At last the Khoja lost patience.

"That will do," said he, jumping up: "you've sown cotton on half my head, I'll keep the other half for flax;" and he ran out of the shop with his head half shaved.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: A Khoja is a religious teacher, and sometimes a school-master also.]



THE SNARLING PRINCESS.

(Freely adapted from the German.)



Ever so long ago there lived a certain king, at whose court great rejoicings were held for the birth of a child. But this joy was soon turned to sorrow, when the young queen died, and left her infant daughter motherless. As the body of the young queen lay in state, wrapped in a shroud of gold all embroidered with flowers, and with so sweet a smile upon her face that she looked like one who dreams happy dreams in sleep, the sorrowing king took the child in his arms, and kneeling by the bier vowed never to marry again, but to make his wife's only child the heir of his crown and kingdom. This promise he faithfully fulfilled, and remaining a widower, he devoted his life to the upbringing of his daughter.

It is true that the young princess had a fairy godmother—a distant cousin of the deceased queen—but the king could not endure that any one but himself should have a voice in the management of his child, and the fairy godmother, who was accustomed to the utmost deference to her opinions, very soon quitted the court in a huff, and left the king as supreme in the nursery as he was in the council-chamber.



When the precious baby was washed, this was done with no common care. The bath itself was made of gold, and the two chief physicians of the kingdom assisted the king by their counsels. When hot water of crystal clearness had been poured into the bath, the more celebrated of the two physicians dipped the tip of his little finger in, and looking inquiringly at his colleague, said "Hum." On which the physician of lesser degree dipped in his little finger and said "Hem." And after this the water always proved to be of the right temperature, and did the young princess no harm whatever. The king himself on these occasions always dropped—with much state—a few drops of exquisite scent into the bath, from a golden flask studded with diamonds. The chief lady-in-waiting brought the baby, wrapped in gorgeous robes, and put it into the bath. The court doctors laid their fingers on their noses, and looked very important, whilst the king—who was short-sighted—put on his spectacles to enjoy the sight of the little princess, who gambolled in the water like a fish. The rest of her toilette was carried out with no less formality, and as the same scrupulous care watched over every incident of her daily life, the child grew every day more healthy and beautiful.

Time passed on without lessening the king's devotion to his daughter. Her beauty was the standing theme of conversation in every corner of the palace where the king was likely to overhear it, and the courtiers rivalled each other in trying to read the wishes of the little princess in her blue eyes, and in endeavouring to forestall them.

No wonder the little lady grew up exceedingly self-willed, and with no thought of any one's pleasure but her own.

The king hired governesses, it is true, but he strictly forbade them ever to say a harsh word to his darling; and one who had so far transgressed this order as to reprove the princess for some fault, was dismissed in disgrace. Thus it came about that the child grew daily more and more wilful and capricious. Do what every one would, it was impossible to please her, and as she was allowed to fly into a rage about the most trifling matters, and as she sulked and scolded, and growled and grumbled for the smallest annoyances, her voice gradually acquired a peculiar snarling tone, which was as painful to listen to as it was unbecoming in a young and pretty princess.

The whole court suffered from the depressing effects of the young lady's ill-temper. Behind the king's back, the courtiers complained pretty freely, but before his face no one dared show his annoyance, and two old court ladies, whose nerves were not so strong as they had been, and who feared to betray themselves, were obliged to employ a celebrated professor of cosmetics to paint smiles on their faces that could not be disturbed by the snarling and grumbling of the princess; but the Lord Chamberlain concealed his feelings by a free use of his gold snuff-box, and snuffed away his annoyance pretty successfully.

As his daughter grew up, the king was not without his share of suffering from her ill-temper. But he bore it all very patiently,—"She will be a queen," said he to himself, "and it is fit that she should have a will of her own." The king himself was of an imperious temper, but such was his love for his only child, that he bent it completely to her caprices.

In private, the courtiers were by no means so indulgent in their views, and the future queen was known amongst them, behind her back, as the Snarling Princess.

In spite of her ill-temper and unpleasing voice, however, she was so beautiful, that—being also heir to the throne of a large kingdom—many princes sought her hand in marriage. But the Snarling Princess was resolved to reign alone, and she refused every suitor who appeared.

The princess's rooms were, of course, the most beautiful in the palace. One of these, which looked out on to the forest, was her favourite chamber, but it was also the source of her greatest vexation.

Never did she look out of the window towards the wood without snarling in her harshest tone, "Hateful! Intolerable!"

The source of her annoyance was this:

On the edge of the forest, clearly to be seen from her window, there stood a tiny cottage, in which lived an aged woman who was known amongst the poor folks of the neighbourhood as the "Three-legged Wood-wife." This was because of a wooden staff on which she leaned to eke out the failing strength of her own limbs. The wood-wife was both feared and hated by the people, amongst whom she bore the character of a very malicious witch. The king's daughter hated not only her, but her tumble-down house, and had sent again and again, with large offers of gold, to try and purchase the cottage. But the wood-wife laughed spitefully at the messengers, and only replied that the cottage suited her, and that for no money would she quit it whilst she lived.

The poor have their rights, however, as well as the rich, and even the Snarling Princess was obliged to submit to the disappointment at which she could only grumble.

At one time she resolved never to go into her favourite room again. But she could not keep her resolution. Back she went, and some irresistible power always seemed to draw her to the window to irritate herself by the sight of the wretched hovel which belonged to the Three-legged Witch.

At last, however, by constantly snarling and complaining to the king, she induced him to turn the old woman by force out of her cottage. The king, who was just and upright, did so very unwillingly, and he built her a new and much better cottage elsewhere.

The wood-wife could not resist, but she never put her foot across the threshold of the new house. Meanwhile the old hovel was swept away as fast as possible, and by the princess's wish a pretty summer-house was built on the spot where it had stood, and there she and her court ladies were wont to amuse themselves on warm summer evenings to their hearts' content.

One evening the princess strolled out by herself into the forest. She had been in several distinct rages; first with her court ladies, secondly with her dressmaker, thirdly with the sky, which, in spite of her wishes for fine weather, had become overcast with clouds.



In this ill-humour nothing in all the beautiful green forest gave her any satisfaction. She snarled at the birds because they sang so merrily. The rustling of the green fir-tops in the evening breeze annoyed her: "Why should pine-trees have needles instead of leaves?" she asked angrily; and then she grumbled because there were no roses on the juniper bushes. Still snarling, she wandered on, till she came to a spot where she stood still and silent in sheer amazement.

In an open space there was a circle of grotesque-looking stones, strangely linked together by creeping plants and ferns of curious growth. And as the Snarling Princess looked at them, it seemed to her that the stones took dwarf-like shapes, and glared about them with weird elfin faces. The princess seemed rooted to the spot. An invisible power appeared to draw her towards the group, and to attract her by a beautiful flower, whose calyx opened at her approach. Unable to resist the impulse, she stepped into the circle and plucked the flower.

No sooner had she done so than her feet took deep root in the earth, her hair stiffened into fir-needles, and her arms became branches. She was now firmly fixed in the centre of the group of stones, a slender, swaying pine-tree, which creaked and croaked, and snapped and snarled with every gust of wind, as the princess had hardly ever done in her most ill-tempered moments. And as her limbs stiffened under their magical transformation, the hideous figure of the wood-wife might have been seen hovering round the charmed circle, her arms half changed into bird's wings, and her hands into claws. And as the king's daughter fairly turned into a pine-tree, the wood-wife took the form of an owl, and for a moment rested triumphantly on her branches. Then with a shrill "Tu-whit! tu-whoo!" it vanished into the forest.

When the princess did not return to the palace, and all search after her proved utterly vain, the poor old king fell into a state of the deepest melancholy, and spent most of his time in the summer-house, bewailing the mysterious loss of his only child.

One day, many months afterwards, he wandered into the forest. A storm was raging, of which he took no heed. But suddenly he stopped beneath a pine-tree, and looked up—"How like my poor dear daughter's voice!" said he; "especially when she was the least bit in the world—" He did not like to finish the sentence, but sat down under the tree and wept bitterly. And for every tear he shed, the pine-tree dropped a shower of needles. For the Snarling Princess recognized her father, and heartily lamented the pain he suffered now, and had so often suffered before on her account.

"Tu-whit! tu-whoo!" said a voice, from a hole beneath the pine-tree.

"Who speaks?" said the king.

"It is I, cousin," said the owl, hopping into the daylight, and gradually assuming the form and features of the fairy godmother. "You did not know me as the Three-legged Wood-wife, whom you so unjustly sacrificed to your daughter's caprices. But I have had a hand in her education after all! For twelve months has she croaked and creaked, snapped and snarled, beneath the summer heat, the winter snow, and the storms of spring and autumn. Her punishment—and yours—is over."

As the fairy godmother spoke, the pine-tree became a princess once more, and fell into her father's arms.

But the wood-wife took again the shape of an owl, and the enchanted stones became bats, and they all disappeared into the shadows of the forest.

And as the princess shortly afterwards married a very charming prince, she no doubt changed her name.

Certainly she was never more known as the Snarling Princess.



THE LITTLE PARSNIP-MAN.

(Freely adapted from the German.)

WHAT PETER FOUND IN THE PAN—AN UGLY SMILE—THE WIDOW'S RECKONINGS—REST BY RUSHLIGHT.



On a cold winter's evening it is very cosy to sit by a warm hearth, where the fire crackles pleasantly, and the old saucepan, which Mother has set on the fire, sings monotonously to itself between-whiles.

On such a night the wind howled in the street without, beat upon the window-panes, and rustled through the trees, which stood, tall and leafless, in the big garden over the way.

Little Peter did not trouble his head on the subject. He sat indoors on a little footstool, near the fire, and close also to his mother, who was busy cutting up parsnips for next day's dinner.

Peter paid great attention as his mother took a well-boiled parsnip out of the saucepan, scraped it, cut it, and laid the pieces on a clean white dish.

His mother's thoughts were elsewhere. She looked sad and pensive. Only from time to time she nodded across the dish towards her little Peter, and when he got up and came and laid his head in her lap, she gently smoothed his fair hair from his brow, and then she smiled too.



Peter had no idea that his mother was sad. He had got another parsnip out of the pan, and wanted to scrape it all by himself; but he was not very skilful, and he worked so slowly that in the end his mother had to finish it for him.

The next thing he did was to upset the saucepan; the parsnips fell out, and Peter began to count them.

All at once he gave a cry that made his mother jump. He had found a parsnip-root that looked exactly like a little man. It had a regular head of its own, with a long nose, its body was short, and it had two shrivelled stringy little legs; arms it had none.

"That's a little Parsnip-man," said his mother, when Peter showed it to her.

"A Parsnip-man?" muttered Peter below his breath, and he gazed doubtfully at the odd-looking root in his hand.

It seemed to him that the little man was smiling at him; but with a very ugly kind of smile.

Suddenly the stove gave such a loud crack, that Peter let the parsnip fall out of his hands with a start.

"What's the matter?" asked his mother, as Peter buried his face in her arms; for he began to feel frightened.

"The little Parsnip-man grinned so nastily at me, and such a loud noise came out of the stove—and I let him fall!" His mother laughed at him.

"You've been dreaming," said she. "The little man could not smile if he tried. The Parsnip-mannikins are only roots in the day-time, you know. It is at midnight, when you have long, long been asleep, and the church clock strikes twelve, that they come to life. Then away they all go to the great cave where the queen dwells in state, and here they hold high festival. There they dance, sing, play, and eat out of golden dishes. But as soon as the clock strikes one, all is over, and the Parsnip-men are only roots once more.

"But you've fallen asleep," she added. "Come, my child, and I'll put you to bed. You are tired, are you not?"

"Yes, I'll go to bed," said little Peter, rubbing his drowsy eyes. So his mother took him into the bedroom and lighted the rushlight. Then she undressed him and put him to bed. And Peter had hardly touched the pillow before he was fast asleep.

But the mother went back to the kitchen-table, and seated herself once more by the light of the dimly-burning lamp. The parsnips were all cut up long ago. She put the dish aside and began to sew. Now and then she paused in her work to lean back in her chair, and tears welled up in her eyes. Perhaps she remembered that the rent was due, or she may have been reflecting that Peter's jacket was past further patching. In either case she began to count over in her mind a certain small stock of savings which she had laid by in a money-box, and to puzzle her poor head what she should turn her hand to next to earn the wherewithal to buy the boy some decent clothes. Nothing likely suggested itself, however, and with a heavy sigh she bent once more over her work and stitched away faster than ever. For the work she was doing had to be taken home next morning; and there was a great deal yet to do if she hoped to get it finished in time, and to pay her rent with the price of it.

After sitting like this for a while, she got up. Her eyes ached, and it was getting late. The big kitchen clock was on the stroke of twelve. She put her sewing away in her work-basket, and carried the saucepan and the dish of parsnips into the scullery. Then she swept up the spare roots into a corner of the hearth, and put the little stool tidily away under the table.

But she could not see anything of the parsnip which Peter had let fall. Possibly it had rolled behind the stove.

"I shall be sure to find it in the morning, when I light the fire," she thought.

She put out the lamp, and stepped softly into the chamber where the rushlight burned dimly. Then with one passing glance at the sleeping boy, she undressed herself and prepared for bed.

In a few moments more all her cares and troubles had vanished in slumber.



THE LITTLE MAN IN THE YELLOW COAT—A MOUSE-RIDE AT MIDNIGHT—THE HOLE IN THE WALL—AMONG THE PARSNIP-MEN—QUEEN MARY—THE BLUE DRESS—A CAKE-FEAST—ONE!

Little Peter had been asleep for a long time, when all at once he found himself suddenly twitched by the arm. He rolled over, rubbed his eyes, and then, to his amazement, saw the little Parsnip-man sitting by him on the quilt.

He did not look a bit like a parsnip now. He had on a long yellow coat, and a little green hat on his head; and he nodded in quite a friendly way to Peter.

"Come along! Be quick!" he said. "We must be off. But wrap up well, for it's cold outside."

"Where are we going to?" asked little Peter. "Into the cave? And is Mamma going too?"

"No," said the little man. "She's stopping at home. But do be quick, for the feast has begun."

And with that he gave such a jump on to the floor that the boards fairly creaked again, and little Peter, slipped out of bed after him. The little Parsnip-man helped him on with his shoes and stockings, and Peter put on the rest of his clothes himself.

Then the Mannikin pulled out a little whistle and blew on it. Immediately there was a rustling under the bed, and then two mice peeped out.

In a moment the Parsnip-man caught one, and vaulted on to its back.

"You get on the other," he said to Peter.

"But it isn't big enough to carry me," said Peter doubtfully.

"Get up, I tell you!" said the little man, laughing.

Peter did as he was told. Doubtless he had been growing smaller, for when he was fairly astride he sat the mouse as if it had been made for him. As to the mouse, it kept perfectly still for Peter to mount.

"Now, sit fast!" cried the Mannikin; and Peter had hardly seized the ears of the mouse (for want of reins), when his new steed ran away with him under the bed.

Then all of a sudden it became quite dark.

"Where are we?" cried Peter, for the mouse galloped on, and Peter was getting frightened.

"We are in the cellar," the voice of the Parsnip-man replied at his side. "Don't be frightened; it will be light again in a minute or two."

Accordingly, in a few moments, Peter could see all around him. They had emerged from the cellar, and were now in the street. The wind had fallen, and there was a dead calm. The street-lamps were burning with a somewhat dim light, however.

Peter could now plainly see the form of the little Parsnip-man riding beside him. The mice scampered on and on.



A watchman was standing in the doorway of a house. His halberd reposed against the wall beside him. Probably the watchman himself was reposing, for he never moved when the mice and their riders went by. They rode to the end of the street, and there, before an old deserted house which Peter had often shuddered to look at in the daytime, the mice stopped.

"Here we are!" said the Parsnip-man, jumping down from his mouse.

Peter dismounted more leisurely, and the two mice ran off.

It was almost pitch dark by the old house. Only one distant lamp gave a feeble glimmer. The Parsnip-man whistled as before. By and by Peter heard a sound like "Bst! bst!"

He looked all round, but could see nothing. At this moment the Mannikin caught him by the arm and pointed upwards to a hole in the wall of the old house. Peter then perceived that something was moving higher up, and very shortly he heard a rustling noise as if a ladder of ropes were being let down from above.

"Come quickly!" said a shrill, slender voice. "The chimes have sounded once since the hour. The Queen is waiting."

"Climb on to my shoulders, Peter," said the Parsnip-man, stooping as he spoke. Peter did so, and held fast by the little man's neck, who climbed nimbly up the rope-ladder to the opening in the wall above; and there Peter got down.

Here there stood another Parsnip-man with a little lantern in his hand, which he turned on Peter's face, and then nodded to him in a friendly way. After which he unhooked the rope-ladder and drew it up.

The two Parsnip-men now took Peter between them, each holding a hand. They went through long dark passages, and then they began to go down-stairs. Peter counted a hundred steps, but still they went down, down, and he could count no more.

All at once he heard music, which sounded as if it came from a distance. They were now at the bottom of the steps, and walking on level ground. The further they went the louder grew the music, and at last the Parsnip-men came to a standstill.

The one who held the lantern threw its light upon the wall till it disclosed a knob, on which he pressed. Then he put out his lantern, and all was dark. But the music sounded louder than before.

Suddenly the wall parted and moved aside, and Peter could hardly restrain his cries of astonishment, for what he now saw was like nothing he had ever seen before. He was looking into a great big hall. It was as light as day. Dazzling lustres of crystal, with thousands and thousands of wax tapers, whose flames were reflected from the mirrors suspended round the room, hung from the roof. Strange music shook the walls, and to the time of this music hundreds and hundreds of little Parsnip-men twirled and danced. All of them were dressed in yellow coats and green hats, and many of them wore long white beards. And oh, how they chirped and smirked, and laughed and jumped about, as if they were mad!

For a long time Peter stood bewildered. At last the little Parsnip-men who had brought him so far led him right into the room, and the wall closed behind them.

"Now for the Queen!" whispered one of them. "Come along."

They went down the side of the room, against the wall of which were ranged chairs with grand purple coverings and gilded arms. Once or twice Peter nearly slipped, so polished was the floor. From time to time some little Parsnip-man in the company nodded to him; otherwise no one paid much attention to him.

In this way they reached the farther end of the hall, where there was a throne, raised on a dais and covered by a canopy hung with purple. It was something like the throne Peter once saw when his aunt took him with her to the palace. A few steps led up to the throne, with a wonderfully elaborate balustrade made of gold.

The little mannikins seized his hands and led him up the steps between them. Then they drew back the purple curtains, and displayed a grand throne on which was seated a little girl in a snow-white dress. On her head she wore a little gold crown, from which hung a long transparent veil. She was resting her head on her hand, and did not look up till Peter and the Parsnip-men were quite close to her. Then she gave a cry of joy.

"So you've come at last, Peter!" she cried, her eyes brightening with delight; and as she took his hand, he saw that she was no other than his favourite playfellow and neighbour, little Mary.

There was a second seat beside her, and to this she drew Peter. Then she beckoned to the Parsnip-men, and said, "You have got everything ready, have you not?" The Parsnip-men bowed low, and hurried away.

In a minute or two they returned, followed by about thirty mannikins like themselves, who bore a magnificent dress which they deposited before Peter. There was a coat of blue silk, turned up with fur, and trimmed with precious stones. Besides this there were knee-breeches of the same material, slashed with white and fringed with gold, white silk stockings, and smart shoes with gold buckles. To complete the whole, there lay on the top a cap, with a heron's plume fastened by an aigrette of gold.

But Peter's attention all this time had been fixed upon Mary. He fancied she looked bigger than usual and unfamiliar in some way.

"Take the clothes into that room," said she to the little men; "and you, Peter," she added, "go with them and dress. Then we will go to supper."

"But—er—does your mamma know you're here?" asked Peter. He could not get over his amazement at the style and tone in which little Mary issued her orders in this strange place.

"I should think not!" laughed the little girl. "But never mind, Peter: we shall soon be at home again. What you've got to do just now is to put on your things."

As if in a dream, Peter went into the room into which the clothes had been taken, and where the little men helped him to take off his things and dress himself in his new-finery. Some of them then brought a long mirror, in which Peter could see himself from head to foot, and he fairly laughed with delight at his fine appearance in his new clothes.

Then the little men led him back to the Queen, who looked him well over, and she also smiled complacently.

"Did you bring your doll, Mary?" said Peter presently.

"That's not very likely," replied she. "It would not do for a queen to play at dolls."

"Have you been a queen very long?" Peter inquired.

"For several years," said Mary.

"But you and I were playing together only yesterday," said poor Peter, in puzzled tones.

But Mary had turned her back to him, and was pulling a bell at the back of her throne.

Although the music was still going on, the clear tone of the bell which the Queen had rung was heard above every other sound.

The music and the dancing stopped at once.

"Come, Peter, give me your arm," said Mary. "We're going into the supper-room."

They stepped down into the hall, where all the Parsnip-men had now ranged themselves in two long rows, down the centre of which the Queen and her companion now passed, and then the Parsnip-men closed in and formed a long procession behind them.

In this way they came to the other end of the hall. The large folding-doors swung open, and Peter fancied he was looking into a large garden. But it was only another hall in which tall foreign-looking trees were planted, whilst many-tinted flowers of gorgeous colours and strange shapes hung from the walls, and hither and thither among them flitted curious birds of many hues. As in the first hall, crystal lustres with wax tapers descended from the roof, and in the middle of the room, to which they now advanced, was a long table covered with a white table-cloth, and laid out with gold and silver plate of all sorts. There were golden vases with handles, golden tankards, golden dessert-dishes filled with splendid fruits; silver plates and goblets and drinking-cups, and beside them stood crystal flasks. Hundreds of chairs were placed round the table, and in every place was a little silver knife and a plate.

Peter could not gaze long enough. He wanted to stop every moment, but Mary only laughed, and dragged him on.



About the middle of the long table there was a dais raised above the level on which the other chairs and table stood. It was covered by a canopy of yellow silk, and under this was a table more richly laid out than the big one, and two seats of pure gold. To this Mary led Peter, and then said emphatically—"These are our seats."

Up they climbed, and then Mary dropped Peter's arm and sat down on one of the seats, and he seated himself beside her on the other.

From his present elevation Peter was well able to observe the Parsnip-men as they passed by in procession, and took their places on the chairs.

When all were seated the music recommenced. Then out of a side door came about fifty mannikins carrying large cakes on silver dishes, which they set down on the long table, and having cut them up handed them round to the guests. Others poured red or golden wine from the vases into the goblets. Everybody ate and drank, and chatted and laughed between-whiles.

Among the golden dishes on the golden table where Peter and Mary sat, was one which held a cake which had a particularly inviting smell. Mary cut a piece off and put it on to Peter's golden plate. Then, from a beautiful golden goblet, she poured ruby-coloured wine into their crystal glasses.

Peter ate and drank with great relish, and soon disposed of the cake and wine.



"I should like to have some of that beautiful fruit, too, if I may," said he. And as he spoke Mary filled his plate with grapes, apples, and pears.

"Eat away, Peter!" said she, laughing till her white teeth shone through her lips. "Don't be afraid of emptying the dish. There is plenty more fruit if we want it."

"I should like to take some home to Mamma," said Peter, biting into an apple. "May I, Mary?"

Mary nodded kindly, and handed him a golden dish full of sweetmeats, saying, "Put as many of these into your pocket as you like." And he filled his pockets accordingly.

Peter felt as happy as a king. His head was quite turned. He shouted aloud for joy, and swung his legs backwards and forwards as he sat on his golden chair.

"But I say, Mary," said he, laughing, "we shall go on playing together the same as ever, sha'n't we? I shall bring my leaden soldiers, and you'll bring your dolls again, won't you?"

But at this moment Mary seized his arm, and whispered in a frightened voice—"Hush, Peter, hush! Don't you hear?"

The music had suddenly ceased, and with it all the talking and laughing at the long table, and in the silence the sound of the church clock could be distinctly heard. It struck one.

At one stroke—the lights went out, a blast of wind blew through the banqueting-room, and then all was as still as death.

* * * * *

LEFT ALONE IN THE DARK—MOTHER—THE PARSNIP-MAN BY DAYLIGHT—THREE POUNDS.

Peter sat in his chair, as if petrified with terror, Mary still holding fast by his arm.

"Quick, quick!" she cried, breathlessly. "We must get away from here." Then she let his arm go, and hurried away from him.

"Wait, wait!" he cried, anxiously; "I don't know where I am. Take me with you, Mary! I can't see my way. Mary! Mary! Mary!"

Nobody replied.

Peter slid down from his chair and groped his way forward till he knocked against the corner of the table. Terror fairly overcame him, and he cried—"Mother! Mother! Mother!"

"What's the matter, dear?" said his mother's gentle voice.

"I am here, Mother," cried Peter; "but I am so frightened! Mary has run away and left me all alone in the dark hall."

"Come, Peter, come; collect yourself," said his mother, who was standing by the bed where poor Peter was sitting straight up with an anxious face, down which big tears were running.

"You're here, Peter, you know; in your own little bed," said his mother, putting her arms round him.

Peter began to take heart a little, and looked round him with big wide-open eyes.

"But how did I get here?" he asked, still stupefied with sleep.

"You've never been anywhere else, you know," said his mother.

"But I know the Parsnip-man took me away, and I rode on the mouse, too," said little Peter.

"Nonsense, nonsense; you're still dreaming. There, get up and put on your clothes."

"But I want the other clothes, the beautiful blue dress. These things are so dreadfully patched and darned," said Peter, in a lamentable tone. "And I have brought something nice for you too, Mother dear. It's in the pockets of the blue coat."

"You haven't got a blue coat, child," said his mother. "Come, come. Put on your clothes and come into the warm kitchen." And she carried Peter out into the arm-chair by the breakfast-table, and began to pour out some coffee for him. And she put the Parsnip-man (who had been lying all night behind the stove) into his hand. "See," she continued, "here's your Parsnip-man, about whom you have been dreaming all this fine nonsense."

Peter examined it with eager eyes. It looked exactly the same as it had done the night before.

"But Mary was there too," he said, still doubtfully. "She is the Queen of the Parsnip-men, you know. And she gave me cake and wine and fruit."

"Well, we'll ask her about it next time she comes," said his mother, laughing.

Just then there was a knock at the door. The mother hastened to open it, and found a messenger waiting with a letter in his hand which had several seals on it. It was addressed to herself, and beside the address was written, "Three pounds enclosed." Having given a small sum to the messenger for his trouble, the widow broke the seals of the letter with trembling fingers. The three pounds were duly enclosed, but no letter accompanied the welcome money.

Overcome with joy, the widow seized Peter, who had crept curiously to her side, in her arms and exclaimed with delight, "Ah! you shall have a nice blue dress, after all, my child."

But when the boy asked, "Who has sent us all this money, Mother?" all she could say was, "I wish I knew, my dear. But you see there is no letter with it."

Then Peter smiled expressively, but said nothing, for he thought—"Mother won't believe me, I know. But who can the money have come from, except from the little Parsnip-man?"



A CHILD'S WISHES.

(From the German of R. Reinick.)

A certain old knight had a little daughter called Gertrude; and when his brother died, leaving an only son, he took the boy into his castle, and treated him as his own son. The boy's name was Walter. The two children lived together like brother and sister; they only played where they could play together, and were of one heart and of one soul. But one day, when Gertrude had gone out alone to pick flowers beyond the castle gate, some gipsies came along the high-road, who stole the child and took her away. No one knew what had become of her; the poor old father died of grief, and Walter wept long days and nights for his Gertrude.

At last there came a warm spring day, when the trees began to bud, and Walter went out into the wood. There, in a beautiful green spot, a brook bubbled under the trees, where he had often sat with Gertrude, floating little boats of nutshells on the stream. He sat down there now, cut himself a hazel stick for a hobby-horse, and as he did so he said to himself—

"Ah! if I were but a grown-up knight, as tall and stately as those who used to come to my uncle's castle, I would ride out into the wide world and look for Gertrude!"

Meanwhile, he heard something screaming near him, and when he looked up he saw a raven, which was stuck so fast between two branches of a tree that it could not move, whilst a snake was gliding towards it to devour it. Walter hastily seized his stick, beat the snake to death, and set the raven free.

"A thousand thanks, my dear child!" said the raven, who had flown up into a tree, from which he spoke—"a thousand thanks! And now, since you have saved my life, wish for whatever you like, and it shall be granted immediately. A year hence we will speak of this again."

When Walter heard this, he saw at once that the raven was an enchanted bird, and exclaimed with joy—

"I should like to be a noble knight with a helmet and a shield, a charger and a sword!"

All happened just as he wished. In an instant he was a tall, stately knight; his shield stood near him, and his hobby-horse became a proud charger, which, to show that it was no ghost, but a real horse of flesh and blood, began then and there to drink out of the stream.

At first, Walter could not think what had happened to him, but stood as if he were in a dream. Soon, however, a new life seemed to wake within him; he swung himself on to his horse with all the energy of youth, and rode far out into the land to look for little Gertrude.

Like other knights, he met with many adventures on his way. There was always something to contend with, either wild beasts or else knights, who, like himself, roved about the country delighting to find any one with whom they could do battle. On every occasion, however, Walter came off conqueror, for he was far more valiant than any of his opponents.

At last, one day he came within sight of a mountain, on which stood a high castle belonging to a certain queen. As he reached the summit, he saw from afar a little maiden, who sat playing with her doll before the castle gate, and when he drew nearer he found that it was his little Gertrude. Then he put spurs to his horse and shouted joyfully—

"Good-day, dear Gertrude!" But the child knew him not. As he drew nearer, he called again: "It is I indeed!—it is Cousin Walter!" but the child believed him not. And when he sprang from his horse to kiss her, and his armour, sword, and spurs rattled and clashed as he did so, the child was afraid that this strange man would hurt her, and she ran away back into the castle.

Poor Walter was very much troubled. He went in, however, and presented himself to the queen, who received him very graciously. He told her all that had happened, and learnt from her that she had bought Gertrude from the gipsies. But when he begged that she would let him take his dear little cousin away with him, she consented only on condition that the child herself should be willing, for Gertrude had become very dear to the old queen. So she called the little maid in, and said—

"Now look here, my child: this really is your Cousin Walter. Do you no longer love him, and will you not go away with him?"

The child looked at the knight from head to foot, and then said in a troubled voice—

"Since you both declare that it is Walter, I suppose I must believe it. Ah! if only he were still as little as he was a year ago, I would go into the wide world with him, wherever he wanted; but now, I never can. It would be no good, whilst he is like that. If I wanted to play hide-and-seek, as we used to do, his armour would shine, and his spurs rattle, and I should know where he was directly. If I wanted to go to school with him, he could not sit by me on the little benches at the little tables. Then what could a poor child like me do for such a stately knight? If I tried to work for him, I should burn my little hands; if I tried to make his clothes, I should prick my little fingers; and if I ran races with him, I should hurt my little feet. If I were a grown-up princess, indeed, it would be a different thing."

Walter could not but feel that what Gertrude said was true. So he took leave of them both, mounted his horse, and rode away; but the queen and Gertrude watched him from the battlements of the castle.

He had not ridden many steps when a voice from a tree called "Walter! Walter!" and when he looked up, there was the raven, who said—

"A year has passed since you wished to be a knight. If you have another wish, speak, and it shall be granted; but observe, what you wished before will then be at an end."

To these last words Walter paid no attention. The raven had no sooner said that he might have another wish than he interrupted it, exclaiming: "Then I wish Gertrude to be a grown-up princess!"

But even as he spoke he himself became a child again, and his horse a hobby-horse, just as they had been a year ago. But when he looked up to the battlements, there stood by the queen a wonderfully beautiful princess, tall and slim and stately; and this was—his Gertrude! Then the boy, taking his hobby-horse, went back up to the castle steps, and wept bitterly. But the queen was sorry for him, took him in, and tried to comfort him.

And now there was another trouble. Dearly as the Princess Gertrude and the boy Walter loved each other, they were not so happy as they should have been. If Walter said to her, "Come, Gertrude, and we'll run races, and jump over the ditches," she would answer, "Oh! that would never do for a princess; what would people say?"

If Walter said, "Come and play hide-and-seek," Gertrude would answer again, "Oh! but that would never do for a princess; I should leave my train hanging on the thorns, and my coronet would be tumbling off my head."

Then if Gertrude asked Walter to bring in some venison for the table, the boy would bring her a mouse instead; and if a bull or a mad dog came after them, Gertrude must snatch Walter up in her arms, and run off with him, for she was so much bigger than he, and could run a great deal quicker. Meanwhile he remained in the castle, and the boy became very dear to the old queen.

Another year passed by, and one morning Gertrude sat under a tree in the garden with her embroidery, whilst Walter played at her feet. Then, as before, a voice called out of the tree, "Walter! Walter!" And when the boy looked up, the raven was sitting on a branch, who said: "Now once more you may wish, and it shall be granted; but this is the last time, therefore think it well over."

But Walter did not think long before he answered: "Ah! let us both be children all our lives long."

And as he wished so it happened. They both became children as before, played together more happily than ever, and were of one heart and of one soul.

But when another year had passed by, and the children sat plucking flowers and singing together in the garden, an angel flew down from heaven, who took them both in his arms and carried them away—away to the celestial gardens of Paradise, where they are yet together, gathering the flowers that never fade, and singing songs so wondrously beautiful, that even the blessed angels hear with joy.



WAR AND THE DEAD.

A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE.

(From the French of Jean Mace.)

Dramatis Personae.

Peace. War. A French Grenadier. A German Hussar. A Scotch Highlander. A Cossack. A Russian Peasant Woman. A French Peasant Woman. A German Peasant Woman. An English Peasant Woman.

Soldiers are lying on the ground. Peace is seated at the back, leaning her elbow on one knee, her head resting on her hand.

Enter War.

War. To-day is the 18th of June, the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo, the day of a wrath which still mutters, and of a hatred yet unappeased. Let us employ it in re-animating this torpid century, which succumbs to the coward sweetness of an inglorious peace. After forty years of forced repose brighter days seemed at last to have returned to me. Twice did I unfurl the old colours in the breeze; twice I made hearts beat as of old at the magic din of battles; and twice that hateful Peace, rising suddenly before me, snatched the yet rusty sword from my hands.

Up! up! O heroes of great battles! you whom twenty-five years of warfare did not satiate: rise from your graves and shame your degenerate successors. Up! up! Bid some remember that they have a revenge to take, and tell others that they are not yet enough avenged.

Peace rises.

Peace. What do you want here, relentless War? Dispute the world of the living with me if you will, but at least respect the peace of the grave.

War. I have a right to summon the Dead when it is in the name of their country.

Peace. The Dead are with God; they have but one country among them.

War. You may dispense with set speeches, most eloquent Peace, for I pay no attention to them. I go forward, and leave talk to chatterers. The world belongs to the brave.

Peace. The world belongs to those who are in the right. Since, however, you will not listen to me, you shall hear the Dead themselves, and see if they agree with you. (Turns to the Dead.) Arise, my children; come and confound those who wish to fight with the bones of the departed.

The Dead rise.

Grenadier. I have slept a long time since Austerlitz. Who are you, comrades?

Hussar. I come from the battle-field of Leipsic, where the great German race broke the yoke which your Emperor had laid upon it.

Grenadier. You were left upon the field?

Hussar. I am proud to say so.

Grenadier. And you are right, old fellow; every man owes himself to his country. We others have done just the same. If you had let us alone in '92 we should not have come to you.

Cossack. I was killed under the walls of Paris, where great Russia went to return the insult she had received at Moscow.

Highlander. I fell at Waterloo, avenging the great English people for the threats of the camp at Boulogne. I drowned in my blood the last effort of your Imperial Eagle.

Grenadier. Well! we are well matched. My blood reddened the plain of Austerlitz, where the great French nation was avenged on Brunswick and Souwaroff. We have all perished, buried in a triumph. We can shake hands upon it.

Cossack. Brave men are equals, in whatever dress. Let us shake hands.

Hussar. We have all died for our country. Let us be brothers.

Highlander. Let us be brothers. The hatreds of earth do not extend beyond the grave.

[They join hands.

Grenadier. And now Peace is proclaimed, let us tell each other what we used to do before we became warriors.

Cossack. I cultivated a piece of ground in the steppes and took care of my old mother.

Highlander. I brought up my daughter by farming a piece of ground which I had cleared on my native heath.

Hussar. I lived with my wife on the piece of land which we cultivated.

Grenadier. I tilled a piece of ground also, and supported my sister. It seems that we were all four of the same way of life. How did we come to kill one another?

Cossack. The Czar spoke, and I marched.

Highlander. Parliament voted for war, and I marched.

Hussar. Our princes cried, "To arms!" and I marched.

Grenadier. As for me, my comrades cried, "To arms!" and I put on my best sabots. But after all, what have we against each other? Where was the quarrel between our respective ploughshares? (To the Hussar.) You, for instance, who began, what did you come into my country for?

Hussar. We came to destroy brigands.

Grenadier. Brigands! That is to say, my unfortunate self, and other labourers like you and me. After this, well might we be made to sing about

"Vile blood soaking our furrows!"

I see now this "vile blood" was yours, my friend, and that of brave men like you. Cursed be those who forced us to fight together!

Hussar. Cursed be the contrivers of War!

War (advancing). Shame on you, degraded warriors! Your very wives would disown you. (The Dead gaze fixedly.) You are silent! What have you to answer?

Peace. The Dead do not reply. (Points with her hand to the stage entrance.) These shall answer for them.

Enter Four Veiled Women.

[One of the Veiled Women slowly advances. When in front of the stage she lifts her veil, and is seen by the audience. The others afterwards do the same.

First Woman. Oh, my brother! where are you now? If you are ill, who nurses you? If you are wounded, who watches over you? If you are a prisoner, who comforts you? If you are dead—Alas! every night I go to rest weeping, because I have had no news of you; and every morning I awake dreading to receive it. We were so happy! We lived so comfortably together! and now I sit at our little table, with your empty place before me, and cannot eat for looking at it. Yet I made you promise to come back when we said good-bye. Ah! unkind! Why are you so long in fulfilling your promise?

[She closes her veil and crosses to one side of the stage. The others afterwards do the same.

Grenadier. It is my sister, friends. She is repeating the words of our last adieu.

Second Woman. Oh, my father! why have you left your child? Alas! when you went away I played—poor fool!—with your brilliant uniform. (Dark livery of death, would that I had never seen thee!) I said I should be proud of you when you came back to me, having killed a great many of your enemies. Child that I was to speak of killing, not knowing what it meant! And now, when will you return? What have they done with you, dear Father? What has become of that revered head, which my lips never approached but with respect? Perhaps at this very moment it is dragged, all stained and livid, through the dust or in the mud. Oh, God! if my prayers may still avail for him, withdraw him speedily from those frightful conflicts, where every blow falls upon a father, a son, a brother, or a husband. Pity the many tears that flow for every drop of blood!

Highlander. It is my daughter! I yet hear the last farewell her innocent mouth sent after me.

Third Woman. Oh, my beloved! where can I go to look for you? Little did we think, when we vowed before God never in this life to forsake each other, that War would come and carry you away as a leaf is driven before the wind. Perhaps at this moment you are stretched upon an armful of bloody straw, and other hands than mine dress your glorious wounds. Ah, miserable me! of what does my tender jealousy complain? Who knows if you are not by this time safe from wounds for ever? Oh, my God! if Thou hast taken him, take me also. I promised to follow him when I received his parting kiss.

Hussar. It is my wife beyond a doubt! I recognize the words her sweet voice murmured that very day in my ear.

Fourth Woman. I said, "Go, and bear yourself like a man." He went, and he has not returned. Ah, merciless tigers! we rear our children with fear and weeping. We pass whole nights bent over their little cradles, and when we have made men of them you come and take them away from us that you may send them to death. And we, miserable women! must encourage them to die if we would not have them dishonoured. Poor dear boy! so strong! so handsome! so good to his mother! Ah! if there be a God of vengeance, surely the cries of desolate mothers will allow no sleep to those who provoke such massacres. They will haunt them to the grave, and rise behind them to the foot of that throne where the great Judge of all awaits them.

[She buries her face in her hands.

Cossack. It is my mother! I recognize her last words. (He springs towards her.) It is I, Mother, it is I! (She raises her head.) What do I see? A stranger! and it is an Englishwoman!

Highlander (raising the daughter's veil). Good heavens! She is a German.

Hussar (raising the wife's veil). It is not she! It is a Frenchwoman.

Grenadier (raising the sister's veil). She is a Russian! It is not for us that they are weeping; perhaps it is for some of those whom we have killed. How could we be so deceived?

Peace (advancing). There are sisters, wives, daughters, and mothers everywhere, my children, and Nature has but one language in all countries. (To WAR.) As for you, go and sound your trumpet in barracks and drinking-houses, but invoke the Dead no more, and do not reckon upon women.

Note.—The battle of Austerlitz was fought December 2, 1805. The battle of Leipsic, August 16-19, 1813. The Allies took Paris March 30, 1814.



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