Saturday's Good Reading: “Foundling-Bird” by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm (translated into English by Margaret Hunt.)

There was once a forester who went into the forest to hunt, and as he entered it he heard a sound of screaming as if a little child were there. He followed the sound, and at last came to a high tree, and at the top of this a little child was sitting, for the mother had fallen asleep under the tree with the child, and a bird of prey had seen it in her arms, had flown down, snatched it away, and set it on the high tree.

The forester climbed up, brought the child down, and thought to himself, "Thou wilt take him home with thee, and bring him up with thy Lina." He took it home, therefore, and the two children grew up together. The one, however, which he had found on a tree was called Fundevogel, because a bird had carried it away. Fundevogel and Lina loved each other so dearly that when they did not see each other they were sad.

The forester, however, had an old cook, who one evening took two pails and began to fetch water, and did not go once only, but many times, out to the spring. Lina saw this and said, "Hark you, old Sanna, why are you fetching so much water?" "If thou wilt never repeat it to anyone, I will tell thee why." So Lina said, no, she would never repeat it to anyone, and then the cook said, "Early to-morrow morning, when the forester is out hunting, I will heat the water, and when it is boiling in the kettle, I will throw in Fundevogel, and will boil him in it."

Betimes next morning the forester got up and went out hunting, and when he was gone the children were still in bed. Then Lina said to Fundevogel, "If thou wilt never leave me, I too will never leave thee." Fundevogel said, "Neither now, nor ever will I leave thee." Then said Lina, "Then I will tell thee. Last night, old Sanna carried so many buckets of water into the house that I asked her why she was doing that, and she said that if I would promise not to tell any one she would tell me, and I said I would be sure not to tell any one, and she said that early to-morrow morning when father was out hunting, she would set the kettle full of water, throw thee into it and boil thee; but we will get up quickly, dress ourselves, and go away together."

The two children therefore got up, dressed themselves quickly, and went away. When the water in the kettle was boiling, the cook went into the bed-room to fetch Fundevogel and throw him into it. But when she came in, and went to the beds, both the children were gone. Then she was terribly alarmed, and she said to herself, "What shall I say now when the forester comes home and sees that the children are gone? They must be followed instantly to get them back again."

Then the cook sent three servants after them, who were to run and overtake the children. The children, however, were sitting outside the forest, and when they saw from afar the three servants running, Lina said to Fundevogel, "Never leave me, and I will never leave thee." Fundevogel said, "Neither now, nor ever." Then said Lina, "Do thou become a rose-tree, and I the rose upon it." When the three servants came to the forest, nothing was there but a rose-tree and one rose on it, but the children were nowhere. Then said they, "There is nothing to be done here," and they went home and told the cook that they had seen nothing in the forest but a little rose-bush with one rose on it. Then the old cook scolded and said, "You simpletons, you should have cut the rose-bush in two, and have broken off the rose and brought it home with you; go, and do it once." They had therefore to go out and look for the second time. The children, however, saw them coming from a distance. Then Lina said, "Fundevogel, never leave me, and I will never leave thee." Fundevogel said, "Neither now, nor ever." Said Lina, "Then do thou become a church, and I'll be the chandelier in it." So when the three servants came, nothing was there but a church, with a chandelier in it. They said therefore to each other, "What can we do here, let us go home." When they got home, the cook asked if they had not found them; so they said no, they had found nothing but a church, and that there was a chandelier in it. And the cook scolded them and said, "You fools! why did you not pull the church to pieces, and bring the chandelier home with you?" And now the old cook herself got on her legs, and went with the three servants in pursuit of the children. The children, however, saw from afar that the three servants were coming, and the cook waddling after them. Then said Lina, "Fundevogel, never leave me, and I will never leave thee." Then said Fundevogel, "Neither now, nor ever." Said Lina, "Be a fishpond, and I will be the duck upon it." The cook, however, came up to them, and when she saw the pond she lay down by it, and was about to drink it up. But the duck swam quickly to her, seized her head in its beak and drew her into the water, and there the old witch had to drown. Then the children went home together, and were heartily delighted, and if they are not dead, they are living still.

Wednesday's Good Reading: “Cheridah's Valentine” by Roland Ashford Phillips (in English)

 

When Cheridah first found the valentine, picking it from the jumbled mass of others on the long counter, she gave a quick little sob, and pressed it close to her heart, for all the world as if she had come upon a diamond in the coal bin. She was alone behind the counter at the time, otherwise Mr. Rowland, the dignified floorwalker, might have objected seriously to such a demonstration on the part of a mere saleslady.

After the thrill of the discovery was past, Cheridah's shining eyes devoured every detail of the gaudy, multicolored token.

"It's just the same," she murmured, over and over again, her voice tremulous. "It's just the same. Oh, I wonder——"

The valentine was a built-up affair, generously trimmed with paper lace, and resplendent with tinsel. On each corner were white flying doves with outspreading wings, carrying letters in their bills; in the center was a reproduction of a heavy door across which a pink-and-white cupid, perched on a cloud, held up entwined hearts, arrow-pierced. Lifting the door, one was greeted with these words:

 

"Uf you lofe me

As I lofe you—

No knife can't cut

Our lofe in two pieces. Ain't it?"

 

To Cheridah these lines—their grotesque humor so out of key with the rest of the valentine—brought back remembrance of a day, five years earlier, when Hezekiah Saunders, bashful, freckled-faced sixteen, had slipped this valentine's counterpart into her desk at recess. Being fourteen, Cheridah Hawkins had been both flattered and flustered.

The five long years that intervened between the time she had first glanced upon this valentine at school, and the present, when she gazed upon it—or at least upon its replica—in the stuffy, artificially lighted basement of the Store Stupendous, were years fruitful with history; dark, unpleasant, and bitter history.

Somehow Cheridah had never recalled the past so vividly as she did at this moment, standing there behind the counter, her fingers pressing the tawdry trinket—beautiful in her eyes—against her black shirt waist. The hot tears came suddenly and continued unchecked, slipping down her cheek; her lips quivered.

"Miss Downs!" A voice lifted commandingly, shattering her visions as a rifle ball might shatter a pane of glass. "Pay attention! Can't you see there's customers waiting?"

It was Mr. Howland, the refined floorwalker, who had interrupted. With tremulous fingers Cheridah tucked the valentine beneath the long tray, and bent her attentions upon serving the customers which the big sign—"TO-DAY AT 49 c."—lured to the counter.

For the rest of the day some vague fear possessed her that the valentine might be sold, and to prevent such a catastrophe she determined to keep it hidden where she had first slipped it—beneath the tray and the showcase. Of course, forty-nine cents wasn't any great sum, but to Cheridah it represented half a day's work; and where one figured debits and credits as closely as she was compelled to—owing to a generous salary from the department store—a five-cent piece loomed as large as a full moon. But Saturday night was pay night, and then she would buy it, if for nothing more than to take home and hang on the nail in the wall that now held her curling irons.

Foolish? She tried to persuade herself that it was foolish for her to do this; but somehow, like a dose of bitter medicine, it wouldn't down. Of course, Hezekiah Saunders had long since forgotten her. She had treated him shamefully back home, when he vised to carry her books from the little country school, and sometimes take her to the barn dances and to the ice-cream socials at the church.

And Hezekiah—poor, faithful boy—had been the only one at the train that day she left the little country town of Ceetuckett, and set her face toward great, pitiless New York. He had urged her to remain; he was buying a farm—a very good one, too. Soon he would be able to move upon it and if she would only come with him and—and—— How he had pressed her warm fingers for the last time, and fought manfully against the tears that would not stay back.

"I'll wait for you. Cheridah," he had said, just before the train started. "There's nothing in the city but misery and pain and sorrow. You'll find out pretty soon, and you'll come back."

But Cheridah, being seventeen, and believing she possessed a wonderful voice, only pitied the boy. Hadn't her friends told her she was just cut out for grand opera?

"After all," she reasoned to herself, "Hez is only a farmer boy, and he doesn't know."

In her own narrow way she saw the heights to climb, and the worlds to win. How foolish it was of Hezekiah to think she could stay on the old farm and fight down the ambition which leaped like fire in her veins. She was made for a greater world than that; she was born to dwell in the city of big things. So she had put him out of her mind. It is easy at seventeen, when art beckons.

But a mere voice proved to be unreliable as a provider of food, shelter, and clothes. A hall bedroom soon became her palace, and the Supreme Lunch her banquet hall. Determination, once so firmly rooted, shriveled up like a thirsty flower. So the three years exacted their toll by painting little shadows beneath her eyes, and chiseling tiny lines around her mouth, and pressing a heavy hand on her slim shoulders. When her money was all gone—the pittance left by her mother's will—and the voice found no market, Cheridah gained an existence in return for labor at the Store Stupendous.

For the first year Hezekiah had written often; the second less frequently, probably because she found little time in which to answer him. The last year had brought silence. Besides, she had moved often, and had neglected to mention the new address.

 

II

That night, in the seclusion of her hall bedroom—what a poor place in comparison to the one she slept in under the low eaves at home on the farm, with the apple tree brushing the window and the crickets singing out in the dim, sweet-smelling meadows, and the clean air that fairly made one glad they were alive—Cheridah went to the bottom of her trunk, and found Hezekiah's picture. Then she gave way to tears.

After a while, Bessie tapped at the door and came in. Bessie was another cog in the business wheel of the Store Stupendous. The two girls lived at the same dreary boarding house. Bessie saw the photograph on Cheridah's dresser, went over, and studied it critically.

"He's a nice, clean-looking chap," she observed.

Cheridah nodded. Why hadn't she thought so three years ago?

"Do you love him?" Bessie asked.

"Oh, Bess!" And before she was really aware of it, Cheridah was pouring out the whole story.

"That's all this old burg is made up of," was Bessie's comment. "The too-late folks! The kind that chuck real happiness for a lot of glitter. Listen here, Cherry. This town's like frosting on a cake of soap. It tastes fine until you bite deep. It's all froth and false alarm, and there isn't anything on the level. Believe your Aunt Bess. I know. I've been here for ten years."

"Did you come here to——" Cheridah began.

"No." Bessie shook her head. "I came here because I had to. There wasn't anything else for me to do. But you—— Why, if any man had offered me his love and the beautiful country for a home, and freedom from this grinding city, I'd have thanked Heaven every weekday and twice on Sunday. Get that?"

"I didn't know—then," Cheridah faltered. "I didn't know. I thought I was being held down on a farm, I thought all the real folks lived in the city, and—and——" She broke down and sobbed. "Oh, to see the waving fields once more, Bess, and to hear the old dinner bell, and to eat flapjacks again! That's life, isn't it?"

Bessie nodded. "All but the flapjacks," she said. "They are too much like the wheats they're always browning at the Supreme Lunch."

"And to pick the wild flowers," Cheridah went on, her voice low. "To help with the haying and hunt for nests in the stubble! And I remember the old apple tree that used to whisper at my bedroom window, and tell me the most wonderful stories. Of course they were all dreams, but—but I know the old tree told them to me. All the birds used to love it, too, and in the spring it would deck itself with the most wonderful pink-and-white flowers."

Bessie was still gazing at the picture. "Haven't you ever heard from him since he quit writing? I mean heard about him?" she asked.

"I used to get a paper once in a while," Cheridah answered. "I don't know who sent it. Sometimes I'd read about him. He's got the farm all paid for now, and—and——"

"And probably he's found another girl," Bessie said. "Men are that way. You can't blame them, after all. Maybe he's married and got a nice home, and living the real life."

A great lump came into Cheridah's throat. It must have been about the size of one of the wee oranges at the Supreme Lunch. And the only way she could conquer it was to cry. Bessie dropped the picture and put both arms consolingly about her.

"There, there," she said, like a mother. "Of course it hurts, dear. But don't let it get your goat. I've got so I don't think there's anything in life worth crying over. Honest I don't."

That night, long after Bessie had gone, and the little room was flooded with moonlight, Cheridah lay in bed, her face buried in the pillow. At times she would stop crying and listen for the whispering of the old apple tree. And then she would remember.

 

III

For the next two days Cheridah guarded the valentine with all the jealous care of a mother watching her babe. One day at the noon hour, when the shoppers were few; and she was alone behind the counter, she wrote her name very faintly under the flying cupid. She didn't mean to keep it there—but suddenly the refined and dignified Mr. Howland pounced upon her, and she had to return it to the usual hiding place.

On Saturday she found that Bessie was ordered to help her at the valentine counter. At noon Cheridah went out to get a bag of peanuts for lunch, and when she returned the valentine counter had been removed.

"Your counter's in the rear of the basement," Mr. Howland explained hurriedly. "We needed this space for the silk remnants."

Almost frantically Cheridah gained the counter, and relieved Bessie. The first thing she did was to feel beneath the long tray. Then the truth crashed upon her. The trays, in being removed, had disclosed the valentine, and some one had tossed it back among the others. With eager fingers Cheridah searched the jumbled mass over. But it was useless. The flying doves and the cupid had been sold.

Her heart sank. It was foolish, of course, to allow such an insignificant thing as a gaudy paper valentine with some grotesque, bad rhymes in broken English to affect her; but somehow, despite her mental argument, she felt miserable, heartbroken. When she got back to the Store Stupendous, Bessie greeted her with wondering eyes.

"Say, pal," were her words, "you're looking too pale around the gills to be in right. What's eating you now?"

"Oh, nothing," Cheridah evaded. "Just blue, I guess."

At nine o'clock that Saturday night, when the store closed, Cheridah hurried out alone, avoided the regular route, and walked all the way home. It was misty and chilly, and the first sharp particles of hardened snow were slanting with the wind and stabbing at her cheeks. Broadway was ablaze with lights and animated with crowds, despite the weather. Cheridah darted off into a side street, and continued on her way. The next day, Sunday, she spent in her room. She refused to go out with Bessie.

"Why won't you tell me what's the matter?" Bessie asked. "Maybe there's something I could do to help you, dearie."

But Cheridah only shook her head. "There's nothing you can do, thanks."

On Monday Cheridah felt so ill—not knowing for certain whether it was mental or physical pain—that she sent word down by Bessie that she was unable to work.

At five o'clock, eager for a breath of fresh air, she got out the warmest wraps she had, and determined to take a walk around the block. Several times while she was dressing the doorbell rang. She paid no attention to it until it occurred to her that the maid and landlady were both out. She hurried downstairs into the dim hall, and opened the door to find an angry messenger boy in the vestibule.

"Are you Miss Cherry-day Hawkins?" he inquired impatiently, stamping his cold feet.

"Yes, I'm Miss Hawkins," she replied, wondering.

"Here's somethin' for yer." The boy thrust it into her extended hand. "Sign dis; right dere." He pushed a book at her.

She signed, and the messenger dashed away. When she had shut the door and lighted the gas she looked again at the packet in her hand. With pulses aflutter, she broke the cord and seal. The paper came away. Then she leaned back dizzily against the hatrack. It was the precious valentine!

What did it mean? Who could have sent it? Who knew her address except—— She started. Bessie must have done this as a surprise for her! Yes, surely it was Bessie! But——

Quite absently she lifted the flap. For a moment the ten-cent store pictures on the wall whirled in her vision. Only a frantic ringing of the bell again brought her back to realization. She groped her way toward the door as if in the dark. She opened it.

"Cheridah!" somebody cried. She could not utter a sound, try as she did. She stumbled forward as if some mighty hand had pushed her. Then a pair of strong arms gathered her close.

"Cherry, dear," the familiar voice was saying, "I've found you—found you at last, sweetheart!"

She opened her eyes and saw clearly now. The warm, eager blood surged in her veins; her heart pounded.

"Oh, Hezekiah! Oh, Hezekiah!" That was all she could say.

He kissed her on the cheeks and accidentally on the left ear.

"I've had the hardest time finding you," he said, laughing, although his eyes were moist. "Why didn't you write me? Why——"

"Oh, I've—I've been ashamed," she stammered.

"I came into New York last week," he said. "And I've been looking the town over. Day after day I stood and watched the rushing crowds on Broad- way, thinking to see your face. And then the other day I went into a store and saw some valentines. And right on top of the whole pile was the dove-and-cupid one—the same kind I sent you a long time ago at school, the one with the funny Dutch words. Remember?" He laughed boyishly, and patted her cheek. Cheridah clung to him. She would hold him close as long as possible before she woke up—if it should turn out to be a dream.

"Yes, the very same kind of valentine, Cherry," she heard him saying. "And, Lord! My eyes got so wet I felt ashamed. But I bought it. I don't even know what made me. I guess some good angel does, though," he added, in a lower voice. "And only yesterday, when I was looking at it I saw your name under the flap!"

"I—I wrote it there," she said, laughing for joy.

"I just couldn't believe my eyes at first," he went on. "I sort of turned sick. Then how I suffered all day Sunday! I was at the store the minute it opened Monday morning—that's to-day. The girl at the counter gave me your address—and maybe she didn't look at me in a funny way! I sent the valentine and came on the heels of the boy."

"I—I read about you—in the Geetuckett papers," she said.

"Did you? Well, that isn't half as good as seeing me, is it?" he replied modestly. "Now, you pack up, right away. We're going to leave this town. We're never going to see it again, Cherry. Why, you and me will have the finest pickle farm in the county. You wouldn't recognize the place now, dear. I've built the finest little house—and it's all ready, waiting for you. And, Cherry," he added, "there's a big apple tree; its branches reach into the bedroom window. I had it set out there—three years ago. Next month it will be in blossom."

"I know, I know!" she exclaimed rapturously. "I've heard that tree whispering."

in Top-Notch Magazine #5 -  Street & Smith, 1 March 1913.  

Saturday's Good Reading: “O Rouxinol” by Hans Christian Andersen (translated into Portuguese by Monteiro Lobato).

 

A China, Vocês sabem, o imperador é chinês e todos que vivem em redor dele são chineses.

Há muito e muitos anos o palácio do imperador da China era o mais belo de todos os palácios do mundo; basta dizer que fora construído inteiro de porcelana finíssima — tão fina e frágil que ninguém tinha ânimo de nele tocar nem com a ponta do dedo. Nos jardins viam-se as flores mais esquisitas, com minúsculas campainhas de prata amarradas nas pétalas; o vento fazia retinir esses sininhos chamando a atenção dos passantes. Tudo mais nos jardins do imperador era desse gosto e a tal distância se prolongavam que nem os jardineiros sabiam onde era o fim. Mas se alguém conseguisse chegar ao fim dos jardins veria que davam para uma floresta de enormes árvores e muitos lagos fundos. A floresta ia descendo até uma praia e mergulhava num mar, de modo que em certo ponto os navios navegavam por cima das ramagens. Naquela floresta morava um rouxinol de maravilhoso canto. Que músicas sabia esse passarinho! Os pescadores que passavam por perto, de caminho aos lagos, esqueciam-se dos peixes para ouvi-lo.

Viajantes vinham de todas as partes do mundo para admirar o palácio e os jardins do imperador da China, mas quando ouviam o canto do rouxinol murmuravam extasiados: "Isto vale mais que tudo!" E ao regressarem para suas terras contavam as maravilhas vistas e escreviam livros e livros sobre o palácio e os jardins, sem nunca se esquecerem do rouxinol que valia mais que tudo. Os que eram poetas faziam lindas poesias sobre a maravilhosa avezinha cantora da floresta dos lagos.

Esses livros começaram a correr mundo e um deles foi parar nas mãos do imperador, que ficou a lê-lo em seu trono de ouro, volta e meia balançando a cabeça para indicar que estava satisfeito com o que diziam a respeito dos seus jardins e palácios. Mas esse livro também acabava com a mesma observação de todos os viajantes sobre o rouxinol, considerando-o superior a tudo.

— Que é isto? indagou o soberano. Não sei de nada! Será possível que exista semelhante passarinho em minhas terras, em meu próprio jardim, e eu o ignore?

E chamou o mordomo, que era um personagem de tal importância que se alguém falava com ele a única resposta recebida era "Pf!" som que não quer dizer coisa nenhuma.

— Deve haver um passarinho muito notável, chamado rouxinol, disse-lhe o imperador. Os viajantes declaram que é a maior maravilha que viram no meu reino. Por que nunca me disseram nada a respeito?

— Jamais ouvi falar dele, Majestade, respondeu o mordomo, e creio que nunca foi apresentado à corte.

Pois ordeno que venha cantar diante de mim esta mesma noite, disse o soberano. O mundo inteiro sabe que esse rouxinol existe e eu o desconheço...

— Jamais ouvi falar dele, repetiu o mordomo, mas farei que seja procurado e introduzido perante Vossa Majestade.

Muito fácil de dizer, mas onde encontrar o rouxinol? O mordomo consultou toda a gente do palácio e de ninguém obteve a menor informação a respeito. Foi ter com o imperador e disse que o tal rouxinol com certeza era peta de quem escreveu o livro.

— Vossa Majestade não deve crer em tudo quanto está nos livros; muita coisa é fantasia poética da arte negra (eles chamam arte negra à arte de escrever, por causa da tinta).

— Mas o livro em que li isso, replicou o soberano, foi-me enviado pelo muito alto e poderoso imperador do Japão — e de nenhum modo pode conter falsidade. Quero ouvir o rouxinol! Quero ouvi-lo esta noite. E se não vier, toda a corte será passada a fio de espada, logo depois da ceia.

— Tsing-pe! murmurou humildemente o mordomo, e voltou a correr o palácio inteirinho, onde falou com todo o mundo, porque era necessário descobrir-se, fosse lá como fosse, o tal rouxinol maravilhoso; do contrário perderiam todos a vida naquela mesma noite.

Depois de muita correria encontraram na cozinha do palácio uma pequena ajudante de cozinheira que disse:

— Um rouxinol? Oh, conheço esse rouxinol que canta maravilhosamente. Eu costumo levar os restos de comida para minha mãe doente; ela mora perto da praia, e quando volto, e me sinto cansada, sento-me debaixo duma árvore da floresta e ouço o rouxinol cantar. E tão lindo ele canta, que eu choro sem querer, porque é o mesmo que se minha mãe estivesse me beijando.

— Menina, disse o mordomo, arranjarei para você um emprego nesta cozinha e ainda darei licença para que assista ao jantar do imperador, se nos mostrar o caminho que vai ter à floresta desse rouxinol.

Momentos depois chegavam à floresta em questão. Metade da corte, pelo menos, seguira a menina. Súbito, uma vaca mugiu.

— Oh, exclamou um dos cortesãos, lá está ele! E que força de pulmões tem, para um corpinho tão pequeno! Mas... parece-me que já ouvi este canto nalgum lugar...

— Bolas! exclamou a menina. Isso é uma vaca que está berrando. Estamos ainda longe.

Mais adiante uma rã coaxou num brejo.

— Magnífico! exclamou outro cortesão. É ele! Canta que parece sino de igreja!...

— Qual o que, disse a menina. Isso é uma rã do brejo!

Mas afinal chegaram ao ponto onde o rouxinol costumava aparecer e imediatamente ouviram seu gorjeio.

— Lá está o rouxinol! gritou a menina. Devagar agora, se não foge. Ali, naquela árvore. Olhem, olhem! E aquele passarinho escuro!...

— Será possível! duvidou o mordomo. Nunca imaginei coisa assim. Tão singelo e sem cor. Com certeza perdeu as cores de assombro de ver tanta gente notável aqui reunida.

— Rouxinolzinho, gritou a menina, o nosso poderoso imperador deseja que você vá cantar diante dele esta noite.

— Com o maior prazer, respondeu o passarinho, e para dar amostra do seu canto gorjeou a sua linda música extasiando a todos.

— Parece som de cristal, disse o mordomo, e olhem como palpita a gargantinha dele! É espantoso que nunca ouvíssemos falar dessa ave! Vai fazer um enorme sucesso na corte.

— Quer que cante mais um pouco para o imperador ouvir? inquiriu o rouxinol, certo que algum daqueles figurões era o soberano.

— Meu querido rouxinolzinho, respondeu o mordomo, o imperador não está aqui, e eu o convido para comparecer hoje de noite no palácio imperial, onde Sua Majestade o espera ansioso.

— É muito melhor o meu canto ouvido na floresta do que num palácio, mas irei, já que o imperador o quer.

Os preparativos no palácio para receber o rouxinol foram magníficos. As paredes de porcelana brilhavam, batidas da luz de mil lâmpadas de ouro; as mais raras flores, todas com os seus sininhos de prata, enfeitavam os corredores, fazendo tanto barulho que ali ninguém podia conversar.

No centro do salão onde estava o imperador em seu trono havia um poleiro de ouro para o rouxinol, Toda a corte se colocara lado a lado, à espera, e a menina da cozinha ficou a espiar pelo vão da porta, visto que ainda não obtivera o cargo prometido pelo mordomo. Todos tinham os olhos na avezinha, para o qual o imperador fez sinal de começar.

E o rouxinol cantou e cantou tão maravilhosamente bem que lágrimas começaram a deslizar pelas faces do imperador. O seu encanto foi tamanho que ele resolveu pôr em redor do pescoço da avezinha um colar de diamantes mas o rouxinol recusou, achando que já se achava sobejamente recompensado.

— Vi lágrimas nos olhos de Vossa Majestade, disse ele, e isso vale para mim pela mais alta recompensa. As lágrimas do imperador possuem a virtude de ser o maior dos prêmios.

E continuou a cantar.

— Isto é a mais bela música que ainda ouvi! disseram as damas presentes e puseram água na boca a fim de ficarem com a fala líquida ou fluida, como era a vozinha do rouxinol. Até a criadagem do palácio ficou maravilhada — o que é de estranhar, porque justamente os criados são os mais exigentes. O sucesso do rouxinol havia sido completo.

O Imperador convidou-o para ficar residindo ali, numa gaiola de ouro, da qual podia sair duas vezes de dia e uma de noite — sempre acompanhado de dois fâmulos a segurarem uma fita de seda amarrada a um dos seus pezinhos. Aquele modo de viver, entretanto, não lhe agradava e só servia para avivar as saudades da vida livre da floresta.

Em toda a cidade o assunto era aquele — o rouxinol. Numerosas crianças foram batizadas com o seu nome, mas nenhuma mostrou possuir a sua gargantinha de cristal.

Um dia o imperador recebeu uma caixa de presente.

— Há de ser algum novo livro a respeito do famoso pássaro, pensou consigo. Mas não era livro nenhum e sim um rouxinol artificial, feito de diamantes, safiras e rubis. Quando lhe davam corda, cantava uma das músicas do rouxinol de verdade, e também estremecia a caudinha, toda rutilante de pedrarias. Em redor do seu pescoço vinha uma fitinha com estes dizeres: "O rouxinol do Imperador do Japão é pobre comparado com o rouxinol do Imperador da China."

— Maravilhoso! exclamaram todos os presentes, e o portador da ave artificial foi imediatamente nomeado para um cargo novo Imperial Trazedor do Rouxinol Imperial.

— Eles agora precisam cantar em dueto, este e o outro, lembraram os cortesãos. Vai ser um assombro.

A ideia foi aceita com entusiasmo e o duelo teve logo início. Mas a tentativa não deu resultado porque o rouxinol de verdade cantava como queria e o outro só de acordo com a corda.

—Não é culpa do rouxinol novo, observou o maestro do palácio, porque este está certo, visto como marca os compassos segundo os princípios da minha escola — e foi então ordenado que o rouxinol artificial cantasse sozinho. O seu sucesso foi muito maior que o obtido pelo rouxinol real — e além disso era ele muito mais agradável à vista, por causa das pedrarias foi a opinião de todos.

Trinta e três vezes cantou a mesma música sem cansar-se, e cantaria ainda outras se o Imperador não declarasse que era tempo de ser ouvido o rouxinol real. Mas... onde estava ele? Ninguém o tinha visto escapar-se da gaiola e sumir-se pela janela.

—Como foi isso? indagou o Imperador magoado — e todos os cortesãos recriminaram a avezinha como profundamente ingrata.

— Mas o melhor ficou, disseram logo em seguida, e o rouxinol artificial foi posto a cantar novamente, e cantou pela trigésima quarta vez a mesma música. O maestro do palácio disse dele ainda maiores louvores, continuando a afirmar que era na realidade muito melhor que o outro, além de ser incomparavelmente mais lindo.

— Vossa Majestade compreende o valor desta jóia, explicou o maestro ao Imperador. Com o outro não podíamos saber nunca que música viria, mas com este temos a certeza do que vai cantar. Podemos analisá-lo, abri-lo, ver o que tem dentro e admirar a maravilha do engenho humano.

— Realmente! afirmaram todos os presentes. O maestro tem toda a razão — e combinaram exibi-lo ao povo no próximo domingo, depois de obtida do Imperador a necessária licença.

Fez-se com grande sucesso a exibição; o povo ouviu-o cantar com o mesmo prazer com que toma chá, porque eram todos chineses e para o chinês nada como o chá. Todos, menos um. Um pescador que já havia ouvido o rouxinol na floresta, só esse não gostou.

— Canta bem, não há dúvida, dissera esse homem, mas só canta uma certa música, e além disso noto que falta qualquer coisa nessa música — o que, não sei.

Mas para a grande massa do povo vencera o rouxinol artificial, e em vista disso o verdadeiro foi banido da China por um decreto do soberano.

O novo vencedor viu-se colocado sobre um coxim de seda, ao lado do leito do imperador, no meio de um monte de jóias e pedrarias. Foi-lhe dado o título de Imperial Cantor da Câmara Imperial, com direito ao lado esquerdo do soberano, que é o lado mais importante por ser o lado do coração. O maestro do palácio escreveu uma obra em vinte e cinco volumes sobre a jóia cantora, obra tão cheia daquelas letras chinesas desenhadas com tinta nanquim, que ninguém leu — e se alguém lesse não entenderia. Mas todos a admiraram para não correrem o risco de ser tidos como estúpidos.

Um ano passou-se. Tanto o Imperador, como toda a sua corte e ainda o povo chinês, aprenderam de cor, sem escapar um sonzinho, a célebre música do rouxinol. E todos a cantavam. Até nas ruas a meninada ia para as escolas cantando a cantiga do rouxinol imperial.

Certa manhã, em que o rouxinol estava pela milésima vez cantando a sua música para o imperador, qualquer coisa dentro dele estalou — craque! e o silêncio se fez.

O imperador pulou da cama onde se achava e chamou pelo médico do palácio. Mas o médico, apesar de grande sábio, nada pode fazer.

Foi chamado um relojoeiro, que abriu o rouxinol e procurou consertá-lo. As molas estavam gastas e se se pusessem outras a música se alteraria. Foram apesar disso mudadas as molas, e para que não se gastassem como as primeiras, o imperador declarou que ele só cantaria uma vez por ano. O maestro do palácio fez um longo discurso para provar que a música mudara um pouco, mas era ainda melhor que a primitiva — o todos tiveram de achar que sim.

Cinco anos mais tarde uma desgraça caiu sobre o império: o imperador adoecera de doença grave. Vendo que o soberano estava nas últimas, os ministros providenciaram para a imediata escolha do seu sucessor. O povo aglomerado em frente ao palácio ansiava por saber do mordomo como ia passando o velho soberano; mas o mordomo aparecia e emitia apenas aquele seu célebre "Pf!" que não significava coisa nenhuma.

O imperador jazia muito pálido e desfigurado em seu leito, e sozinho, porque todos os cortesãos só queriam saber de rodear o futuro soberano. Os criados tinham corrido a servir o novo sol e as camareiras também — e como os corredores próximos haviam sido tapetados para que nenhum rumor fosse feito, o silêncio em torno do velho Imperador era mortal.

O pobre soberano mal podia respirar; sentia um grande peso no coração e, abrindo os olhos, viu que o vulto da Morte estava sentado sobre o seu peito, com a sua coroa na cabeça, o seu cetro numa das mãos descarnadas e a sua espada na outra. Estranhos seres espiavam detrás dos reposteiros de veludo. Eram as más ações do soberano que vinham espiá-lo, agora que a Morte se sentara em cima do seu peito.

— Lembra-se de mim? murmurava uma, fazendo caretas.

— E de mim? murmurava outra, e tantas foram as perguntas desse gênero que o imperador começou a suar frio.

— Oh! exclamou ele, horrorizado. Música! Que soem os tambores! Não quero ouvir o que estas sombras me dizem!

Mas as sombras das suas más ações continuaram a fazer-se lembradas e a Morte concordava com a cabeça com tudo quanto elas diziam.

— Música! Música! vociferava o soberano. Meu rouxinol de ouro, canta, canta! Dei-te todas as honras e te pus ao pescoço o meu colar de diamantes. Cante, eu ordeno, canta!

— Mas o rouxinol artificial conservou-se mudo — estava sem corda — e sem corda não podia cantar ainda com ordem do imperador. E a Morte continuava a encarar firmemente o moribundo com as suas órbitas ocas, no silêncio tumular que envolvia tudo.

Súbito, uma melodia estranha soou à janela. Vinha lá de fora, da garganta dum rouxinol vivo que pousara num galho. Era o rouxinol da floresta, que ouvira o apelo do moribundo e se apressara em vir confortar sua pobre alma dolorida. E à medida que ia cantando, os fantasmas do quarto se iam esvaindo e o sangue voltava a circular com mais vida nas veias do Imperador. Até a própria Morte se pôs a ouvi-lo, maravilhada, murmurando a espaços:

— Continue, rouxinolzinho! Continue...

— Só continuarei se você me der essa coroa.

A morte tirou da sua cabeça a coroa do Imperador e deu-a ao rouxinol — e o rouxinol cantou mais uma canção. A Morte pediu mais música — e o rouxinol para cada nova canção exigia uma das coisas que ela já havia tirado do Imperador — o cetro, a espada, o estandarte.

E o rouxinol cantou, cantou como os rouxinóis costumam cantar nos jardins sombrios, ao cair da noite, quando o orvalho começa a misturar-se aos perfumes das flores sonolentas. Por fim a Morte esvaiu-se do quarto, como um nevoeiro que se extingue ao sol.

— Obrigado! Obrigado, meu maravilhoso amigo! Conheço-te muito bem. Foste por mim mesmo banido dos meus domínios e no entanto vieste afugentar do meu quarto os horrendos monstros que me torturavam. Como poderei recompensar-te do bem que me fizeste?

— Recompensado estou, respondeu o rouxinol. Já vi lágrimas em vossos olhos, da primeira vez que cantei — e não me esquecerei disso nunca. Dormi, Imperador, dormi que o sono vos restaurará as forças. Eu continuarei a cantar para embalo do vosso sono.

E cantou, cantou, cantou até ver o soberano profundamente adormecido.

O sol já batia de novo em sua janela quando o Imperador caiu do sono, refeito da doença e curado. Nenhum dos seus serviçais aparecera no quarto, porque todos já o supunham falecido. Só o rouxinol lhe fazia companhia, lá do galho a cantar.

—Ficarás agora sempre comigo, disse o Imperador e cantarás sempre que eu pedir. O outro, o teu rival de diamantes e rubis, será despedaçado.

— Por que isso? disse a avezinha. Ele cantou enquanto pode. Conservai-o como antes. Eu não posso construir meu ninho aqui, nem viver no palácio, mas virei sempre que puder, e pousarei neste galhinho, perto desta janela, e cantarei para Vossa Majestade apenas. Cantarei em prol dos que sofrem, dos que injustamente são afastados da vossa presença pelos maus cortesãos. Isso porque sou um cantorzinho que voa por toda a parte, e pousa no teto dos camponeses humildes e dos pescadores paupérrimos, e de toda a gente que vive longe da corte e nem sequer é por ela suspeitada. Eu amo mais o vosso coração do que a vossa coroa. Virei cantar apenas para vós — mas haveis de prometer-me uma coisa.

— Prometo tudo quanto pedires! disse o Imperador erguendo o punho da espada como testemunha.

— Quero que ninguém saiba que Vossa Majestade possui uma avezinha que lhe conta tudo.

Disse e voou para longe.

Os criados vieram afinal espiar o cadáver do velho Imperador... Mas o seu assombro não teve limites quando o cadáver se ergueu na cama e lhes disse, muito amavelmente:

— Bons olhos os vejam, amigos!

Wednesday's Good Reading: "Madschun" as retold by Andrew Lang

 in the Olive Book of Fairy Tales .

adapted from Turkische Volksmärchen aus Stambul. Dr. Ignaz Künos. E. J. Brill. Leiden

 

Once upon a time there lived, in a small cottage among some hills, a woman with her son, and, to her great grief, the young man, though hardly more than twenty years of age, had not as much hair on his head as a baby. But, old as he looked, the youth was very idle, and whatever trade his mother put him to he refused to work, and in a few days always came home again.

On a fine summer morning he was lying as usual half asleep in the little garden in front of the cottage when the sultan's daughter came riding by, followed by a number of gaily dressed ladies. The youth lazily raised himself on his elbow to look at her, and that one glance changed his whole nature.

'I will marry her and nobody else,' he thought. And jumping up, he went to find his mother.

'You must go at once to the sultan, and tell him that I want his daughter for my wife,' he said.

'WHAT ?' shouted the old woman, shrinking back into a corner, for nothing but sudden madness could explain suc an amazing errand.

'Don't you understand ? You must go at once to the sultan and tell him that I want his daughter for my wife,' repeated the youth impatiently.

'But -- but, do you know what you are saying ?' stammered the mother. 'You will learn no trade, and have only the five gold pieces left you by your father, and can you really expect that the sultan would give his daughter to a penniless bald-pate like you ?'

'That is my affair; do as I bid you.' And neither day nor night did her son cease tormenting her, till, in despair, she put on her best clothes, and wrapped her veil about her, and went over the hill to the palace.

It was the day that the sultan set apart for hearing the complaints and petitions of his people, so the woman found no difficulty in gaining admission to his presence.

'Do not think me mad, O Excellency,' she began, 'though I know I must seem like it. But I have a son who, since his eyes have rested on the veiled face of the princess, has not left me in peace day or night till I consented to come to the palace, and to ask your Excellency for your daughter's hand. It was in vain I answered that my head might pay the forfeit of my boldness, he would listen to nothing. Therefore am I here; do with me even as you will !'

Now the sultan always loved anything out of the common, and this situation was new indeed. So, instead of ordering the trembling creature to be flogged or cast into prison, as some other sovereigns might have done, he merely said: 'Bid your son come hither.'

The old woman stared in astonishment at such a reply. But when the sultan repeated his words even more gently than before, and did not look in anywise angered, she took courage, and bowing again she hastened homeward.

'Well, how have you sped ?' asked her son eagerly as she crossed the threshold.

'You are to go up to the palace without delay, and speak to the sultan himself,' replied the mother. And when he heard the good news, his face lightened up so wonderfully that his mother thought what a pity it was that he had no hair, as then he would be quite handsome.

'Ah, the lightning will not fly more swiftly,' cried he. And in another instant he was out of her sight.

When the sultan beheld the bald head of his daughter's wooer, he no longer felt in the mood for joking, and resolved that he must somehow or other shake himself free of such an unwelcome lover. But as he had summoned the young man to the palace, he could hardly dismiss him without a reason, so he hastily said:

'I hear you wish to marry my daughter ? Well and good. But the man who is to be her husband must first collect all the birds in the world, and bring them into the gardens of the palace; for hitherto no birds have made their homes in the trees.'

The young man was filled with despair at the sultan's words. How was he to snare all these birds ? and even if he did succeed in catching them it would take years to carry them to the palace ! Still, he was too proud to let the sultan think that he had given up the princess without a struggle, so he took a road that led past the palace and walked on, not noticing whither he went.

In this manner a week slipped by, and at length he found himself crossing a desert with great rocks scattered here and there. In the shadow cast by one of these was seated a holy man or dervish, as he was called, who motioned to the youth to sit beside him.

'Something is troubling you, my son,' said the holy man; 'tell me what it is, as I may be able to help you.'

'O, my father,' answered the youth, 'I wish to marry the princess of my country; but the sultan refuses to give her to me unless I can collect all the birds in the world and bring them into his garden. And how can I, or any other man, do that ?'

'Do not despair,' replied the dervish, 'it is not so difficult as it sounds. Two days' journey from here, in the path of the setting sun, there stands a cypress tree, larger than any other cypress that grows upon the earth. Sit down where the shadow is darkest, close to the trunk, and keep very still. By-and-by you will hear a mighty rushing of wings, and all the birds in the world will come and nestle in the branches. Be careful not to make a sound till everything is quiet again, and then say "Madschun !" At that the birds will be forced to remain. where they are -- not one can move from its perch; and you will be able to place them all over your head and arms and body, and in this way you must carry them to the sultan.'

With a glad heart the young man thanked the dervish, and paid such close heed to his directions that, a few days later, a strange figure covered with soft feathers walked into the presence of the sultan. The princess's father was filled with surprise, for never had he seen such a sight before. Oh ! how lovely were those little bodies, and bright frightened eyes ! Soon a gentle stirring was heard, and what a multitude of wings unfolded themselves: blue wings, yellow wings, red wings, green wings. And when the young man whispered 'Go,' they first flew in circles round the sultan's head, and then disappeared through the open window, to choose homes in the garden.

'I have done your bidding, O Sultan, and now give me the princess,' said the youth. And the sultan answered hurriedly:

'Yes ! oh, yes ! you have pleased me well! Only one thing remains to turn you into a husband that any girl might desire. That head of yours, you know -- it is so very bald ! Get it covered with nice thick curly hair, and then I will give you my daughter. You are so clever that I am sure this will give you no trouble at all.'

Silently the young man listened to the sultan's words, and silently he sat in his mother's kitchen for many days to come, till, one morning, the news reached him that the sultan had betrothed his daughter to the son of the wizir, and that the wedding was to be celebrated without delay in the palace. With that he arose in wrath, and made his way quickly and secretly to a side door, used only by the workmen who kept the building in repair, and, unseen by anyone, he made his way into the mosque, and then entered the palace by a gallery which opened straight into the great hail. Here the bride and bridegroom and two or three friends were assembled, waiting for the appearance of the sultan for the contract to be signed.

'Madschun !' whispered the youth from above. And instantly everyone remained rooted to the ground; and some messengers whom the sultan had sent to see that all was ready shared the same fate.

At length, angry and impatient, the sultan went down to behold with his own eyes what had happened, but as nobody could give him any explanation, he bade one of his attendants to fetch a magician, who dwelt near one of the city gates, to remove the spell which had been cast by some evil genius.

'It is your own fault,' said the magician, when he had heard the sultan's story. 'If you had not broken your promise to the young man, your daughter would not have had this ill befall her. Now there is only one remedy, and the bridegroom you have chosen must yield his place to the bald-headed youth.'

Sore though he was in his heart, the sultan knew that the magician was wiser than he, and despatched his most trusted servants to seek out the young man without a moment's delay and bring him to the palace. The youth, who all this time had been hiding behind a pillar, smiled to himself when he heard these words, and, hastening home, he said to his mother: 'If messengers from the sultan should come here and ask for me, be sure you answer that it is a long while since I went away, and that you cannot tell where I may be, but that if they will give you money enough for your journey, as you are very poor, you will do your best to find me.' Then he hid himself in the loft above, so that he could listen to all that passed.

The next minute someone knocked loudly at the door, and the old woman jumped up and opened it.

'Is your bald-headed son here ?' asked the man outside. 'If so, let him come with me, as the sultan wishes to speak with him directly.'

'Alas ! sir,' replied the woman, putting a corner of her veil to her eyes, 'he left me long since, and since that day no news of him has reached me.'

'Oh ! good lady, can you not guess where he may be ? The sultan intends to bestow on him the hand of his daughter, and he is certain to give a large reward to the man who brings him back.'

'He never told me whither he was going,' answered the crone, shaking her head. 'But it is a great honour that the sultan does him, and well worth some trouble. There are places where, perhaps, he may be found, but they are known to me only, and I am a poor woman and have no money for the journey.'

'Oh ! that will not stand in the way,' cried the man. 'In this purse are a thousand gold pieces; spend them freely. Tell me where I can find him and you shall have as many more.'

'Very well,' said she, 'it is a bargain; and now farewell, for I must make some preparations; but in a few days at furthest you shall hear from me.'

For nearly a week both the old woman and her son were careful not to leave the house till it was dark, lest they should be seen by any of the neighbours, and as they did not even kindle a fire or light a lantern, every-one supposed that the cottage was deserted. At length, one fine morning, the young man got up early and dressed himself, and put on his best turban, and after a hasty breakfast took the road to the palace.

The huge negro before the door evidently expected him, for without a word he let him pass, and another attendant who was waiting inside conducted him straight into the presence of the sultan, who welcomed him gladly.

'Ah, my son ! where have you hidden yourself all this time ?' said he. And the bald-headed man answered:

'Oh, Sultan ! Fairly I won your daughter, but you broke your word, and would not give her to me. Then my home grew hateful to me, and I set out to wander through the world ! But now that you have repented of your ill-faith, I have come to claim the wife who is mine of right. Therefore bid your wizir prepare the contract.'

So a fresh, contract was prepared, and at the wish of the new bridegroom was signed by the sultan and the wizir in the chamber where they met. After this was done, the youth begged the sultan to lead him to the princess, and together they entered the big hall, where everyone was standing exactly as they were when the young man had uttered the fatal word.

'Can you remove the spell ?' asked the sultan anxiously.

'I think so,' replied the young man (who, to say the truth, was a little anxious himself), and stepping forward, he cried:

'Let the victims of Madschun be free !'

No sooner were the words uttered than the statues returned to life, and the bride placed her hand joyfully in that of her new bridegroom. As for the old one, he vanished completely, and no one ever knew what became of him.