Saturday's Good Reading: “The Grateful Prince” by Friedrich Reinhold Kreutzwald (translated into English by W. F. Kirby)

 

Once upon a time, the king of the Golden Land lost his way in a forest, and, notwithstanding all his efforts, could not find his way out. Presently he encountered a stranger, who said to him, “What are you doing here, my friend, in this gloomy forest, where only wild beasts dwell?” The king replied, “I have lost my way, and am trying to find the road home.” “If you will promise to give me the first living thing that meets you when you return to your palace, I will show you the right way,” said the stranger.

The king reflected awhile, and then answered, “Why should I run the risk of losing my good hunting-dog? I may perhaps succeed in finding my way home by myself.” The stranger went away, but the king wandered about in the wood till his provisions were exhausted, while he was unable to discover the least trace of the right path. Then the stranger met him a second time, and said, “Promise me the first living thing that meets you on your return to your palace.” But as the king was very obstinate, he refused to promise anything yet. He once more boldly explored the forest backwards and forwards, and at length sank down exhausted under a tree, and thought that his last hour had come. Then the stranger, who was none other than the Old Boy himself, appeared to the king for the third time, and said, “Don’t be a fool. How can you be so fond of your dog that you are unwilling to part with him to save your life? Only promise me what I require, and you will soon be relieved from your anxiety, and your life will be saved.” “My life is worth more than a thousand dogs,” answered the king. “The welfare of a whole country and people is at stake. Let it be so, I will grant your request, if you will only take me home.” He had hardly uttered the words when he found himself at once on the borders of the wood, and could see his palace in the distance. He hurried thither, and the first thing which met him at the gate was the nurse with the royal infant, who stretched out his arms to his father. The king was horrified, and scolded the nurse, telling her to take the child away as quickly as possible. Directly afterwards came his faithful dog, and fawned upon his master, who repulsed his advances with a kick. Innocent dependants often suffer thus for the folly and ill-humour of their superiors.

As soon as the king’s anger had cooled a little, he exchanged his child, a promising boy, for the daughter of a peasant, and thus the prince was reared up in the house of poor people, while the peasant’s daughter slept in silken robes in the royal cradle. In a year’s time, the Old Boy made his appearance to demand his due, and took the little girl with him, supposing her to be the king’s child, for he knew nothing of the artifice by which the children had been changed. The king exulted at the success of his stratagem, and ordered a great feast. He loaded the parents of the stolen child with rich presents, that the prince might want for nothing in the cottage, but did not yet venture to reclaim his son, fearing lest the deception might be discovered. The peasant family were well satisfied with the arrangement, for they had one mouth less to feed, and plenty of food and money.

Meantime the prince grew up to boyhood, and spent a very pleasant life in the house of his foster-parents. But still he was not quite happy, for as soon as he learned how the stratagem had succeeded, he was much grieved that a poor innocent girl should have to suffer the consequences of his father’s thoughtlessness in his place. He formed a fixed resolve either to release the poor girl, if this was possible, or to perish with her. He could not endure the thought of becoming king by the sacrifice of a maiden. One day he secretly disguised himself as a peasant lad, took a bag of peas on his shoulder, and went to the wood where his father had lost his way eighteen years before.

Soon after entering the wood he began to cry out, “O what an unfortunate boy I am! how far I must have wandered from the path! Who will show me the way out of this wood, for there is no human soul to be seen far or near!” Presently a stranger with a long grey beard and a leather pouch at his girdle, like a Tartar, made his appearance. He gave the youth a friendly greeting, adding, “I know this neighbourhood well, and can direct you anywhere you please, if you will promise me a good return.”

“What can a poor lad like me promise you?” answered the artful prince. “I have nothing more than my young life, for even the coat on my body belongs to the master whom I must serve in exchange for food and clothing.”

The stranger looked at the bag of peas on the lad’s shoulder, and remarked, “You can’t be quite destitute, for you carry a bag which seems to be very heavy.”

“There are peas in the bag,” said the prince. “My old aunt died last night, and has left me so much as this, that I may be able to set boiled peas before the watchers of the dead as is the custom in this country. I have begged the peas from my host in the name of God, and was going away with them, when I struck into a forest path as a short cut, and it has led me astray, as you see.”

“Then I conclude, from what you say, that you are an orphan,” observed the stranger with a grin. “If you will enter my service, I happen just to be in want of a handy workman for my small household, and I’ve taken a fancy to you.”

“Why shouldn’t I, if we can come to terms?” replied the prince. “I was born to servitude, and a stranger’s bread is always bitter, so that it matters little to me what master I serve. But what will you promise me for a year’s service?”

“Well,” said the stranger, “you shall have fresh food every day, meat twice a week, and when you work out of doors, butter or herrings as a treat, a full suit of summer and winter clothing, besides two acres of land for your own use.”

“That will suit me,” said the crafty prince. “Let other people bury my aunt; I’ll go with you.”

The Old Boy seemed well pleased at having made such a good stroke of business, and spun round on one foot like a teetotum, hallooing so loud that the wood re-echoed. Then he started off on the road with his new servant, and enlivened the tedium of the way by a variety of jokes, without observing that his companion dropped a pea from his bag at every ten or fifteen paces. The travellers halted for the night in the forest under a large fir-tree, and continued their journey next morning. The sun was already high in the heavens when they reached a large stone. Here the old man stopped, looked sharply round on all sides, whistled loudly, and then stamped on the ground three times with his left foot. Suddenly a secret door opened under the stone, and revealed a covered way like the entrance to a cavern. Then the old man seized the prince’s arm, and said roughly, “Follow me!”

They were in utter darkness, but it seemed to the prince that the path led them deeper and deeper into the earth. After some time a glimmer of light again grew visible, but the light did not resemble that of either the sun or moon. The prince looked up in some alarm, but could see neither sun nor sky; only a mass of shining clouds floated over him, which seemed to canopy this new world, in which everything had a strange appearance. Land and water, trees and plants, animals and birds, all had a different aspect from what he had seen before. But what seemed strangest to him was the wonderful silence around, for there was not a voice or a rustle to be heard anywhere. All was as still as in the grave, and even the prince’s own footsteps made no sound. Here and there a bird might be seen sitting on a bough with stretched-out neck and swelled throat, as if singing, but no sound was audible. The dogs opened their mouths to bark, and the bulls raised their heads to bellow, but neither bark nor bellow could be heard. The water flowed over the gravel without gushing, the wind waved the tops of the trees without rustling, and flies and beetles flew about without buzzing. The Old Boy did not speak a word, and when his companion tried to speak he felt his voice die away in his throat.

Nobody knows how long they travelled through this unearthly silent country. Terror seized on the heart of the prince, his hair stood on end like bristles, and he shivered with fear, when at length, to his great joy, the first sound fell on his straining ears, and seemed to make a real country of this shadowy land. It seemed to him that a great herd of horses was toiling through swampy ground. At last the old man opened his mouth, and said, licking his lips, “The soup kettle’s boiling, and they are expecting us at home.” They went on some distance farther, when the prince thought he heard the sound of a sawmill, in which at least two dozen saws seemed to be at work, but the host said, “My old grandmother is already fast asleep and snoring.”

Presently they reached the top of a hill, and the prince could see the homestead of his new master at some distance, but there were so many buildings that it looked more like a village or an outlying suburb than the residence of a single owner. At length they arrived, and found an empty dog-kennel at the gate. “Creep in there,” said the master, “and lie quiet till I have spoken to my grandmother about you. She is very self-willed, like most old people, and can’t bear a stranger in the house.” The prince crept trembling into the dog-kennel, and began to repent the rashness that had brought him into such a scrape.

After a time the host came back, called the prince from his hiding-place, and said with a wry face, “Take good note of the arrangements of our household, and take care not to go against them, or you might fare very badly.

 

“Keep your eyes and ears both open,

But your mouth fast closed for ever,

And obey without a question:

Think whatever it may please you;

Never speak without permission.”

 

When the prince crossed the threshold, his eyes fell upon a young girl of great beauty, with brown eyes and curly hair. He thought to himself, “If the old man has many such daughters as this, I should be glad to become his son-in-law. The maiden is just to my taste.” The fair maiden laid the table without saying a word, set the food upon it, and then modestly took her place by the hearth, as if she had not observed the stranger. She took out needles and worsted, and began to knit a stocking. The master sat down alone at the table, and did not ask either the man or maid to join him, nor was anything to be seen of the old grandmother. The Old Boy’s appetite was immeasurable, and in a very short time he had made a clean sweep of everything on the table, though it would have been plenty for at least a dozen people. When at last he allowed his jaws to rest, he said to the maiden, “Scrape out what is left at the bottom of the pot and kettle, and content yourselves with the fragments, but throw the bones to the dog.”

The prince’s countenance fell at the idea of this meal from the scrapings of the kettle, which he was to share with the pretty girl and the dog. But he soon recovered his spirits when he found a very nice meal placed on the table from these fragments. During supper he cast many stolen glances at the maiden, and would have given a great deal if he could have ventured to speak to her. But whenever he was on the point of speaking, he met the imploring glance of the maiden, which seemed to say, “Silence!” So the young man allowed his eyes to speak, and gave expression to this dumb language by his good appetite, for the maiden had prepared the supper, and it must be pleasant to her to see that the guest appreciated her cookery. Meantime the old man had lain down on the stovebench, and made the walls re-echo with his snoring.

After supper he roused himself, and said to the prince, “You may rest for two days after your long journey, and look round the house. But come to me to-morrow evening and I will arrange your work for next day, for my household must always set about their work before I get up myself. The girl will show you your lodging.” The prince made an effort to speak, but the old man came down on him like a thunderbolt, and screamed out, “You dog of a servant! if you break the rules of the house, you’ll find yourself a head shorter without more ado. Hold your jaw, and off to bed with you!”

The maiden beckoned him to follow, unlocked a door and signed to him to enter. The prince thought he saw a tear glisten in her eye, and would have been only too glad to loiter on the threshold but he was too much afraid of the old man. “It’s impossible that this beautiful girl can be his daughter,” thought he, “for she has a kind heart. She must be the poor girl who was brought here in my place, and for whose sake I undertook this foolhardy enterprise.” He did not fall asleep for a long time, and even then his uneasy dreams gave him no rest. He dreamed of all sorts of unknown dangers which threatened him, and it was always the form of the fair girl that came to his aid.

When he awoke next morning, his first thought was to do his best to ingratiate himself with the maiden. He found the industrious girl already at work, and helped her to draw water from the well and carry it into the house, chopped wood, kept up the fire under the pots, and helped her in all her other work. In the afternoon he went out to make himself better acquainted with his new abode, and was much surprised that he could find no trace of the old grandmother. He saw a white mare in the stable, and a black cow with a white-headed calf in the enclosure, and in other locked outhouses he thought he heard ducks, geese, fowls, &c. Breakfast and dinner were just as good as last night’s supper, and he would have been very well content with his position, but that it was so very hard to hold his tongue with the maiden opposite him. On the evening of the second day he went to the master to receive his instructions for next day’s work.

The old man said, “I’ll give you an easy job for to-morrow. Take the scythe, and mow as much grass as the white mare needs for her day’s provender, and clean out the stable. But if I should come and find the manger empty or any litter on the floor, it will go badly enough with you. Take good heed!”

The prince was well pleased, for he thought, “I shall soon be able to manage this piece of work, for although I have never handled either plough or scythe before, I have often seen how easily the country-people manage these tools, and I am quite strong enough.” But when he was about to go to bed, the maiden crept in gently, and asked in a low voice, “What work has he given you?” “I’ve an easy task for to-morrow,” answered the prince. “I have only to mow grass for the white mare, and to clean out the stable; that’s all.” “O poor fellow!” sighed the maiden, “how can you ever accomplish it? The white mare is the master’s grandmother, and she is an insatiable creature, for whom twenty mowers could hardly provide the daily fodder, and another twenty would have to work from morning till night to clear the litter from the stable. How will you be able to manage both tasks alone? Take my advice, and follow it exactly. When you have thrown a few loads of grass to the mare, you must plait a strong rope of willow-twigs in her sight. She will ask you what this is for, and you must answer, ‘To bind you up so tightly that you will not feel disposed to eat more than I give you, or to litter the stable after I have cleared it.’ ” As soon as the girl had finished speaking, she slid out of the room as gently as she had come, without giving the youth time to thank her. He repeated her instructions to himself several times, for fear of forgetting anything, and then went to sleep.

Early next morning he set to work. He plied the scythe lustily, and soon mowed down so much grass that he could rake several loads together. He took one load to the mare, but when he returned with the second he found with dismay that the manger was already empty, and that there was half a ton of litter on the floor. He saw now that he would have been lost without the maiden’s good advice, and resolved to follow it at once. He began to plait the rope, when the mare turned her head and asked in astonishment, “My dear son, what do you want with this rope?” “O nothing at all,” he answered; “I am only going to bind you up so tightly that you won’t care to eat more than I choose to give you, or to drop more litter than I choose to carry away.” The white mare looked at him, and sighed deeply once or twice, but it was clear that she understood him, for long after midday there was still fodder in the manger and the floor remained clean. Presently the master came to inspect the work, and when he found everything in good order he was much surprised, and asked, “Are you clever enough to do this yourself, or did any one give you good advice?” But the prince was on his guard, and answered at once, “I have no one to help me but my own poor head and a mighty God in heaven.” The old man was silenced, and left the stable grumbling, but the prince was delighted that everything had succeeded so well.

In the evening the master said, “I have no particular work for you to-morrow, but as the maid has plenty to do in the house, you must milk the black cow. But take care not to leave a drop of milk in the udder. If I find that you have done so, it might cost you your life.” As the prince went away, he thought, “If there is not some trick in this, I cannot find the work hard. Thank God, I have strong fingers, and will not leave a drop of milk behind.” But when he was about to retire to rest, the maiden came to him again, and asked, “What work have you to do to-morrow?” “I’ve a whole holiday to-morrow,” answered the prince. “All I have to do to-morrow is to milk the black cow, and not leave a drop of milk in the udder.” “O you unfortunate fellow!” sighed she, “how will you ever accomplish it? Know, dear young stranger, that if you were to milk the black cow from morning till evening, the milk would continue to flow in one unbroken stream. I am convinced that the old man is bent on your ruin. But fear nothing, for as long as I am alive no harm shall happen to you, if you will remember my advice, and follow it exactly. When you go milking, take a pan full of hot coals, and a smith’s tongs with you. When you reach the place, put the tongs in the fire, and blow the coals to a bright flame. If the black cow asks what this is for, answer her as I am about to whisper in your ear.” Then the maiden crept out of the room on tiptoe as she had come, and the prince lay down to sleep.

The prince got up almost before dawn next day, and went to the cowhouse with the milk-pail in one hand, and a pan of live coals in the other. The black cow looked at his proceedings for a while in silence, and then asked, “What are you doing, my dear son?” “Nothing at all,” he replied; “but some cows have a bad habit of keeping back milk in their udders after they are milked, and in such cases I find hot tongs useful to prevent the chance of any waste.” The black cow sighed deeply and seemed scared. The prince then took the pail, milked the cow dry, and when he tried again after a while he found not a drop of milk in her udder. Some time after the master came into the cowhouse, and as he was also unable to draw a drop of milk, he asked angrily, “Are you so clever yourself, or did any one give you good advice?” But the prince answered as before, “I have no one to help me but my own poor head and a mighty God in heaven.” The old man went off in great vexation.

When the prince went to the master in the evening, the latter said, “There is still a heap of hay in the field that I should like to have brought under cover during dry weather. Bring the hay home to-morrow, but take care not to leave a particle behind, or it might cost you your life.” The prince left the room well pleased, thinking, “It’s no great job to bring hay home. I have only to load it, and the mare must draw it. I won’t spare the master’s grandmother.” In the evening the maiden crept to his side, and asked about his work for to-morrow. The prince said smiling, “I am learning all sorts of farmwork here. I have to bring home a heap of hay to-morrow, and only to take care not to leave a scrap behind. This is all my work for to-morrow.” “O poor fellow!” sighed she, “how will you ever do it? If you were to set to work for a week, with the help of all the inhabitants of a large district, you could not remove this heap. Whatever you took away from the top would grow up again from the ground directly. Mark well what I say. You must get up to-morrow before daybreak, and lead the white mare from the stable, taking with you some strong cords. Then go to the haycock, fasten the cords round it, and then bind them to the mare. When this is done, climb on the haycock, and begin to count one, two, three, four, five, six, and so on. The mare will ask what you are counting, and you must answer her as I whisper.” Then the maiden left the room, and the prince went to bed.

When he awoke next morning, the first thing he remembered was the maiden’s good advice. So he took some strong ropes with him, led out the white mare, and rode on her back to the haycock, but found that the so-called haycock contained at least fifty loads. The prince did all that the maiden had told him, and when he was sitting on the heap, and had counted up to twenty, the white mare asked in surprise, “What are you counting, my dear son?” “Nothing at all,” said he; “I was only amusing myself by counting up the packs of wolves in the forest, but there are so many that I can’t reckon them all up.” He had hardly spoken when the white mare darted off like the wind, and the haycock was safely housed in a few moments. The master was not a little surprised, when he came out after breakfast, to find that the new labourer had already finished his day’s work. He put him the same question as before, and received the same reply; and he went off shaking his head and cursing.

In the evening, the prince went as usual to inquire about his work, and the old man said, “To-morrow you must take the white-headed calf to pasture, but take care that he doesn’t run away, or it might cost you your life.” The prince thought, “There are many ten-year old farm-boys who have whole herds to manage, and surely I can’t find it so very difficult to look after one calf.” But when the maiden heard of it she said, “Know that this calf is so wild that he would run three times round the world in a day. Take this silk thread, and bind one end to the left fore-leg of the calf, and the other to the little toe of your left foot, and then the calf will not be able to stir a step from your side, whether you are walking, standing, or lying down.” Then she left him, and the prince lay down, but it vexed him to think that he had again forgotten to thank her for her good advice.

Next morning he followed the advice of the friendly maiden, and led the calf to the pasture by the silken thread. It remained by his side like a faithful dog, and in the evening he led it back to the stall, where the old man met him angrily, and, after the usual question and answer, went off in a fury, and the prince thought it must be the mention of the holy name which kept him under restraint.

Late in the evening the prince went to his master for instructions, when the old man gave him a bag of barley, saying, “I will give you a holiday to-morrow, and you may sleep as long as you like, but you must work hard to-night instead. Sow me this barley, which will spring up and ripen quickly; then you must cut it, thresh it, and winnow it, so that you can malt it and grind it. You must brew beer of this malt, and when I wake to-morrow morning, you must bring me a jug of fresh beer for my morning drink. Take care to follow my instructions exactly, or it might easily cost you your life.”

This time the prince was quite confounded, and on leaving the room, he stood outside weeping bitterly, and said to himself, “This is my last night, for no mortal can do this work, and the clever maiden’s aid will avail me no longer. O unhappy wretch that I am! why was I so thoughtless as to leave the king’s palace, and thrust myself into this danger! I cannot even lament my unhappy lot to the stars in heaven, for here there are neither stars nor sky. But yet God reigns over all.”

He was still standing with the bag of barley in his hand when the house-door opened and the kind maiden came out. She asked what troubled him so much, and he replied, “Alas! my last hour has come, and we must part for ever. I will tell you all before I die. I am the only son of a great king, from whom I should inherit a mighty empire; but now all hope and happiness are at an end.” Then he told the maiden with tears of the task the old man had laid upon him; but it pained him to see that she did not seem to share his trouble. When he had finished his long story, she smiled and said, “My dear prince, you may sleep quietly to-night, and enjoy yourself all day to-morrow. Take my advice, and don’t despise it because I am only a poor servant-girl. Take this little key, which unlocks the third hen-house, where the Old Boy keeps the spirits who serve him. Throw the bag of barley into the house, and repeat word for word the commands that you have received from the master, and add, ‘If you depart a hair’s breadth from my instructions, you will all perish together; but if you want help, the door of the seventh pen will be open to-night, in which dwell the most powerful of the old man’s spirits.’ ”

The prince carried out all her instructions, and then lay down to sleep. When he awoke in the morning and went to the beer tub, he found it full of beer violently working, with the foam flowing over the edge. He tasted the beer, filled a large jug with the foaming drink, and brought it to his master, who was just getting up. But instead of the thanks which he expected from him, the old man broke out in uncontrollable fury, “That’s not from yourself. I see you have good friends and helpers. All right! we’ll talk again this evening.”

In the evening the old man said, “I have no work for you to-morrow, but you must come to my bedside to-morrow morning, and shake hands with me.”

The prince was amused at the old man’s queer whim, and laughed when he told the maiden. But when she heard it she became very serious, and said, “Now you must look to yourself, for the old man intends to eat you to-morrow morning, and there is only one way of escape. You must heat a shovel red-hot in the stove, and offer it to him instead of your own hand.” Then she hastened away, and the prince went to bed. Next morning he took good care to heat the shovel red-hot before the old man awoke. At last he heard him shouting, “What has become of you, you lazy fellow? Come and shake hands with me.” But when the prince entered the room with the red-hot shovel in his hand, the old man cried out with a whining voice, “I am very ill to-day, and cannot take your hand. But come back this evening to receive my orders.”

The prince loitered about all day, and went to the old man in the evening as usual to receive his commands for the morrow. He found him very friendly, and he said, “I am well pleased with you. Come to me to-morrow morning with the maiden, for I know that you have long been attached to each other, and I will give her to you as your bride.”

The prince would have liked to dance and shout for joy, but by good luck he remembered the strict rules of the house, and kept silent. But when he spoke to his betrothed of his good fortune, and expected that she would receive the news with equal delight, he saw her turn as white as the wall with terror, and her tongue seemed to be paralysed. As soon as she recovered herself a little, she said, “The Old Boy has discovered that I have been your counsellor, and has resolved to destroy us both. We must fly this very night, or we are lost. Take an axe, and strike off the head of the white-headed calf with a heavy blow, and then split the skull in two with a second stroke. In the brain of the calf you will find a shining red reel, which you must bring me. I will arrange whatever else is needful.” The prince thought, “I would rather kill an innocent calf than sacrifice both myself and this dear girl, and if our flight succeeds, I shall see my home once more. The peas I sowed must have sprung up by this time, so that we cannot miss our way.”

He went into the stall, and found the cow and the calf lying asleep near together, and they slept so fast that they did not hear his approach. But when he struck off the calf’s head, the cow groaned very loud, as if she had had a bad dream. He hastened to split the calf’s skull with the second blow, and lo! the whole stall suddenly became as light as if it was day. The red reel fell out of the brain, and shone like a little sun. The prince wrapped it carefully in a cloth, and hid it in his bosom. It was fortunate that the cow did not wake, or she would have begun to roar so loud that she might easily have roused her master too.

The prince found the maiden waiting for him, at the gate with a small bundle on her arm. “Where is the reel?” she whispered. “Here,” replied the prince, and gave it to her. “Now we must hasten our flight,” said she, and she unravelled a small part of the reel from the cloth that its shining light might illuminate the darkness of the way like a lantern. As the prince had expected, the peas had all sprung up, so that they could not miss the way. The maiden then told the prince that she had once overheard a conversation between the old man and his grandmother, and had learned that she was a princess whom the Old Boy had stolen from her parents by a trick. The prince knew the real state of the case better, but kept silence, rejoicing inwardly that he had succeeded in freeing the poor girl. The travellers must have gone a long way before the day began to break.

The Old Boy did not wake till late in the morning, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes for a long time before he remembered that he was going to devour the couple. After waiting for them a good while he said to himself, “Perhaps they haven’t quite finished their preparations for the wedding.” But at last he got tired of waiting so long, and shouted out, “Ahoy, man and maid, what has become of you?” He repeated the cry several times, shouting and cursing, but neither man nor maid appeared. At last he scrambled out of bed in a rage, and went in search of the defaulters. But he found the house empty, and discovered, too, that the beds had not been slept in. Then he rushed into the stall, and when he saw the calf slaughtered and the magic reel stolen, he comprehended all. He cursed till everything was black, and opened the third spirit-house, sending his messengers forth to seek the fugitives. “Bring me them just as you find them, for I must have them,” said the Old Boy, and the spirits flew forth like the wind.

The fugitives were just crossing a great plain, when the maiden suddenly stopped and said, “All is not as it should be. The reel moves in my hand, and we are certainly pursued.” When they looked back, they saw a black cloud rushing towards them with great speed. Then the maiden turned the reel thrice in her hand and said:

 

“Hear me, reel, and reel, O hearken;

Fain would become a streamlet,

Where as fish my lover’s swimming.”

 

Instantly they were both transformed. The maiden flowed away like a brook, and the prince swam in the water like a little fish. The spirits, rushed past, and turned after a time, and flew back home; but they did not touch the brook or the fish. As soon as the pursuers were gone, the brook became a maiden, and the fish a youth, and they continued their journey in human form.

When the spirits returned, weary and empty-handed, the Old Boy asked if they had not noticed anything unusual on their journey.

“Nothing at all,” they answered, “but a brook on the plain, with a single fish swimming in it.”

The old man growled angrily, “There they were! there they were!” lmmediately he threw open the doors of the fifth pen and let out the spirits commanding them to drink up the water of the brook, and to capture the fish; and the spirits flew off like the wind.

The travellers were just approaching the edge of a wood, when the maiden stopped, saying, “All is not as it should be. The reel moves again in my hand.” They looked round, and saw another cloud in the sky, darker than the first, and with red borders. “These are our pursuers,” she cried, and turned the reel three times round in her hand, saying:

 

“Hear me, reel, and reel, O hear me;

Change us bath upan the instant:

I’ll become a wild rose-briar,

And my love a rose upon it.”

 

Instantly the maiden was changed into a wild rose-bush, and the youth hung upon it in the form of a rose. The spirits rushed away over their heads, and did not return for some time; but they saw nothing of the brook and the fish, and they did not trouble about the wild rose-tree. As soon as their pursuers were gone, the rose-tree and the rose again became a maiden and a youth, and after their short rest they hurried away.

“Have you found them?” cried the old man, when the spirits returned and crouched before him.

“No,” answered their leader; “we found neither brook nor fish on the plain.”

“Did you see nothing else remarkable on the way?” asked their master. The leader answered, “We saw nothing but a wild rose-bush on the edge of the wood, with a single rose upon it.” “Fools!” cried the old man, “there they were! there they were!” He threw open the door of the seventh pen, and sent out his most powerful spirits to search for the fugitives. “Bring them me just as you find them, for I must have them, dead or alive. Tear up the accursed rose-tree by the roots, and bring everything else with you that looks strange.” And the spirits rushed forth like a tempest.

The fugitives were just resting in the shade of a wood, and strengthening themselves for further efforts with food and drink. Suddenly the maiden cried out, “All is not right, for the reel feels as if it was being pulled from my bosom. We are certainly again pursued, and the danger is close at hand, but the wood still hides us from our enemies.” Then she took the reel from her bosom, and turned it over three times in her hand, saying:

 

“Hear me reel, and reel, O hear me;

To a puff of wind transform me,

To a gnat transform my lover.”

 

Instantly they were both transformed, and the maiden rose into the air as a puff of wind, and the prince sported in the breeze like a gnat. The mighty host of spirits swept over them like a tempest, and returned some time afterwards, as they could neither find the rose-bush nor anything else remarkable. But they were hardly gone before the youth and the maiden resumed their proper forms, and the maiden cried out, “Now we must make haste, before the old man himself comes to look for us, for he would know us under any disguise.”

They ran on for some distance till they reached the dark passage, which they could easily climb up by the bright light of the reel. They were breathless and exhausted when they reached the great rock; when the maiden again turned the reel three times round, saying:

 

“Hear me, reel, and reel, O hear me;

Let the rock aside be lifted,

And a portal opened for us.”

 

Instantly the rock was lifted, and they found themselves once more upon the earth. “God be praised,” cried the maiden, “we are saved. The Old Boy has no further power over us here, and we can guard against his cunning. But now, my friend, we must part. Do you go to your parents, and I will go to mine.” “By no means,” replied the prince, “I cannot part from you, and you must come with me, and become my wife. You have passed days of sorrow with me, and now it is only right that we should enjoy days of happiness together.” The maiden resisted for a time, but at last she consented to accompany the youth.

They met with a woodcutter in the wood, who told them that there was great trouble in the palace and throughout the whole country, because of the unaccountable disappearance of the king’s son, every trace of whom had been lost for years. The maiden made use of the magic reel to provide the prince with suitable robes in which to present himself to his father. Meanwhile she stayed behind in a peasant’s cottage, till the prince should have informed his father of his adventures.

But the old king had died before the prince’s arrival, for trouble at the loss of his only son had shortened his life. On his death-bed he repented bitterly of his thoughtless promise, and of his treachery in delivering a poor innocent maiden to the old rascal, for which God had punished him by the loss of his son. The prince mourned for the death of his father, as befitted a good son, and buried him with great honours. Then he mourned for three days, refusing all food and drink. On the fourth morning he presented himself to the people as their new ruler, assembled his councillors, and related to them the wonderful things that he had seen and experienced in the Old Boy’s dwelling, and did not forget to say how the clever maiden had saved his life. Then the councillors all exclaimed with one voice, “She must become your consort and our queen.”

When the young king set out to seek his bride, he was much surprised to meet the maiden advancing in regal state. The magic reel had provided her with everything that was necessary, and all the people supposed that she must be the daughter of some very wealthy king, and came from a distant country. Then the wedding festivities commenced, which lasted four weeks, and they lived together in happiness and prosperity for many a pleasant year.

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!