. He was almost there when his last bit of strength seemed to fail, and he lay still, with the water only a few yards away.

Then Robin's heart leaped and bounded with pity, and with pure gladness, too, that he was not yet too late to save his friends from the consequences of their own generosity. The last rays of sunset struck the tower as Robin, forgetting all about his blue velvet clothes and the princess and the Prize for Good Luck, ran and raced, uphill and down, through brambles and briers, over bogs and hummocks, leaving bits of lace caught on the bushes, swifter than ever he hastened to the Ogre of Ogre Castle or to the lovely princess with the amulet.





He was there—oh, yes, he was there long before nine o'clock. The Owl received back her wisdom, and I can tell you that she soon sent the saucy blue jay packing. The Hare had his swiftness, and the fox was left so far behind that he was soon glad to limp back home and eat the plain supper that Mrs. Fox had prepared for him. The poor blind Eagle opened his eyes, and saw the moon and the stars, and, better than moon and stars, the loving face of his comrade, Robin. The Lion drank his fill, and said that now he would like some breakfast food, please. So the story ended happily after all.

Oh, yes, I forgot about the Prize for Good Luck, didn't I? When the king told the princess that Robin was foolish enough to give back the wisdom and the swiftness and the clear sight and the strength that had won the prize for him, and that without them he was only a very common little boy, not good enough for a princess to dance with, she stamped her foot and called for the godmother who gave her the amulet in the first place.

Then the princess's godmother said that the princess for once was quite, quite right—that Robin must have the three cartloads of gold coin drawn by six mules, and the tarts and honey for his mother, and whenever the princess gave another party she must ask him to open the dance with her, blue velvet suit or no blue velvet suit—"because," said the godmother, "there is one thing better than wisdom or swiftness or clear sight or strength, and that is a loving heart."

* * *

But Elizabeth had gone to sleep.



IN SPRING

Rippling and gurgling and giggling along, The brooklets are singing their little spring song; Laughing and lively and gay as can be, They are skipping right merrily down to the sea.





A FAMOUS CASE

BY THEODORE C. WILLIAMS

Two honey-bees half came to blows About the lily and the rose, Which might the sweeter be; And as the elephant passed by, The bees decided to apply To this wise referee.

The elephant, with serious thought, Ordered the flowers to be brought, And smelt and smelt away. Then, swallowing both, declared his mind: "No trace of perfume can I find, But both resemble hay."

MORAL

Dispute is wrong. But foolish bees, Who will contend for points like these, Should not suppose good taste in roses Depends on elephantine noses.





OLD-FASHIONED STORIES



THE TWELVE HUNTSMEN

Hundreds of thousands of years ago a prince met a fair maiden as he traveled through the Enchanted Land. The prince loved the maiden dearly, and she loved him as much as he loved her.

"Will you marry me?" asked the prince one day.

"Indeed I will," said the maiden, "for there is no one in all the world I love so well."

Then all was as merry as merry could be. The maiden danced and sang, and the prince laughed aloud for joy.

But one day, as they were together, a messenger arrived hot and breathless. He came from the prince's father, who was King of a neighboring kingdom.

"His Majesty is dying," said the messenger, "and he would speak with you, my lord."

"Alas," said the prince to the maiden, "I must leave you, and remain with my father until his death. Then I shall be king and I will come for you and you shall be my queen. Till then, good-by. This ring I give you as a keepsake. Once more, farewell."

The maiden drew the ring on her finger, and, with a sad heart, watched the prince ride off.

The King had but a short time to live when his son arrived at the palace. "Ah," said the dying man, "how glad I am that you are come. There is one promise I wish you to make ere I die. Then I shall close my eyes in peace."

"Surely, dear father, I will promise what you ask. There is nothing I would not do to let you rest at ease."

Then said the dying King, "Promise that you will marry the bride whom I have chosen for you," and he named a princess well known to the prince.

Without thinking of anything but to ease his father's mind, the prince said, "I promise." The King smiled gladly as he heard the words, and closed his eyes in peace.

The prince was now proclaimed King, and the time soon came when he must go to the bride his father had chosen for him, and ask, "Will you marry me?" This he did, and the princess answered, "Indeed I will."

Now the maiden who had first promised to marry the prince heard of this, and it nearly broke her heart. Each day she grew paler and thinner, until her father at last said: "Wherefore, my child, do you look so sad? Ask what you will, and I shall do my utmost to give it you."

For a moment his daughter thought. Then she said: "Dear father, find for me eleven maidens exactly like myself. Let them be fair, and tall, and slim, with curly golden hair."

"I shall do my best," said her father; and he had a search made far and wide throughout the Enchanted Land until the eleven maidens were found. Each was fair, and tall, and slim, and there was not one whose golden hair did not curl.

The maiden was pleased indeed, and she next ordered twelve huntsmen's dresses to be made of green cloth, trimmed with beaver fur; also twelve green caps each with a pheasant's feather. Then to each of the maidens she gave a dress and hat, commanding her to wear them, while the twelfth she wore herself.

The twelve huntsmen then set out on horseback to the court of the King, who, when a prince, had promised to marry their leader.

So well was the maiden disguised by the hunting-dress, that the King did not recognize her. She asked if he were in need of huntsmen, and if he would take her and her companions into his service.

Never had a finer troop been seen, and the King said he would gladly engage them. So they entered his service, and lived at the palace, and were treated with all kindness and respect.

Now among the King's favorites at court was a lion. To possess this lion was as good as to have a magician, for he knew all secret things.

One evening the lion said to the King: "You imagine you engaged twelve young huntsmen not long ago, do you not?"

"I did," said the King.

"Pray excuse me, if I contradict you," said the lion, "but I assure you, you are mistaken. They were not huntsmen whom you engaged, but twelve maidens."

"Nonsense," said the King, "absurd, ridiculous!"

"Again I would crave forgiveness if I offend," said the lion, "but those whom you believe to be huntsmen are, in truth, twelve fair maidens."

"Prove what you say, if you would have me believe it," said the King.

"To-morrow, then, summon the twelve to the royal chamber. On the floor let peas be scattered. Then, as the huntsmen advance toward you, you will see them trip and slide as maidens. If they are men they will walk with a firm tread."

"Most wise Lion!" said the King, and he ordered it to be done as the royal beast had said.

But in the palace was a servant who already loved the fair young huntsmen, and when he heard of the trap that was to be laid, he went straight to them and said, "The lion is going to prove to the King that you are maidens." Then he told them how he would seek to do this, and said, "Do your best to walk with a firm tread."

Next morning the King ordered the twelve huntsmen to be called, and as they walked across the royal chamber, it was with so firm a tread that not a single pea moved.

After they had left, the King turned to the lion and said, "You have spoken falsely. They walked as other men."

But the lion said: "They must have been warned, or they would have tripped and slidden as maidens. I will yet prove to you that I speak the truth. To-morrow, summon the twelve to the royal chamber. Let twelve spinning-wheels be placed there. Then, as the huntsmen advance toward you, you will see each cast longing looks at the spinning-wheels, which, if they were men, you must grant they would not do."

The King was pleased that the huntsmen should again be put to the test, for the lion was a wise beast and had never before been proved wrong.

But again the kind servant warned the disguised maidens, and they resolved not even to glance in the direction of the spinning-wheels.

Next morning the King ordered the twelve huntsmen to be called, and as they walked across the royal chamber there was not one of them but looked straight into the eyes of the King. It seemed as though they had not known that the spinning-wheels were there.

After they had gone the King turned to the lion, and again he said, "You have spoken falsely." Then he told the royal beast that the twelve huntsmen had not even glanced in the direction of the spinning-wheels.

"They must have been warned," repeated the lion, but the King believed him no longer.

So the huntsmen stayed with the King and went out a-hunting with him, and the more he saw of them the more he liked them.

One day, while they were in the forest, news was brought that the princess whom the King was to marry was on her way to meet the hunting-party.

When the true bride heard it, she grew white as a lily, and, staggering, fell backward. Fortunately, the trunk of a tree supported her until the King, wondering what had happened to his dear huntsman, ran to the spot and pulled off her glove.

Looking at the white hand, what was his surprise to see upon the middle finger the ring he had given to the maiden he loved. Then he looked into her face and recognized her, and in a flash he understood that she had come to court as a huntsman, only to be near him. The King was so touched that he kissed her white cheeks till they grew rosy, and her blue eyes opened in wonder. "You shall be my queen," he said, "and none in all the wide world shall separate us."

Then he sent a messenger to the princess who was coming to meet him, saying he was sorry he must ask her to return home, as the maiden that he loved and was going to marry was with him in the forest.

And the next day the bells pealed loud and far, and at the royal wedding the lion was an honored guest, because it had at last been proved that he spoke the truth.



THE TWELVE DANCING PRINCESSES

Once upon a time there was a King who had twelve daughters, each more beautiful than the other. The twelve princesses slept in a large hall, each in a little bed of her own. After they were snugly settled for the night, their father, the King, used to bolt the door on the outside. He then felt sure that his daughters would be safe until he withdrew the bolt next morning.

But one day when the King unbolted the hall door, and peeped in as usual, he saw twelve worn-out pairs of little slippers lying about the floor.

"What! shoes wanted again," he exclaimed, and after breakfast a messenger was sent to order a new pair for each of the princesses.

But the next morning the new shoes were worn out, how no one knew.

This went on and on until the King made up his mind to put an end to the mystery. The shoes, he felt sure, were danced to pieces, and he sent a herald to offer a reward to any one who should discover where the princesses held their night-frolic.

"He who succeeds, shall choose one of my daughters to be his wife," said the King, "and he shall reign after my death; but he who fails, after three nights' trial, shall be put to death."

Soon a prince arrived at the palace, and said he was willing to risk his life in the attempt to win one of the beautiful princesses.

When night came, he was given a bedroom next the hall in which the royal sisters slept. His door was left ajar and his bed placed so that from it he could watch the door of the hall. The escape of the princesses he would also watch, and he would follow them in their flight, discover their secret haunt, and marry the fairest.

This is what the prince meant to do, but before long he was fast asleep. And while he slept, the princesses danced and danced, for, in the morning, the soles of their slippers were once more riddled with holes.

The next night the prince made up his mind that stay awake he would, but again he must have fallen fast asleep, for in the morning twelve pairs of little worn-out slippers lay scattered about the floor of the hall.

The third night, in fear and trembling, the prince began his night watch. But try as he might, he could not keep his eyes open, and when in the morning the little slippers were as usual found riddled with holes, the King had no mercy on the prince who could not keep awake, and his head was at once cut off.

After his death, many princes came from far and near, each willing to risk everything in the attempt to win the fairest of these fair princesses. But each failed, and each in his turn was beheaded.

Now a poor soldier, who had been wounded in the wars, was on his way home to the town where the twelve princesses lived. One morning he met an old witch.

"You can no longer serve your country," she said. "What will you do?"

"With your help, good mother, I mean to rule it," replied the soldier; for he had heard of the mystery at the palace, and of the reward the King offered to him who should solve it.

"That need not be difficult," said the witch. "Listen to me. Go straightway to the palace. There you will be led before the throne. Tell the King that you would win the fairest of his fair daughters for your wife. His Majesty will welcome you gladly, and when night falls, you will be shown to a little bedroom. From the time you enter it, remember these three things. Firstly, refuse to drink the wine which will be offered you; secondly, pretend to fall fast asleep; thirdly, wear this when you wish to be invisible." So saying, the old dame gave him a cloak and disappeared.

Straightway, the soldier went to the palace, and was led before the throne. "I would win the fairest of your fair daughters for my wife," said he, bowing low before the King.

So anxious was his Majesty to discover the secret haunt of his daughters, that he gladly welcomed the poor soldier, and ordered that he should be dressed in scarlet and gold.

When bedtime came, the soldier was shown his little room, from which he could see the door of the sleeping-hall. No sooner had he been left alone than in glided a fair princess bearing in her hand a silver goblet.

"I bring you sweet wine. Drink," she said. The soldier took the cup and pretended to swallow, but he really let the wine trickle down into a sponge which he had fastened beneath his chin.

The princess then left him, and he went to bed and pretended to fall asleep. So well did he pretend, that before long his snores were heard by the princesses in their sleeping-hall.

"Listen," said the eldest, and they all sat up in bed and laughed and laughed till the room shook.

"If ever we were safe, we are safe to-night," they thought, as they sprang from their little white beds, and ran to and fro, opening cupboards, boxes, and cases, and taking from them dainty dresses, and ribbons, and laces and jewels.

Gaily they decked themselves before the mirror, bubbling over with mischief and merriment at the thought that once more they should enjoy their night-frolic. Only the youngest sister was quiet.

"I don't know why," she said, "but I feel so strange—as if something were going to happen."

"You are a little goose," answered the eldest, "you are always afraid. Why! I need not have put a sleeping powder in the soldier's wine. He would have slept without it. Now, are you all ready?"

The twelve princesses then stood on tiptoe at the hall door, and peered into the little room where the soldier lay, seemingly sound asleep. Yes, they were quite safe once more.

Back they went into the hall. The eldest princess tapped upon her bed. Immediately it sank into the earth, and, through the opening it had made, the princesses went down one by one.

The soldier who, peeping, had seen twelve little heads peer out of the hall door, at once threw his invisible cloak around him, and followed the princesses into the hall, unseen. He was just in time to reach the youngest, as she disappeared through the opening in the floor. Halfway down he trod upon her frock.

"Oh, what was that?" screamed the little princess, terrified. "Some one is tramping on my dress."

"Nonsense, be quiet," said the eldest, "it must have caught on a hook." Then they all went down, down, until they reached a beautiful avenue of silver trees.

Thought the soldier, "I must take away a remembrance of the place to show the King," and he broke off a twig.

"Oh, did you hear that crackling sound?" cried the youngest princess. "I told you something was going to happen."

"Baby!" replied the eldest. "The sound was a salute."

Next they came to an avenue where the trees were golden. Here the soldier again broke off a twig, and again was heard the crackling sound.

"A salute, I told you," said the eldest princess to her terrified little sister.

Further on they reached an avenue of trees that glittered with diamonds. When the soldier once more broke off a twig, the youngest princess screamed with fright, but her sisters only went on faster and faster, and she had to follow in fear and trembling.

At last they came to a great lake. Close to the shore lay twelve little boats, and in each boat stood a handsome prince, one hand upon an oar, the other outstretched to welcome a princess.

Soon the little boats rowed off, a prince and a princess in each, the soldier, still wearing his invisible cloak, sitting by the youngest sister.

"I wonder," said the prince who rowed her, "why the boat is so heavy to-day. I have to pull with all my strength, and yet can hardly get along."

"I am sure I do not know," answered the princess. "I dare say it is the hot weather."

On the opposite shore of the lake stood a castle. Its bright lights beckoned to the twelve little boats that rowed toward it. Drums beat, and trumpets sounded a welcome. Very merrily did the sisters reach the little pier. They sprang from the boats, and ran up the castle steps and into the gay ballroom. And there they danced and danced, but never saw or guessed that the soldier with the invisible cloak danced among them. When a princess lifted a wine-cup to her lips and found it empty, she felt frightened, but she little thought that the unseen soldier had drained it. On and on they danced, until three o'clock, but then the sisters had to stop, for all their little slippers were riddled with holes. And in the early gray morning the princes rowed them back across the lake, while the soldier seated himself this time beside the eldest princess.

When they reached the bank, the sisters wandered up the sloping shore, while the princes called after them, "Good-by, fair daughters of the King, to-night once more shall we await you here."

And all the princesses turned, and, waving their white hands, cried sleepily, "Farewell, farewell."

Little did the sisters dream as they loitered homeward, that the soldier ran past them, reached the castle, and climbed the staircase that led to his little bedroom. When, slowly and wearily, they reached the door of the hall where they slept, they heard loud snores coming from his room. "Ah, safe once more!" they exclaimed, and they undid their silk gowns, and their ribbons and jewels, and kicked off their little worn-out shoes. Then each went to her white bed, and in less than a minute was sound asleep.

The next morning the soldier told nothing of his wonderful adventure, for he thought he would like again to follow the princesses in their wanderings. And this he did a second and a third time, and each night the twelve sisters danced until their slippers were riddled with holes. The third night the soldier carried off a goblet, as a sign that he had visited the castle across the lake.

When next day he was brought before the King, to tell where the twelve dancing princesses held their night-frolic, the soldier took with him the twig with its silver leaves, the twig with its leaves of gold, and the twig whose leaves were of diamonds. He took, too, the goblet.

"If you would live, young man," said the King, "answer me this: How comes it that my daughters' slippers, morning after morning are danced into holes? Tell me, where have the princesses spent the three last nights?"

"With twelve princes in an underground castle," was the unexpected reply.

And when the soldier told his story, and held up the three twigs and the goblet to prove the truth of what he said, the King sent for his daughters.

In the twelve sisters tripped, with no pity in their hearts for "the old snorer," as they called the soldier; but when their eyes fell upon the twigs and the goblet they all turned white as lilies, for they knew that their secret night-frolics were now at an end for ever.

"Tell your tale," said the King to the soldier. But before he could speak, the princesses wrung their hands, crying, "Alack! alack!" and their father knew that at last he had discovered their secret.

Then turning to the soldier, the King said: "You have indeed won your prize. Which of my daughters do you choose as your wife?"

"I am no longer young," replied the soldier. "Let me marry the eldest princess."

So that very day the wedding bells pealed loud and far, and a few years later the old soldier and his bride were proclaimed King and Queen.



EDWY AND THE ECHO

It was in the time of good Queen Anne, when none of the trees in the great forest of Norwood, near London, had begun to be cut down, that a very rich gentleman and lady lived in that neighborhood. Their name was Lawley, and they had a fine old house and large garden with a wall all round it. The woods were so close to this garden that some of the high trees spread their branches over the top of the wall.

Now this lady and gentleman were very proud and very grand. They despised all people poorer than themselves, and there were none whom they despised more than the gypsies, who lived in the forest round about them.

There was no place in all England then so full of gypsies as the forest of Norwood.

Mr. and Mrs. Lawley had been married many years without having children. At length they had a son, whom they called Edwy. They could not make enough of their only child or dress him too finely.

When he was just old enough to run about without help, he used to wear his trousers inlaid with the finest lace, with golden studs and laced robings. He had a plume of feathers in his cap, which was of velvet, with a button of gold to fasten it up in front under the feathers. He looked so fine that whoever saw him with the servants who attended him used to say, "Whose child is that?"

He was a pretty boy, too, and when his first sorrow came he was still too young to have learned any proud ways.

No one is so rich as to be above the reach of trouble, and when at last it came to Mr. and Mrs. Lawley it was all the more terrible.

One day the proud parents had been away some hours visiting a friend a few miles distant. On their return Edwy was nowhere to be found. His waiting-maid was gone, and had taken away his finest clothes. At least, these also were missing.

The poor father and mother were almost beside themselves with grief. All the gentlemen and magistrates round about helped in the search and tried to discover who had stolen him. But it was all in vain. Of course the gypsies were suspected and well examined, but nothing could be made of it.

Nor was it ever found out how the child had been carried off. But carried off he had been by the gypsies, and taken away to a country among hills between Worcester and Hereford.

In that country was a valley with a river running deep at the bottom. There were many trees and bushes, rocks and caves and holes there. Indeed, it was the best possible place for the haunt of wild people.

To this place the gypsies carried the little boy, and there they kept him all the following winter, warm in a hut with some of their own children.

They stripped him of his velvet and feathers and lace and golden clasps and studs, and clothed him in rags and daubed his fair skin with mud. But they fed him well, and after a little while he was quite happy and contented.

Perhaps the cunning gypsies hoped that during the long months of winter the child would quite forget the few words he had learned to speak distinctly in his father's house. They thought he would forget to call himself Edwy, or to cry, "Oh, mamma, mamma, papa, papa! come to little Edwy!" as he so often did. They taught him that his name was not Edwy, but Jack, or Tom, or some such name. And they made him say "mam" and "dad" and call himself the gypsy boy, born in a barn.

But after he had learned all these words, whenever anything hurt or frightened him, he would cry again, "Mamma, papa, come to Edwy!"

The gypsies could not take him out with them while there was a danger of his crying like that. So he never went with them on their rounds of begging and buying rags and telling fortunes. Instead, he was left in the hut, in the valley, with some big girl or old woman to look after him.

It happened one day, in the month of May, that Edwy was left as usual in the hut. He had been up before sunrise to breakfast with those who were going out for their day's begging and stealing. After they had left, he had fallen asleep on a bed of dry leaves. Only one old woman, who was too lame to tramp, was left with him.

He slept long, and when he awoke he sat up on his bed of leaves and looked about him to see who was with him. He saw no one within the hut, and no one at the doorway.

Little children do not like to be quite alone. Edwy listened to hear if there were any voices outside, but he heard nothing but the rush of a waterfall close by, and the distant cry of sheep and lambs. The next thing the little one did was to get up and go out at the door of the hut.

The hut was built of rude rafters in the front of a cave or hole in the rock. It was low down in the glen, at the edge of the brook, a little below the waterfall. When the child came out he looked anxiously for somebody, and was more and more frightened when he could find no one at all.

The old woman must have been close at hand although out of sight, but she was deaf, and did not hear the noise made by the child when he came out of the hut.

Edwy did not remember how long he stood by the brook, but this is certain, that the longer he felt himself to be alone the more frightened he became. Then he began to fancy terrible things. At the top of the rock from which the waters fell there was a huge old yew-tree, or rather bush, which hung forward over the fall. It looked very black in comparison with the tender green of the other trees, and the white, glittering spray of the water.

Edwy looked at it and fancied that it moved. His eye was deceived by the dancing motion of the water. While he looked and looked, some great black bird came out from the midst of it, uttering a harsh, croaking sound.

The little boy could bear no more. He turned away from the terrible bush and the terrible bird, and ran down the valley, leaving hut and all behind. And, as he ran, he cried, as he always did when hurt or frightened, "Papa, mamma! oh, come! oh, come to Edwy!"

He ran and ran while his little bare feet were bruised with pebbles, and his legs torn with briers. Very soon he came to where the valley became narrower and the rocks and banks higher on either side. The brook ran along between, and a path went in a line with the brook; but this path was only used by the gypsies and a few poor cottagers, and was but a lonely road.

As Edwy ran he still cried, "Mamma, mamma, papa, papa! oh, come! oh, come to Edwy!" And he kept up this cry from time to time, till his young voice began to be returned in a sort of hollow murmur.

When first he noticed this, he was even more frightened than before. He stood and looked round. Then he turned with his back toward the hut and ran and ran again until he got deeper in among the rocks. Then he stopped again, for the high black banks frightened him still more, and setting up his young voice he called again as he had done before.

He had scarcely finished his cry, when a voice seemed to answer him. It said, "Come, come to Edwy!" It said it once, it said it twice, it said it a third time. But it seemed each time more distant.

The child looked up and down, and all around, and in his terror he cried more loudly, "Oh, papa, mamma! come, come to poor Edwy!"

It was an echo, the echo of the rocks which repeated the words of the child. The more loudly he spoke, the more perfect was the echo. But he could only catch the last few words, and this time he only heard, "Poor, poor Edwy!"

Edwy still dimly remembered a far-away happy home, and kind parents, and now he believed that what the echo said came from them. They were calling to him, and saying, "Poor, poor Edwy!" But where could they be? Were they in the caves, or at the top of the rocks, or in the blue bright heavens?

He looked at the rocks and the sky, and down among the reeds and sedges and alders by the side of the brook, but he could find no one.

After a while he called again, and called louder still.

"Come, come," was the cry again, "Edwy is lost! lost! lost!"

Echo repeated the last words as before, "Lost! lost! lost!" and now the voice sounded from behind him, for he had moved round a corner of a rock.

The child heard the voice behind, and turned and ran that way. Then he stopped and heard it again in the opposite direction. Next he shrieked from fear, and echo returned the shriek, finishing up with broken sounds which to Edwy's ears seemed as if some one a long way off was mocking him. His terror was now at its highest, and he did not know what to do, or where to go. Turning round, he began once more to run down the valley, and every step took him nearer the mouth of the glen and the entrance to the great highroad.

And who had been driving along that road, in a fine carriage with four horses, but Edwy's own papa and mamma!

Mr. and Mrs. Lawley had given up all hopes of finding their little boy near Norwood, and they had set out in their coach to go all over the country in search of him. They had come the day before to a town near to the place where the gypsies had kept Edwy all the winter. There they had made many inquiries, and asked about the gypsies who were to be found in that country. But people were afraid of the gypsies, and did not like to say anything which might bring trouble upon themselves.

The poor father and mother, therefore, could get no news there, and the next morning they came across the country, and along the road into which the gypsies' valley opened.

Wherever these unhappy parents saw a wild country full of woods, they thought, if possible, more than ever of their lost child, and Mrs. Lawley would begin to weep. Indeed, she had done little else since she lost her boy.

The travelers first caught sight of the gypsies' valley as the coach arrived at the top of a high hill. The descent on the other side was so steep that it was thought right to put a drag on the wheels.

Mr. Lawley suggested that they should get out and walk down the hill, so the coach stopped and every one got down from it. Mr. Lawley walked first, followed closely by his servant William, and Mrs. Lawley came after, leaning on the arm of her favorite little maid Barbara.

"Oh, Barbara!" said Mrs. Lawley, when the others were gone forward, "when I remember all the pretty ways of my boy, and think of his lovely face and gentle temper, and of the way in which I lost him, my heart is ready to break."

"Oh, dear mistress," answered the little maid, "who knows but that our grief may soon be at an end and we may find him yet and all will be well."

Mr. Lawley walked on before with the servant. He too was thinking of his boy as he looked up the wild lonely valley. He saw a raven rise from the wood and heard its croaking noise—it was perhaps the same black bird that had frightened Edwy.

William remarked to his master that there was a sound of falling water and that there must be brooks running into the valley. Mr. Lawley, however, was too sad to talk to his servant. He could only say, "I don't doubt it," and then they both walked on in silence.

They came to the bottom of the valley even before the carriage got there. They found that the brook crossed the road in that place, and that the road was carried over it by a little stone bridge.

Mr. Lawley stopped upon the bridge. He leaned on the low wall, and looked upon the dark mouth of the glen, William stood a little behind him.

William was young, and his sense of hearing was very quick. As he stood there he thought he heard a voice, but the rattling of the coach-wheels over the stony road prevented his hearing it distinctly. He heard the cry again, but the coach was coming nearer, and made it still more difficult for him to catch the sound.

His master was surprised the next moment to see him jump over the low parapet of the bridge and run up the narrow path which led to the glen.

It was the voice of Edwy and the answering echo which William had heard. He had got just far enough away from the sound of the coach-wheels at the moment when the echo returned poor little Edwy's wildest shriek.

The sound was fearful and unnatural, but William was not easily put out. He looked back to his master, and his look made Mr. Lawley at once leave the bridge and follow him, though hardly knowing why.

They both went up the glen, the man being some way in front of his master. Another cry and another answering echo again reached the ear of William. The young man once more looked round at his master and ran on. The last cry had been heard by Mr. Lawley, who followed as quickly as he could. But, as the valley turned and turned among the rocks, he soon lost sight of his servant.

Very soon Mr. Lawley came to the very place where the echo had most astonished Edwy, because the sound had seemed to come from opposite sides. Here he heard the cry again, and heard it distinctly. It was the voice of a child crying, "No! no! no! papa! mamma! Oh, come! oh, come!" and then a fearful shriek or laugh of some wild woman's voice.

Mr. Lawley rushed on, winding in and out between the rocks. Different voices, all repeated in strange confusion by the echoes, rang in his ears. But amid all these sounds he thought only of that one sad cry, "Papa! mamma! Oh, come! oh, come!"

Suddenly he came out to where he saw his servant again, and with him an old woman who looked like a witch. She held the hand of a little ragged child very firmly, though the baby struggled hard to get free, crying, "Papa! mamma! Oh, come! oh, come!"

William was talking earnestly to the woman, and had got hold of the other hand of the child.

Mr. Lawley rushed on, trembling with hope and fear. Could this boy be his Edwy? William had entered his service since he had lost his child and could not therefore know the boy. He himself could not be sure—so strange, so altered did the baby look.

But Edwy knew his own papa in a moment. He could not run to meet him, for he was tightly held by the gypsy, but he cried, "Oh, papa! papa is come to Edwy!"

The old woman knew Mr. Lawley, and saw that the child knew him. She had been trying to persuade William that the boy was her grandchild. But it was no use now. She let the child's hand go, and, while he was flying to his father's arms, she disappeared into some well-known hole or hollow in the neighboring rocks.

Who can describe the feelings of the father when he felt the arms of his long-lost boy clinging round his neck, and the little heart beating against his own? Or who could say what the mother felt when she saw her husband come out from the mouth of the valley, bearing in his arms the little ragged child? Could this be her own baby, her Edwy? She could hardly be sure of her happiness till the boy held out his arms to her and cried, "Mamma! mamma!"

Before they got into the coach the happy parents knelt down upon the grass to thank God for his goodness. There was no pride now in their hearts and they never forgot the lesson they had learned.

In their beautiful home at Norwood they were soon as much loved and respected as they had been feared and disliked. Even the gypsies in time became their faithful friends, and Edwy was as safe in the forest as in his own garden at home.



THE LITTLE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A VINEGAR-BOTTLE

There was once upon a time a little old woman who lived in a vinegar-bottle. One day, as she was sweeping out her house, she found a silver coin, and she thought she should like to buy a fish.

So off she went to the place where the fishermen were casting their nets. When she got there the nets had just been drawn up, and there was only one little fish in them. So the fishermen let her have that for her silver piece.

But, as she was carrying it home, the little fish opened its mouth and said: "Pray, good woman, throw me into the water again. I am but a very little fish, and I shall make you a very poor supper. Pray, good woman, throw me into the water again!"

So the little old woman had pity on the little fish, and threw it into the water.

But hardly had she done so before the water began to bubble and a little fairy stood beside her. "My good woman," she said, "I am the little fish you threw into the water, and, as you were so kind to me when I was in trouble, I promise to give you anything that you wish for."

Then the little old woman thanked the fairy very much, but said she did not want for anything. She lived in a nice little vinegar-bottle with a ladder to go up and down, and had all she wished for.

"Well," said the fairy, "if at any time you want anything, you have only to come to the waterside and call 'Fairy, fairy,' and I shall appear, to answer you."

So the little old woman went home, and she lay awake all night trying to think of something she wanted. And the next morning she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You were so kind, ma'am, as to promise that you would give me anything I wished for, because I threw you into the water when you were but a little fish. Now, if you please, ma'am, I should like a little cottage. For you must know I live in a vinegar-bottle, and I find it very tiresome to have to go up and down a ladder every time I go in and out of my house."

"Go home and you shall have one," said the fairy.

So the little old woman went home, and there she found a nice whitewashed cottage, with roses climbing round the windows.

She was very happy, and thought she would never want anything more; but after a while she grew discontented again.

So back she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house, and now, if you please, ma'am, I would like some new furniture. For the furniture I had in the vinegar-bottle looks very shabby now that it is in the pretty little cottage."

"Go home and you shall have some," said the fairy.

So the little old woman went home, and there she found her cottage filled with nice new furniture, a stool and table, a neat little four-post bed with blue-and-white checked curtains, and an armchair covered with flowered chintz.

She was very happy, and thought she would never want anything more; but after a while she grew discontented again.

So back she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house and furniture, and now, if you please, ma'am, I would like some new clothes. For I find that the clothes I wore in the vinegar-bottle are not nearly good enough for the mistress of such a pretty little cottage."

Then the fairy said, "Go home and you shall have some."

So the little old woman went home, and there she found all her old clothes changed to new ones. There was a silk dress and a flowered apron, and a grand lace cap and high-heeled shoes.

Well, she was very happy, and she thought she should never want anything more; but after a while she grew discontented again.

So back she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house and furniture and clothes; and now, if you please, I should like a maid. For I find when I have to do the work of the house that my new clothes get very dirty."

Then the fairy said, "Go home and you shall have one."

So the little old woman went home, and there she found at the door a neat little maid with a broom in her hand, all ready to sweep the floor.

This made her very happy, and she thought she would never want anything more; but after a while she grew discontented again.

So back she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house and furniture, and clothes, and a maid; and now, if you please, I should like a pony. For when I go out walking my new clothes get very much splashed with the mud."

Then the fairy said, "Go home and you shall have one."

So the little old woman went home, and there she saw at the door a little pony all ready bridled and saddled for her to ride.

She was very happy, and thought she would never want anything more; but after a while she grew discontented again.

So back she went to the waterside and called "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, my good woman?" she said.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house and furniture, and clothes, and a maid, and a pony; and now, if you please, ma'am, I should like a covered cart. For I find that my new clothes get quite as muddy riding as walking."

Then the fairy said, "Go home and you will find one."

So the little old woman went home, and there she found her pony harnessed into a nice little covered cart.

She had hardly seen the cart, when back she ran to the waterside, calling "Fairy, fairy"; and the water bubbled, and the little fairy stood beside her.

"What do you want, good woman?" said she.

And the little old woman answered: "You have been very kind, ma'am, in giving me a house and furniture, and clothes, and a maid, and a pony and a cart; but now, if you please, ma'am, I should like a coach and six. For it is like all the farmers' wives to ride about in a cart."

Then the fairy said: "Oh, you discontented little old woman! The more I give you, the more you want. Go back to your vinegar-bottle."

So the little old woman went home, and she found everything gone—her cart, and her pony, and her maid, and her clothes, and her furniture, and her house. Nothing remained but the little old vinegar-bottle, with the ladder to get up the side.



THE SNOW QUEEN

Once upon a time there was a little boy called Kay. And there was a little girl. Her name was Gerda.

They were not brother and sister, this little boy and girl, but they lived in tiny attics next door to one another.

When they were not playing together, Gerda spent her time peeping at Kay, through one of the little panes in her window. And Kay peeped back at Gerda.

Outside each attic was a tiny balcony, just big enough to hold two little stools and a window-box. Often Gerda would step out of her attic window into the balcony, carrying with her a three-legged wooden stool. Then she would climb over the low wall that separated her from Kay.

And there in Kay's balcony the two children would sit and play together, or tell fairy tales, or tend the flowers that bloomed so gaily in the window-box.

At other times it was Kay who would bound over the low wall into Gerda's balcony, and there, too, the little boy and girl were as happy as though they had been in Fairyland.

In each little window-box grew a rose-bush, and the bloom and the scent of the red roses they bore gave Kay and Gerda more delight than you can imagine; and all her life long a red rose remained little Gerda's favorite flower.

But it was not always summer-time, and when cold, frosty winter came, and the Snow Queen sailed down on the large white snowflakes from a gray sky, then no flowers bloomed in the window-boxes. And the balcony was so slippery that the children dared not venture to step out of their attic windows, but had to run down one long flight of stairs and up another to be able to play together.

Sometimes, though, Kay stayed in his own little room and Gerda stayed in hers, gazing and gazing at the lovely pictures of castles, and mountains, and sea, and flowers that the Snow Queen had drawn on the window-panes as she passed.

But now that the little panes of glass were covered with pictures, how could Kay and Gerda peep at each other from the attic windows?

Ah, they had a plan, and a very good plan, too. Kay would heat a penny on the stove, and then press it against the window-pane, and so make little round peep-holes. Then he would put his eye to one of these little rounds and—what did he see? A bright black eye peeping from Gerda's attic, for she, too, had heated a penny and made peep-holes in her window.

It was in winter, too, when the children could not play together on the balcony, that Gerda's grandmother told them stories of the Snow Queen.

One night, as Kay was undressing to go to bed, he climbed on a chair and peeped out of one of his little round holes, and there, on the edge of the window-box, were a few big snowflakes. And as the little boy watched them, the biggest grew bigger and bigger, until it grew into a white lady of glittering, dazzling ice. Her eyes shone like two bright stars.

"It must be the Snow Queen," thought Kay, and at that moment the white lady nodded to him, and waved her hand, and as he jumped from his chair, he fancied she flew past the window. "It must be the Snow Queen." Would he ever see her again?

At last the white winter melted away and green spring burst upon the earth. Then once more summer—warm, bright, beautiful summer.

It was at five o'clock, one sunny afternoon, that Kay and Gerda sat together on their little stools in the balcony, looking at a picture-book.

"Oh!" cried Kay suddenly, "oh, there is something sharp in my eye, and I have such a pain in my heart!"

Gerda put her arms round Kay's neck and looked into his eye.

"I can see nothing, Kay dear."

"Oh! it is gone now," said the boy, and they turned again to the picture-book.

But something had flown into Kay's eye, and it was not gone; a little bit had reached his heart, and it was still there. Listen, and I will tell you what had happened.

There was about this time a most marvelous mirror in the world. It belonged to the worst hobgoblin that ever lived, and had been made by his wicked little demons.

Those who looked into this mirror saw reflected there all the mean and ugly people and things in the world, and not one beautiful sight could they see. And the thoughts of those who looked into this mirror became as mean and ugly as the people and things they saw.

This delighted the hobgoblin, who ordered his little demons to carry the mirror all over the world and to do as much mischief with it as they could.

But one day, when they had traveled far, the mirror slipped from the hands of the little imps, and fell to earth, shivered into hundreds of thousands of millions of bits. Then it did more harm than ever, for the tiny pieces, some no bigger than a grain of sand, were blown all over the world, and often flew in people's eyes, and sometimes even found their way into their hearts.