Saturday's Good Reading: "Prince Csihan (Nettles)" according W. Henry Jones and Lewis L. Kropf (in English).

 

There was once -- I don't know where, at the other side of seven times seven countries, or even beyond them, on the tumble-down side of a tumble-down stove -- a poplar-tree, and this poplar-tree had sixty-five branches, and on every branch sat sixty-six crows; and may those who don't listen to my story have their eyes picked out by those crows!

There was a miller who was so proud that had he stepped on an egg he would not have broken it.

There was a time when the mill was in full work, but once as he was tired of his mill-work he said, "May God take me out of this mill!"

Now, this miller had an auger, a saw, and an adze, and he set off over seven times seven countries, and never found a mill. So his wish was fulfilled. On he went, roaming about, till at last he found on the bank of the Gagy, below Martonos, a tumble-down mill, which was covered with nettles. Here he began to build, and he worked, and by the time the mill was finished all his stockings were worn into holes and his garments all tattered and torn. He then stood expecting people to come and have their flour ground; but no one ever came.

One day the twelve huntsmen of the king were chasing a fox; and it came to where the miller was, and said to him: "Hide me, miller, and you shall be rewarded for your kindness."

"Where shall I hide you," said the miller, "seeing that I possess nothing but the clothes I stand in?"

"There is an old torn sack lying beside that trough," replied the fox. "Throw it over me, and, when the dogs come, drive them away with your broom."

When the huntsmen came they asked the miller if he had seen a fox pass that way.

"How could I have seen it; for, behold, I have nothing but the clothes I stand in?"

With that the huntsmen left, and in a little while the fox came out and said, "Miller, I thank you for your kindness; for you have preserved me, and saved my life. I am anxious to do you a good turn if I can. Tell me, do you want to get married?"

"My dear little fox," said the miller, "if I could get a wife, who would come here of her own free will, I don't say that I would not -- indeed, there is no other way of my getting one; for I can't go among the spinning-girls in these clothes."

The fox took leave of the miller, and, in less than a quarter of an hour, he returned with a piece of copper in his mouth. "Here you are, miller," said he. "Put this away, you will want it ere long."

The miller put it away, and the fox departed; but, before long, he came back with a lump of gold in his mouth. "Put this away, also," said he to the miller, "as you will need it before long."

"And now," said the fox, "wouldn't you like to get married?"

"Well, my dear little fox," said the miller, "I am quite willing to do so at any moment, as that is my special desire."

The fox vanished again, but soon returned with a lump of diamond in his mouth. "Well, miller," said the fox, "I will not ask you any more to get married; I will get you a wife myself. And now give me that piece of copper I gave you."

Then, taking it in his mouth, the fox started off over seven times seven countries, and travelled till he came to King Yellow Hammer's.

"Good day, most gracious King Yellow Hammer," said the fox. "My life and death are in your majesty's hands. I have heard that you have an unmarried daughter. I am a messenger from Prince Csihan, who has sent me to ask for your daughter as his wife."

"I will give her with pleasure, my dear little fox," replied King Yellow Hammer. "I will not refuse her; on the contrary, I give her with great pleasure; but I would do so more willingly if I saw to whom she is to be married -- even as it is, I will not refuse her."

The fox accepted the king's proposal, and they fixed a day upon which they would fetch the lady.

"Very well," said the fox; and, taking leave of the king, set off with the ring to the miller.

''Now then, miller," said the fox, "you are no longer a miller, but Prince Csihan, and on a certain day and hour you must be ready to start. But, first of all, give me that lump of gold I gave you that I may take it to His Majesty King Yellow Hammer, so that he may not think you are a nobody."

The fox then started off to the king. "Good day, most gracious king, my father. Prince Csihan has sent this lump of gold to my father the king that he may spend it in preparing for the wedding, and that he might change it, as Prince Csihan has no smaller change, his gold all being in lumps like this."

"Well," reasoned King Yellow Hammer, "I am not sending my daughter to a bad sort of place, for although I am a king I have no such lumps of gold lying about in my palace."

The fox then returned home to Prince Csihan.

"Now then, Prince Csihan," said he, "I have arrived safely, you see. Prepare yourself to start tomorrow."

Next morning he appeared before Prince Csihan. "Are you ready?" asked he.

"Oh! yes, I am ready; I can start at any moment, as I got ready long ago."

With this they started over seven times seven lands.

As they passed a hedge the fox said, "Prince Csihan, do you see that splendid castle?"

"How could I help seeing it, my dear little fox."

"Well," replied the fox, "in that castle dwells your wife."

On they went, when suddenly the fox said, "Take off the clothes you have on, let us put them into this hollow tree, and then burn them, so that we may get rid of them."

"You are right, we won't have them, nor any like them."

Then said the fox, "Prince Csihan, go into the river and take a bath."

Having done so the prince said, "Now I've done."

"All right," said the fox; "go and sit in the forest until I go into the king's presence."

The fox set off and arrived at King Yellow Hammer's castle.

"Alas! my gracious king, my life and my death are in thy hands. I started with Prince Csihan with three loaded wagons and a carriage and six horses, and I've just managed to get the prince naked out of the water."

The king raised his hands in despair, exclaiming, "Where hast thou left my dear son-in-law, little fox?"

"Most gracious king, I left him in such-and-such a place in the forest."

The king at once ordered four horses to be put to a carriage, and then looked up the robes he wore in his younger days and ordered them to be put in the carriage; the coachman and footman to take their places, the fox sitting on the box. When they arrived at the forest the fox got down, and the footman, carrying the clothes upon his arm, took them to Prince Csihan.

Then said the fox to the servant, "Don't you dress the prince, he will do it more becomingly himself."

He then made Prince Csihan arise, and said, "Come here, Prince Csihan, don't stare at yourself too much when you get dressed in these clothes, else the king might think you were not used to such robes."

Prince Csihan got dressed, and drove off to the king.

When they arrived, King Yellow Hammer took his son-in-law in his arms and said, "Thanks be to God, my dear future son-in-law, for that he has preserved thee from the great waters; and now let us send for the clergyman and let the marriage take place."

The grand ceremony over, they remained at the court of the king.

One day, a month or so after they were married, the princess said to Prince Csihan, "My dear treasure, don't you think it would be as well to go and see your realm?"

Prince Csihan left the room in great sorrow, and went towards the stables in great trouble-to get ready for the journey he could no longer postpone. Here he met the fox lolling about. As the prince came his tears rolled down upon the straw.

"Hollo! Prince Csihan, what's the matter?" cried the fox.

"Quite enough," was the reply. "My dear wife insists upon going to see my home."

"All right," said the fox; "prepare yourself, Prince Csihan, and we will go."

The prince went off to his castle and said, "Dear wife, get ready; we will start at once."

The king ordered out a carriage and six, and three wagons loaded with treasure and money, so that they might have all they needed. So they started off.

Then said the fox, "Now, Prince Csihan, wherever I go you must follow."

So they went over seven times seven countries. As they travelled they met a herd of oxen. "Now, herdsmen," said the fox, "if you won't say that this herd belongs to the Vasfogu Bába, but to Prince Csihan, you shall have a handsome present."

With this the fox left them, and ran straight to the Vasfogu Bába. "Good day, my mother," said he.

"Welcome, my son," replied she. "It's a good thing for you that you called me your mother, else I would have crushed your bones smaller than poppy-seed."

"Alas! my mother," said the fox, "don't let us waste our time talking such nonsense, the French are coming!"

"Oh! my dear son, hide me away somewhere!" cried the old woman.

"I know of a bottomless lake," thought the fox; and he took her and left her on the bank, saying, "Now, my dear old mother, wash your feet here until I return."

The fox then left the Vasfogu Bába, and went to Prince Csihan, whom he found standing in the same place where he left him.

He began to swear and rave at him fearfully. "Why didn't you drive on after me? come along at once."

They arrived at the Vasfogu's great castle, and took possession of a suite of apartments. Here they found everything the heart could wish for, and at night all went to bed in peace.

Suddenly the fox remembered that the Vasfogu Bába had no proper abode yet, and set off to her. "I hear, my dear son," said she, "that the horses with their bells have arrived; take me away to another place."

The fox crept up behind her, gave her a push, and she fell into the bottomless lake, and was drowned, leaving all her vast property to Prince Csihan.

"You were born under a lucky star, my prince," said the fox, when he returned; "for see I have placed you in possession of all this great wealth."

In his joy the prince gave a great feast to celebrate his coming into his property, so that the people from Bánczida to Zsukhajna were feasted royally, but he gave them no drink.

"Now," said the fox to himself, "after all this feasting I will sham illness, and see what treatment I shall receive at his hands in return for all my kindness to him."

So Mr. Fox became dreadfully ill, he moaned and groaned so fearfully that the neighbors made complaint to the prince.

"Seize him," said the prince, "and pitch him out on the dunghill."

So the poor fox was thrown out on the dunghill.

One day Prince Csihan was passing that way. "You a prince!" muttered the fox; "you are nothing else but a miller; would you like to be a house-holder such as you were at the nettle-mill?"

The prince was terrified by this speech of the fox, so terrified that he nearly fainted.

"Oh! dear little fox, do not do that," cried the prince, "and I promise you on my royal word that I will give you the same food as I have, and that so long as I live you shall be my dearest friend and you shall be honored as my greatest benefactor."

He then ordered the fox to be taken to the castle, and to sit at the royal table, nor did he ever forget him again. So they lived happily ever after, and do yet, if they are not dead. May they be your guests tomorrow!

Saturday's Good Reading: “Phantoms” by Laurence R. D'Orsay (in English)

 

The only man who knew the story was Carson, and he never told it. He was as hard-headed a man as you could find in the country and his pride was that he wasn't superstitious.

When Sellars called on him that evening he left the monstrous tale in Carson's breast. True, he repudiated, ten minutes later, the confession made, evidently, in a moment of weakness.

"You can't go back on your statements like that, Sellars," the physician said quietly. "Even if the hop has so undermined your system that it's but a matter of weeks, you're not insane. You are as sane as I am, and you're lying to me when you try to get out of it like that."

"Swear to me that you'll never tell—never tell. All made up of whole cloth—spun you a yarn—don't know why. All rot, Carson, old man. Promise—to forget it!"

"I would promise, and welcome," said the other slowly, "if it weren't for the victims. The child, man! You know, Sellars, your case is serious. If you die with that on your soul! I guess I'm old-fashioned and all that; but the child, apart from the—the other thing—abandoned, as you say, in the woods! See a priest—let me call in Father Quinn. My God, Sellars!"

Sellars laughed, a trifle uneasily The doctor's blue eyes widened with horror.

"You won't see a priest, Sellars?" he pleaded.

"No, damn the priest—damn you, if you believe the rot I gave you a while back. I made it up—always was a bit theatrical—I lied—"

"You lie now, Sellars, you know that"; and the keen eyes bored to the shrunken soul rattling in the frail body before him. "Stop lying, man. You are about to die; it's no use blinking the fact. Common decency, even if you have no respect for religion—"

With an oath, the other turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

 

 

Yes, Martha was dead and gone There was no doubt about that. Yet, as Sellars glanced uneasily about the one little room comprizing the old ramshackle cabin in the midst of the marsh, he had an eery sensation that she was present. He had a feeling that she was trying to impress her presence on him, that she was vainly trying to communicate with him.

This was the third day that he had passed alone in the old cabin since Martha died. But three days—they seemed like years. Like years it seemed since he had returned in his skiff from Vallejo to his home above the inlet and Martha, noting his drunken state, had started the argument.

It had degenerated into the usual squabble, for both were of uncertain temper. Martha, womanlike, seeing that she was being worsted in the argument, had pushed him through the door of the cabin, causing him to land full-length in the sticky mud outside.

Then he had risen in a towering rage and, grabbing a heavy iron bar, had dealt a terrific blow at his wife's head, expecting to see her dodge as on many similar occasions. But she had slipped and lost her balance, and with a crunching, sickening sound the bar had descended on her unprotected head. He could see her now, lying where she had dropped without a cry or groan.

Horrified and frightened, he had poured cold water on her upturned face, had slapped and chafed her wrists. Finally, in a frenzy of terror, he had placed his hand over her heart. There was no movement, not even a flutter. Martha was dead, her head crushed in by the frightful blow.

He had sought the hypodermic needle again, and his fears had fallen from him. He had picked up the baby and taken it to the outskirts of Suisun. Someone would find it and give it a home.

But as the drug gradually wore off, he had fallen a prey to remorse and fear, and at last had fled to Carson for comfort and counsel. And, God pity him, he had not had the courage to go through with it!

Sellars straightened up and glanced around. To his fervid imagination, a thousand pairs of eyes seemed watching him. The leaves on the trees and bushes near by, rustling in the wind, sounded like accusing voices. A crane rose from the swamp with a mighty flapping of wings and a shrill, harsh cry, causing Sellars' flesh to creep and his hair to stand on end. What if the crane had seen, and was now trying to attract man's attention to the murderous deed?

Martha's body had been disposed of in a shallow grave quickly dug in the soft, muddy ground. It was covered over with damp earth. Sellars breathed a sigh of relief. All the same, if only the crane hadn't seen!

How gloomy and depressing the old cabin seemed! The very air seemed weighted with an unearthly, deathly chill. And those unseen eyes—watching—watching his every movement. . .

He had been aware of their presence for two years and more, long before Martha died. The doctor had said "hallucinations," but Sellars knew better. At night, out at his lines or setting his nets, he had been conscious of ghostly whispers and strange murmurs, which quivered in the air about him. He could not shake off that strange sensation that invisible eyes were watching him out of the misty, damp air that hovered over the swamp.

The mysterious sounds were more noticeable in foggy or rainy weather; in fact, several times, when out late at night, he had seen mistlike shapes dogging his footsteps. He had at last come to the firm conviction that the air around the swamp was inhabited by a peculiar group of phantoms, whose forms were almost visible in damp or foggy weather.

Foggy, stormy, gloomy! And the wind this evening whistled across the swamp with a mournful intensity, like a legion of demons turned adrift, seeking for some human being to destroy. Every moment Sellars, sitting there, expected to see the cabin torn apart and its debris scattered broadcast over the swamp. The rain came down in torrents, dripping down the chimney and threatening to extinguish the small fire in the open hearth.

If only Martha were not buried so close to the house! Again and again he felt certain that some one was trying to force open the door. Tiptoeing over, he listened intently. He imagined he could see misty shapes peering in through the solitary window. A damp chill was in the room, despite the fire.

He rolled a barrel of water against the door, then fastened a large sheet of cardboard across the window. The misty shapes, furious that their view was obstructed, pointed ghostly, accusing fingers in his direction.

 

 

The night wore on, and Sellars was unafraid. He pulled a writing tablet towards him and began to write, laughing at the foiled phantom shapes outside.

He dozed off to sleep, only to awake with a shriek of terror and that strange, intangible feeling that the house was surrounded by invisible beings, ready to pounce upon him the moment he stepped outside. And then a cold perspiration stood on his forehead. What if the piece of cardboard which he had fastened across the window should fail to resist their attempts to force it?

With terrified eyes he glanced across the room. The cardboard still protected the window. But Martha seemed to be in the room; and so strong was this feeling that, although he could not see her, he caught himself speaking to her and waiting for her to answer. She seemed, somehow, to be in the room sewing or knitting in the old, familiar way; and yet she was buried in the shallow grave outside the cabin. . . .

What a gloomy place the cabin was! He saw something on the threshold, but as he looked again it was not there. He searched every nook and corner of the room, even going down on his knees and looking under the bed. He could discover nothing. Finally he decided that it must have been the cat; it was now purring lazily before the hearth, and he gave it a vicious kick and began to prepare hot coffee.

But the wind began to rise, and the rain beat against the window pane in a steady downpour. A chill crept over Sellars; the cat was mewing eerily. At times the cabin rocked and swayed with the fury of the gale. Again he was sure that Martha was in the room—quite close to him now—seeking to communicate with him.

There was a loud rapping at the door, a loud, insistent knocking, as if some one demanded admittance.

In a voice trembling with fear, Sellars asked who was there. No response came, but the latch clicked as if some one were trying to open the door.

Panic-stricken, Sellars sat at the table, muttering incoherently to himself. He noticed that the cat, with arched back and hair standing straight in the air, dived under the bed and continued to spit and mew.

Again that knocking on the door, making it quiver on its frail hinges. Then the bar that secured it on the inside began to move slowly out of its socket!

Sellars half attempted to rise from his chair, with the intention of holding the bar in its place, but he was powerless to move. The cat gave a wild screech and dashed through the flame and smoke of the hearth up the wide chimney.

A loud click of the latch, and the door swung open. With eyes starting from their sockets, Sellars, nearly crazed with terror, watched several misty shapes circling round the threshold. They changed and drifted in the wind like phantom forms of fog or smoke.

The desperate man's hand flew for the revolver in his hip-pocket. As he grasped the weapon, the foremost of the phantoms glided up to where he sat. His brain reeled as he felt a pair of ice-cold hands encircle his wrists. His hands were held as in a vise.

Sellars tried to struggle to his feet, but other hands forced him with irresistible pressure back into the chair. His elbow knocked the lamp from the table. It overturned on the floor; and at that moment the fire on the hearth went out, leaving the room in utter darkness.

The rain and wind had suddenly ceased. The cat, on the roof, was mewing in an agony of terror. Far across the swamp, the bell of one of the channel buoys sent out a mournful sound, like the bell in the belfry of a church as a funeral approaches.

The chill, clammy hands that encircled Sellars' wrists with a slow, steady pressure forced the muzzle of his revolver against his forehead. He tried desperately to resist, but he was as putty in the grip of those unseen hands.

And then, in a far corner of the room, he saw Martha. And her face was red with blood from the wound he had inflicted.

Sellars made a desperate effort to rise from his chair. The thought flashed through his mind that if he could reach her he would be saved. But in the grip of those uncanny, unearthly forces he was powerless.

The muzzle of the revolver was forced back slowly, irresistibly. Now, like the finger of fate, it pointed directly at his forehead.

A pressure on his finger, a flash of fire before his eyes! Martha swayed forward as if to embrace—drifting through space, drifting, drift—. . . .

 

 

"Suicide," said Carson, at the inquest. "A constitution undermined by long and excessive use of alcohol and drugs. Brain snapped. Undoubtedly he was already insane when he killed his wife."

"But what about the statement in deceased's handwriting, containing what purported to be a record of the happenings of the hours immediately preceding his death?" asked the coroner. "That seems rational enough."

"Alcohol and drugs," said the doctor shortly. "Hallucinations."

And he turned abruptly, as if he were glad to have done with the case. For Carson was as hard-headed a man as you could find in the country, and his pride was that he wasn't superstitious.

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

 

No de uma floresta havia nascido um pinheirinho.

A natureza o plantara num lugar arejado onde podia tomar bastante sol, e o rodeara de outros pinheiros. De todos, porém, era ele o menor. E isto o entristecia, tornando-o ansioso por crescer e igualar-se aos seus companheiros. Pouca importância dava à luz do sol, às brisas leves que sopravam e às crianças que passavam por ali em busca de framboesas e outras frutas silvestres. Era comum virem as crianças com cestinhas cheias de framboesas sentar-se junto ao pequeno pinheiro, exclamando alegres: "Que linda arvorezinha!" Mas ele se conservava indiferente e insensível a qualquer elogio.

Passando um ano viu-se crescido de mais um nó, e o mesmo se deu no ano seguinte, pois os pinheirinhos crescem aos nós, de ano em ano. Calcula-se a idade deles pelo número de nós que mostram no tronco.

— Por que não sou do mesmo tamanho dos meus companheiros? suspirava o pinheirinho. Como não há de ser bom poder contemplar o mundo lá de cima! Pássaros viriam construir ninhos em meus galhos e quando o vento soprasse eu me curvaria com a mesma dignidade dos meus irmãos.

Nada o agradava. Nem as carícias do sol, nem os passarinhos, nem as nuvens que sobre ele passavam pela manhã e à tardinha. Durante o inverno, quando o alvo manto da neve atapetava o solo, acontecia muitas vezes surgir alguma lebre espavorida que na carreira saltava por cima dele. Como isto o acabrunhava! Mas decorridos mais dois invernos já a lebre se via obrigada a passar sob os seus galhos.

— Oh, como desejo crescer, crescer, tornar-me alto, grande como os outros! almejo tanto neste mundo como ser grande!

Com a entrada do outono apareciam na floresta homens de machado em punho, em busca das árvores mais desenvolvidas. Como isto acontecesse regularmente todo os anos, o pinheirinho, já agora bem crescido, tremeu

ao pensar que talvez viesse a ter o mesmo destino dos outros irmãos seus, que tombavam fragorosamente a golpes de machado. Os lenhadores lhes aparavam os galhos, deixando os troncos tão nus e compridos que mal se poderia reconhecer neles os esbeltos pinheiros de horas antes. Eram em seguida postos sobre rodas e puxados para fora da floresta.

Para onde iriam? Que destino lhes era reservado?

Na primavera, depois que as andorinhas e as cegonhas retornavam dos países quentes, o pinheirinho lhes perguntava ansioso se sabiam o que fora feito dos pinheiros destruídos e se porventura haviam encontrado algum pelo caminho. Nada respondiam as andorinhas; mas as cegonhas, após alguma reflexão, moviam a cabeça afirmativamente, dizendo:

— Quando deixamos o Egito vimos no mar navios novos, todos ostentando soberbos mastros. Esses mastros devem ser os pinheiros levados daqui, pois tinham o cheiro resinoso. Parabéns por ter irmãos de tanta imponência.

— Ah, como desejo ser grande para atravessar o mar! Como é esse mar? Com que se parece?

— Levaríamos muito tempo para explicar, respondiam as cegonhas alçando voo.

— Goze a mocidade, murmuravam os raios de sol que vinham brincar nas agulhas dos seus galhos. Goze a mocidade enquanto é tempo.

E o vento perpassava beijando o pinheirinho, e o orvalho punha nele as suas lágrimas prateadas; mas a árvore continuava insensível, sem os compreender.

Ao aproximar-se o Natal vários pinheirinhos ainda pequenos foram cortados; eram arbustos menores que aquele ambicioso que só pensava em conhecer novas terras. A esses os lenhadores levavam para fora da floresta sem lhes podar os galhos.

— Para onde irão? perguntava a si mesmo o pinheirinho. Menores do que eu! E por que não lhes cortaram os galhos? Que irão fazer com eles?

— Nós sabemos, nós sabemos, porque espiamos pelas janelas das casas da cidade, chilreavam os pardais. Sabemos para onde vão. Ah, se você pudesse ver como os homens os enfeitam dos mais lindos objetos dourados e prateados, com flocos de algodão e velinhas acesas, certo que morreria de inveja.

— Que mais? Continue, pediu o pinheirinho, ansioso por novidades.

— Foi só o que vimos, mas valeu a pena.

— Quem me dera ter o mesmo destino! exclamava a árvore. Deve ser melhor do que cruzar os mares num navio. Estou aflito para que o Natal chegue. Só assim, grande como já estou, também serei levado. Como não deve ser bom estar numa sala toda iluminada, recoberto de coisas bonitas! E depois... depois sem dúvida alguma esperam-me agradáveis surpresas, pois do contrário não seria tão ricamente adornado. Quem me dera saber o que me acontecerá depois! Estou tão cansado de esperar? Por que demora tanto o dia da minha partida?

— Goze a mocidade! sussurravam as brisas. Goze os dias felizes e calmos que está vivendo ao ar livre, diziam os raios de sol.

Mas o pinheirinho, à medida que crescia, mais e mais se impacientava para sair logo da floresta. Durante todo o verão e mesmo durante o inverno manteve intacta sua verde roupagem, e os que o viam elogiavam-no admirados: "Que linda árvore!" Chegado o Natal o nosso pinheiro viu, enfim, realizar-se o seu sonho. Foi o primeiro a receber os impiedosos golpes do machado. E tombou com um gemido, sentindo como um desmaio. Esqueceu das honrarias que o aguardavam e teve saudade de deixar para sempre o lugar onde nascera e crescera. Sabia perfeitamente que nunca mais voltaria a rever seus companheiros, nem a grama, nem as flores que desde o começo da vida o cercavam. E talvez nem mesmo os pássaros...

A viagem esteve longe de ser agradável. Cobrou alento, porém, ao ver-se retirado do caminhão juntamente com outros pinheiros do mesmo porte. Perto ouviu alguém dizer:

— Este é o mais bonito. Ficaremos com ele.

Dois criados, a uma ordem do amo, levaram-no para um belo salão. Nas paredes notou quadros grandes e pequenos e ladeando a chaminé viu lindos vasos de porcelana; também viu cadeiras de balanço, poltronas, sofás de seda, mesas com livros de figuras, brinquedos e caríssimos presentes espalhados pelo espaçoso cômodo. O pinheirinho, colocado num barril pintado de verde e cheio de areia, foi posto bem no meio da sala. Era de ver-se como estava trêmulo.

Que iria acontecer? Tanto os criados como várias moças da casa puseram-se a enfeitá-lo cuidadosamente, pendurando-lhe pelos galhos saquinhos de confeitos, maçãs douradas, pacotinhos de nozes, dezenas de velinhas brancas, azuis e vermelhas. Sob a folhagem verde colocaram bonecas, que mais pareciam criaturas vivas, de tão bem feitas. O pinheirinho jamais imaginara que pudesse tornar-se tão lindo, sobretudo depois que bem no topo uma das moças lhe ajeitou uma linda estrela dourada.

— À noite, quando iluminado, vai ficar ainda mais belo, diziam todos.

— Quem me dera já fosse noite! suspirava a árvore. Por que não acendem as velinhas? E depois? Que acontecerá depois? Ah, se os meus companheiros da floresta pudessem ver-me, com certeza haviam de morder-se de inveja. E os pardais? Virão espiar-me pela janela? E que será de mim? Criarei raízes e passarei aqui o inverno e o verão?

Tudo isto perguntava-se ele a si mesmo, e tal era a sua impaciência que principiou a sentir dor de casca; para um vegetal, dor de casca é o mesmo que dor de cabeça para nós.

Por fim as velinhas foram acesas. O pinheiro sentiu um tremor em todos os seus galhos — era medo de queimar-se. E foi justamente o que aconteceu. Felizmente uma das moças acudiu a tempo, e o acidente não passou duma queimadura sem importância. O pinheiro então resolveu manter-se imóvel, não só para que não se repetisse aquilo como também para não derrubar nenhum dos lindos objetos que o enfeitaram. Nisto abre-se a porta principal e um bando de crianças entra na sala em tumulto. Logo atrás vinham os mais velhos. Por alguns instantes os pequenos estacaram deslumbrados, para logo em seguida prorromperem em exclamações e pulos de alegria. E todos em círculo puseram-se a dançar em torno da árvore, de cujos galhos os presentes eram retirados um por um.

— Que pretenderão fazer? pensava a árvore. Que irá acontecer depois disto?

À medida que se derretiam, as velas iam sendo apagadas, e quando a última se extinguiu as crianças tiveram licença para assaltar o pinheiro. Com que fúria atiraram-se à árvore de Natal, arrancando as bolas prateadas que enfeitavam! Pouco faltou para que não o derrubassem.

Sempre alegres, as crianças brincavam a correr pela sala. Ninguém mais parecia prestar atenção ao pinheiro. Apenas uma velha criada o procurou, para remexer por entre os galhos na esperança de encontrar algum figo seco ou maçã escapos à gula da meninada.

— Uma história! Queremos uma história! pediram as crianças, puxando para junto do pinheiro um homenzinho gorducho.

— Está bem, concordou ele sentando-se debaixo da árvore. Aqui na sombra é melhor e o pinheiro também poderá ouvir a história. Mas só contarei uma. Qual é a que querem? Ivede-Avede, ou o Polichinelo que caiu da escada e acabou obtendo a mão da princesa?

— Ivede-Avede! gritaram umas.

— Polichinelo! gritaram outras.

E formou-se logo ensurdecedora algazarra. Só o pinheiro se mantinha em silêncio, embora perguntando a si mesmo se também não teria direito de dar opinião, já que fora parte importante na festa daquela noite.

Serenados os ânimos o homenzinho narrou a história do Polichinelo que caiu da escada mas acabou obtendo a mão da princesa. Terminada a narrativa voltaram as crianças a fazer algazarra. Queriam agora ouvir a história do Ivede-Avede. O pinheiro quedou-se pensativo. Nunca os pássaros da floresta lhe haviam narrado histórias assim.

— Polichinelo caiu da escada e acabou casando com uma princesa, repetia o pinheiro, certo de que um homem tão bem vestido não iria contar uma história que não fosse verdadeira. Vejam só o que é o mundo! Será que também eu irei cair de uma escada e casar-me com uma princesa?

Igualmente muito o alegrava a ideia de que no dia seguinte voltaria a cobrir-se de brinquedos, velinhas, maçãs douradas e tantas outras coisas bonitas. "Amanhã saberei manter-me firme para melhor apreciar a minha grandeza", pensava ele. "Amanhã tornarei a ouvir a história do Polichinelo e talvez a de Ivede-Avede."

E a noite toda passou a sonhar as alegrias que o futuro lhe reservava.

Na manhã seguinte as primeiras pessoas a entrarem no salão foram os dois criados. Imediatamente o pinheiro julgou que o vinham enfeitar, mas ficou muito desapontado ao ver-se conduzido para o porão da casa, onde nem a luz do dia penetrava.

— Que significará isto? conjeturava ele. Para que me terão posto aqui? Irão abandonar-me neste cômodo escuro?

E recostado à parede continuou a pensar. Longo tempo teve para as suas reflexões, pois passavam-se noites sem que surgisse viva alma. Quando alguém lá aparecia era apenas pra tirar ou pôr a um canto alguma canastra. Viu-se desse modo em completo abandono, como se a existência tivesse sido inteiramente olvidada.

— Deve ser inverno, dizia o pinheiro. O solo está endurecido e recoberto de neve; com certeza é por isso que não me plantam. Vão deixar-me bem abrigado aqui até que chegue a primavera. Pensando bem, os homens têm bom coração. Eu só desejava que este lugar não fosse tão escuro e solitário. Nem uma lebre para dar um pouquinho de vida a este silêncio. Como era bom lá na floresta, quando a neve cobria o solo e a lebre passava junto de mim, ou mesmo quando pulava por cima de mim, embora eu me aborrecesse tanto com a brincadeira. Como é horrível esta solidão!

— "Cuí, cuí, cuí", guincharam dois camundongos, saindo do buraco e procurando abrigo por entre os seus galhos. Que frio! Não fosse isso estaríamos bem aqui, não acha, velho pinheiro?

— Não sou velho, protestou a árvore. Há outros muito mais velhos do que eu.

— De onde vem e como se chama? indagaram os camundongos, curiosos. Conte-nos alguma coisa do mundo. Já esteve na dispensa onde há queijos bem guardados, presuntos pendurados do teto e de onde a gente pode sair duas vezes mais gordo do que quando entra?

— Desconheço tais lugares, respondeu o pinheiro. Mas conheço a floresta, onde brilha o sol e gorjeiam os pássaros.

E contou aos ratinhos a história da sua vida. Os camundongos, que jamais tinham ouvido falar de coisa parecida, observaram admirados:

— Quanta coisa você já viu! E como já foi feliz!

— Sim, já fui feliz, repetiu o pinheiro rememorando fatos passados.

Em seguida contou da festa do Natal e de como fora coberto de velinhas e brinquedos cada qual mais lindo que o outro.

— Não pode haver maior felicidade, velha árvore!

— Não sou velho, protestou o pinheiro. Cheguei da floresta este ano e o meu crescimento foi interrompido.

— Quanta coisa bonita você sabe contar! disseram ainda os ratinhos.

Na noite seguinte voltaram eles com quatro camundonguinhos novos para ouvirem as histórias do pinheiro; e quanto mais este as contava mais saudades ia sentindo dos tempos passados, que não voltam mais. Apesar disso, depois que escutara a história do Polichinelo que conseguira casar-se com uma princesa, não abandonava a esperança de também vir a obter algum dia a mão duma princesa. E recordou-se saudoso da elegante bétula que nascera a seu lado. Para um pinheiro uma bétula vale por uma bela princesa. A fim de entreter os camundongos narrou a história do Polichinelo tal qual a ouvira. Os ratinhos pulavam de contentamento. No dia seguinte apareceram outros camundongos e no domingo voltaram acompanhados de duas ratazanas. Estas, porém, declararam não haver gostado da história, o que deveras vexou os camundongos.

— Só sabe essa história? indagaram as ratazanas.

— Só esta, respondeu a árvore. Ouvia-a, na noite mais feliz da minha vida.

— Mas nem por isso é interessante. Conhece alguma história de queijos e presuntos? Conte-nos alguma coisa sobre despensas.

— Nada sei sobre isso.

— É pena, disseram as ratazanas e retiraram-se para as suas tocas, no que foram acompanhadas pelos camundongos pouco tempo depois.

— Era tão bom quando esses ratinhos amigos encarapitavam-se nos meus galhos para ouvir histórias! suspirou o pinheiro. Também isso passou. E quando me tirarem daqui irei sentir saudades dos momentos felizes que vivi com eles.

Um belo dia entraram no porão várias pessoas. As malas foram removidas do canto e o pinheiro, depois de retirado de onde estava, viu-se jogado ao chão; em seguida um criado o arrastou até ao terraço da casa.

— Agora sim, vou recomeçar a viver! murmurou ele satisfeito ao sentir o ar puro e os quentes raios do sol.

Do terraço avistava-se o jardim recoberto de flores. As rosas recurvavam-se sobre as latadas que as sustinham, perfumando o ambiente; e por toda parte, em todos os canteiros, uma flor principiava a desabrochar. Pardais voavam alegres, em chilreios, chamando as companheiras.

— Agora sim, irei viver! exclamou satisfeito o pinheiro, distendendo os seus ramos secos mas que ainda retinham ao alto a estrela dourada, muito brilhante à luz do sol.

Duas crianças que haviam dançado em torno dele no dia de Natal, apareceram. Ao avistarem a estrela uma delas correu para arrancá-la.

— Olhe aqui o que ainda está neste pinheiro murcho! disse calcando com os pés os galhos da pobre árvore.

Olhando para o jardim florido e vendo a miserável condição a que chegara o pinheiro desejou ter ficado no canto escuro do porão. Evocou os dias felizes passados na floresta, a alegre noite de Natal e os pequeninos camundongos que tanto gostavam de ouvir a história do Polichinelo.

— Tudo acabado! lamentou ele. Quando eu era feliz não sabia dar valor à minha felicidade. Só agora compreendo a vida — e justamente agora tudo está acabado para mim...

Pouco depois um rapaz de machado em punho picou a árvore em pedaços, que amontoou a um canto para serem queimados. E quando as labaredas começaram a devorá-lo o pinheiro gemeu doridamente, como só sabem gemer os pinheiros que se vêem queimados vivos. Cada estalo que a madeira dava era um gemido de dor. Ao ouvirem esses estalos as crianças deixaram os brinquedos e vieram acocorar-se ao pé do fogo. Mesmo envolto em chamas o pinheiro ainda recordava-se de um ou outro dia feliz de verão passado na floresta, ou de alguma noite de inverno, quando as estrelas cintilavam com mais fulgor. E também não deixou de recordar a noite do Natal e a história do Polichinelo, a única que jamais ouviu e a única que aprendera contar. Por fim, todo desfez-se em cinzas e acabou-se a história do pinheiro ambicioso, que, como os homens, só soube dar valor à felicidade depois que a perdeu.