Part 4

Her parents, who had been searching for her in vain for hours, and notified the police without finding any trace of their missing child, had not gone to bed, and were sitting in despair around the table, vainly trying to comfort each other. When, long after midnight, the policeman rang and brought back their little daughter, there was such rejoicing that the whole neighborhood was roused. The sparrow which had guided the girl back was perched on the window-sill, gazing through the panes into the room, flapping its wings and twittering at the joy of the parents, who could not stop kissing their recovered child, although she was very tired and only wanted to go to bed.

The father was very grateful to the sparrows for having saved his little daughter’s life three times in one day. The next morning he made a regular feast for them. On every window-sill in the whole house he spread cakes and raisins, fruit and honey, and the sparrows came and banqueted, and invited their friends and relatives from far and near. There was a great fluttering and chirping, twittering and screaming, but nobody complained of it. And, from that time, food was always scattered for the house sparrows and strangers, too, and human beings and sparrows remained the best of friends to the end of their lives.

THE SIX LITTLE GLOW-WORMS

During the June nights the meadow at the edge of the forest was as merry as a peasant wedding or a country fair. The nightingales sang, the crickets chirped, the plover drummed, the night wind whistled, old May and young June bugs lay in their taverns in the grass, the bushes, and the foliage of the trees, and drank dew till they were full, and even the sober ladybugs, which usually lead no gay lives, were persuaded to share the lively meetings of the idlers. As soon as it grew dark, the six little glow-worms that lived in the meadow crept out of their tiny room in the earth and lighted their lanterns, so that the place was brightly illuminated by their shining, bluish white light. So, when the revellers broke up at as late an hour as possible, thanks to their living lamps, they found their way as easily and safely as if it had been noonday, without striking against roots and stones, or falling into moleburrows. Then, standing in front of the glow-worms, they cheered them with their hoarse throats, and sang this little verse:—

“Little worm, that kindly lights The reveller’s steps in the dark nights, As to his home he gropes his way, Our thanks we pay! Our thanks we pay!”

The little glow-worms said nothing, only let their light shine softly. They were indulgent to the harmless gayety of the revellers, and enjoyed the merry life which surrounded them during the short festival season of the year.

Not far from the meadow, where there were such gay doings, stood an old castle with a lofty tower. Here lived an aristocratic owl family, with a numerous colony of bats for servants. The mistress of the house, an owl of mature years, was a very learned lady, who had one son, whom she urged to study. But the young gentleman was an idler and sluggard, who would rather wander about than learn. Whenever he could, he stole away from his books and slipped out of the tower, to rob nests, catch birds, or, with the young noblemen from the owl-eyries in the neighborhood, join in hunting hares and marmots.

This troubled his mother greatly, and she remonstrated earnestly with him.

“The examination is close at hand, and you are not preparing yourself. Do you mean to disgrace me by failing?”

The young owl obstinately remained silent and looked sulky.

“Answer me, you unmannerly scapegrace!” cried the owl, angrily. “What am I to do with you? All your ancestors are lights of learning and members of the academy. You alone wish to remain an idle, ignorant blockhead. Are not you ashamed of yourself?”

“It isn’t my fault,” replied the owl nobleman, defiantly.

“Not your fault?” asked the owl in astonishment. “Whose fault is it, then?”

“Why, Mamma,” cried the youth, boldly, “do have some consideration. When am I really to study? During the day, as a member of a respectable owl family, I must sleep, and at night it is so dark in this confounded lumber room that I can’t see a line. I’m near-sighted already. If I must strain my eyes over my books in this pitch-black darkness, I shall be blind entirely.”

“What nonsense are you talking?” replied the owl, sternly. “We have lived here a hundred years and more, and no one ever complained of our home before. They all found it comfortable. On moonlight nights, it is almost too light and, when the moon doesn’t shine, you have our roof cat, by whose eyes you can read easily.”

The youth remained obstinate. “Pardon me, Mamma,” he said defiantly. “There are so few clear moonlight nights that they don’t count, and our cat’s eyes may have been enough for our ancestors, but in our days of electricity it is no light at all. Besides, we have so much more to learn now than you did in old times. So either give me some decent light, or don’t complain if I cannot prepare for my examinations.”

And, without waiting for his mother’s answer, the rude youth vanished through the tower window, to amuse himself with his companions in the usual way and let study alone.

The owl called the oldest of her bats, and said anxiously: “There is no living with the young people any longer. Hasn’t my good-for-nothing son taken it into his head that it isn’t light enough here, and therefore he cannot study?”

“Foolish talk, Mrs. Professor,” squeaked the bat.

“I know that just as well as you do,” answered the owl; “but I must not let him have the excuse for his idling. What shall we do to get a better light for the lazy fellow?”

“Our roof cat—” began the bat.

“Isn’t enough,” interrupted the owl. “Between ourselves: it really is a dim light, and I wonder whether our eyes are not constantly growing worse because, up to this time, we have been satisfied with our cat’s light. We must find something else.”

The bat reflected a little while, then she said: “How would it do to try glow-worms, Mrs. Professor? They give a good, steady light, do not heat the head, and are not dangerous on account of fire.”

“A clever idea,” said the owl. “Bring some here as soon as possible.”

The bat obediently flew away and hurried to the meadow on the edge of the forest, where the spring festival was in full course. From all the tree-tops, bushes, and grasses echoed the notes of fiddles, the sound of flutes, and merry drinking songs; everywhere there was dancing, playing, and dew drinking, and the little glow-worms, with quiet pleasure, held the light for these gay doings. Without troubling herself in the least about the company, the owl’s faithful servant seized one of the glow-worms with her teeth, and carried it in a swift flight to the tower, where she put it on a beam. It was trembling in every limb with fright, and in its terror almost let its lantern go out.

The owl looked at the little creature closely, and said discontentedly, “This light, too, is not enough.”

“No, Mrs. Professor,” replied the bat; “it shone far more brightly in the meadow outside. These glow-worms are queer creatures. Alone they are not good for much. There must be several of them together. Then the rascals want to outshine one another, each tries to do his best, and the result is something very acceptable.”

“Then get several,” ordered the owl.

The bat called her relatives, they went to the meadow together and brought away the other five glow-worms. When all six sat side by side on the beam in the tower, they were so glad that no harm had happened to them, and that they were together again, that they quickly forgot their fright, and let their lanterns shine with full brilliancy. The walls of the tower chamber glittered and sparkled as if they were hung with silver cloth and adorned for a royal festival. It was a very beautiful sight, which pleased even the bat, though usually she cared little for wealth and magnificence.

“Wonderfully pretty,” she said; “but too dazzling. I could not bear it long.”

“Nor I, either,” answered the owl, sighing. “But what can we do? The young folks will have it so.”

The six little glow-worms shone conscientiously until the approach of dawn, then they turned off their light, crept close to one another on the beam, fell asleep, tired out, and dreamed of the merry fair, from which they had been stolen to serve in the owl tower.

When the first flush of dawn was appearing in the sky, the young owl returned, laid a hare at his mother’s feet, and wished her a pleasant sleep.

“Very well, you idler,” she muttered before she went to her bed. “You shall have a surprise to-night.”

In fact, when darkness came, the owl went to the lie-a-bed and shouted into his ear: “Get up, you sluggard. Up with you quick, and go to work!”

The young owl opened his eyes, but instantly shut them again to escape the glare which met him. The six little glow-worms had lighted their lanterns, and were shining as brightly as they could.

“Now you can no longer tell me that you cannot see plainly enough,” the owl went on. “I have given you a light which will make your eyes water. Now bring your books, and study steadily.”

The young owl was obliged to get up, whether he liked it or not. He made his toilet, ate something, and sat down with his books. But he had no love for study, and only waited until his mother, accompanied by two young bats, flew away to attend to some business. Then he went quickly to the little glow-worms, and said in a subdued voice, yet very impressively: “You vagabond lantern-bearers, what do you want here? Who sent for you? If you don’t put out your worthless eye-spoilers, I’ll break your bones for you.”

The little glow-worms were terribly frightened, and lowered their light almost entirely, so that it only glimmered very faintly. But the bat, who, in her corner, had seen and heard all this, shot out, hissing: “Just wait, sir, I will tell your mother about this. And you glow-worms will turn up your light again at once, or you’ll have to deal with me.”

The little glow-worms did not know what to do. The young owl threatened their lives if they shone, and the bat if they put their light out. But they understood that the young owl had more authority here than the bat, and the bravest of them summoned courage to say to him, as he stood before them with angry eyes and ruffled feathers: “My young lord, we should be very glad to obey you, if we only could. We did not come here voluntarily. Your servants dragged us by force from our home and family. We would like nothing better than to return to our own people. But how are we to get out of this terrible high tower, and reach the earth? We can never do it alone. Help us, my young lord, and we will be grateful to you all our lives.”

The young owl was a rough fellow, yet he had a kind heart. He pitied the frightened glow-worms, and did not want to throw them out of the tower window. Besides, he was afraid of his mother, who would certainly ask where they were.

He drove the old bat rudely back into her corner, and said softly to the trembling little glow-worms: “Now pay attention to me. When my mother comes home, summon up your courage and declare a strike. My mamma is a little severe in her language, but she will do you no harm. She doesn’t eat things like you. I hope she will drive you away, and then I will carry you home.”

Things happened just as the sly fellow had planned. When the owl came back, she found the room perfectly dark, and the six little glow-worms were visible only as faint, bluish sparks.

“What does this mean?” shrieked the owl, angrily. The bat was rushing out of her corner, but the young owl flow to her side and whispered fiercely, “Hold your tongue, or it will cost you your life!” then, hurrying back to the glow-worms, he hissed: “Go on now! Be brave!”

The glow-worm which had spoken before again began, “Pardon us, Baroness, we cannot shine.”

“Why not, you lazy rabble?” cried the owl, fiercely.

“Because we get nothing to eat and drink,” replied the glow-worm, boldly.

“H’m,” said the owl rather perplexed. She had not thought of that before, and could not deny that the glow-worm was right. “What do you want?”

“Four meals a day, at each meal twelve fat plant-lice and a pint of fresh dew. That is what we are used to. Then a soft moss bed with thyme in the pillows, and permission to go out twice a week—or we can do nothing.”

“You shall be choked first, you gluttons,” cried the owl, in the greatest rage. “Here, Bat, break these blockheads’ necks! Eat them all.”

“Out with your lights!” whispered the young owl to them quickly, while the bat was flying as fast as possible to obey her mistress’s orders.

The little glow-worms instantly put out their lanterns, and were now perfectly invisible in the dark room, so that even a sharper-sighted creature than the half-blind bat could not have found them.

“Quick! Sit on my claws, each on one toe,” said the young owl, very softly. They crawled and crept, as fast as they could, upon the owl’s feet, which he had placed on the beam, and when he felt that they were all clinging fast with their little thin, weak legs, he sailed noiselessly out of the tower window.

Outside in the open air, when they knew that they were out of danger, all the glow-worms lighted their lanterns and shone with all their power, so that the young owl, in his flight, looked like a wonderful shining constellation. On reaching the meadow at the edge of the forest, the rough fellow shook his travelling companions from his claws with a sudden movement, because it was disagreeable to him to feel their little thin legs on his toes, and went off without any word of farewell.

The glow-worms fell to the ground from a considerable distance, and were somewhat bruised. But the pleasure of being again at home with their relatives was greater than the pain. They were greeted with universal rejoicing, for it had been very dull on the meadow since the bats had carried away their living lanterns. The night festival had been interrupted, all the revellers wanted to hurry home and, in doing so, some had fallen into pools and were drowned, others had stumbled over roots and stones, and broken their legs or even their necks, and cries of pain and groans had followed the merry songs. When the revellers now had their usual light once more, the fiddles and flutes sounded gayly, old and young May and June beetles, crickets, and grasshoppers, and even the sober ladybugs, danced around the six little glow-worms, singing joyously:—

“How we have missed your shining spark, When, wand’ring through the nights so dark, We’ve broken limbs on paths astray, And drowned in pools beside the way, But now we have you here once more— ‘Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!’ we roar!”

After this trial the owl gave up her effort to make her son a learned man. She let him become a hunter, and in this career, for which he had inclination and talent, he advanced so far that his mother, after all, was satisfied with him.

THE DWARF’S SPECTACLES

Michel was a good lad. He was the only son of a widow, who, after her husband’s early death, was left alone with him and two little girls. By great sacrifices she had brought up her three children, kept them warm and clean, sent them to school, and educated them. Michel, from his tenth year, had faithfully helped her. At first he had picked up dung on the highway and caught cockchafers, for which the parish paid him a few pennies a quart. Then he had tended sheep and helped to gather the fruit at harvest time. When he was sixteen, he went into a farmer’s service, and from that hour, he not only supported himself but also aided his mother and sisters. Several years after, both the girls married, one the village carpenter, the other the schoolmaster; for, in spite of their poverty, they were known and respected by all the villagers for their modesty, their beauty, and their clever brains.

One Sunday, soon after his younger sister’s marriage, Michel went to his mother and said: “Mother, I am twenty-one years old, tall and strong, and skilful in all farm work. Without praising myself, there is not a farm hand for ten miles around who can make a straighter furrow or build so good a hay-rick as I, to say nothing of mowing, threshing, and cattle tending.”

“I know that, my boy,” replied the widow, somewhat surprised by this speech; “but why do you tell me this?”

“Because I have determined to see a little of the world. I want to go on my travels.”

“Stay in the country and support yourself honestly,” warned the mother.

“I can accomplish nothing here,” Michel answered. “In foreign countries I shall learn all sorts of things, save something, and if I have good luck, in time I shall rule as owner on my own farm.”

“That would be fine, surely,” murmured the mother; “but it is not easy.”

“Nothing in this world is easy, at least for people like us,” said Michel; “but I can try hard things, too; I have the bones for it.”

The mother could not help admitting that he was right, though it was hard for her to part from her good son. In order not to be alone, she moved into the house of her daughter, the carpenter’s wife, and Michel promised always to send her money, whenever he had any to spare. His master, the farmer, gave him three gold coins, his brother-in-law, the schoolmaster, a knapsack and a hymn-book, his brother-in-law, the carpenter, a stout knotted stick, and his mother her blessing, to take with him on his way. Thus equipped, after a touching leave-taking with his family, he left his village one sunny autumn morning and set forth into the wide world. After some time a fellow joined him on the highway and, when they had exchanged greetings, asked: “Where did you come from, and where are you going? To what country do you belong? What is your trade, and what is your name?”

Michel answered frankly, only he could not say where he should go. He would follow his nose, he thought, and it would lead him somewhere. The fellow laughed and replied: “Join me, then. I am a better guide than your nose. I am a printer, have wandered over the world, and know something about nearly everything. That comes from education, my dear fellow. One learns more behind the compositor’s case than behind the ox-plough.”

“All due respect to your education,” said Michel, raising his eyebrows, “but I’m content with the plough. It can always stand beside your case without shame.”

“You are right, Brother,” replied the printer; “the man who will have nothing said against his trade is a fine fellow. Have you been in the city yet?”

“No,” said Michel.

“That’s fine,” cried the printer, “I’m at home in the city and will show you everything. You are lucky to have fallen in with me. For in town one must open one’s eyes and keep a sharp watch, unless one wants to be cheated at every corner. Tell me, Brother, have you any money? For in the city you must pay well. There it’s nothing for nothing.”

Michel unsuspiciously took his three gold coins from his pocket and showed them to the printer. The other hastily pulled out a few silver pieces and dirty scraps of paper, held them before Michel’s face a moment, and said, “This is my money; as you see, I am richer than you.” The truth was that Michel had seen nothing distinctly, for he had no skill in counting money. “Give me your yellow boys,” the printer went on; “we will put our cash together and make one purse. Then you’ll be sure that none of the city thieves will rob you.”

This suited Michel. He gave his three gold coins to the printer and the two walked on, talking merrily, until they reached the city. Going into a tavern, they drank what was good and dear. In the afternoon, the printer showed Michel the sights of the city, and in the evening they had a fine meal of beer and sausage. When it grew late, the printer said: “Now we’ll stop work. I will take a separate room. You, I suppose, are an early riser. I like to stay a long time in bed, if I am not obliged to get up. You would wake me, if we slept in the same room. So, good night, Brother Michel.”

The next morning, according to his habit, Michel rose with the cocks, went to the coffee room, and said to the tavern-keeper, who was also there, “I suppose my companion is still in bed?”

“Why, no,” replied the host, “he is earlier than you. He started half an hour ago, and left his regards for you.”

“What!” cried Michel, startled. “He has gone?”

“Yes, indeed, bag and baggage!” answered the tavern-keeper.

“But my money?” shrieked Michel, turning pale.

The tavern-keeper knew nothing about it.

Michel told him how he had given his gold to the printer, and the innkeeper grew almost angry at his story. “What a simpleton you are!” he exclaimed, “it serves you just right; you are more stupid than a new-born calf. You have paid your apprentice money. At least let it be a warning to you for the future. But you can’t stay here, if you have no money. I give nothing on credit.”

Michel was obliged to pack his knapsack, and leave the inn and the city with an empty stomach.

As he wandered sorrowfully along the highway, he saw at some distance a pear tree, full of ripe fruit, at whose foot a man sat on the ground, with his back resting against the trunk, smacking his lips over the juicy pears, a whole heap of which he had piled beside him.

This man was an ill-looking fellow. He was barefooted, very ragged, uncombed, and unwashed. But Michel’s stomach was complaining, his mouth watered, and he involuntarily stopped in front of him.

“Will you join me?” asked the barefooted fellow, grinning.

“Gladly, for I have had nothing to eat to-day,” replied Michel, taking several pears.

“Where are you from, and what are you doing?” asked the shabby fellow.

Michel told him frankly his unfortunate adventure with the printer, who had basely robbed him, and complained that he did not know how he was to get on without money.