Part 3

But the monkey shook its head and drew the old woman gently by the skirts towards the door.

“There is no use in going to the well,” said the old woman; “it is quite dry.” But the monkey continued to pull her dress, and at last the old woman rose, shaking her head because she knew that the quest was useless. The two went out to the well, and the monkey let down the bucket. When it came up the old woman thrust in the dipper, and lo! she brought it out full once more with clear, cool, sparkling water.

“Bless my stars!” she cried in astonishment, “there is witchcraft here,” and she looked at the monkey suspiciously. But the little creature only grinned.

Once more it pulled at her skirts, as though it would lead her back to the house. Wondering, the old woman followed, dipper in hand. The monkey led her straight to where the rice bucket stood on the shelf. The old woman shook her head hopelessly as she took down the bucket, because she knew that it was as empty as a last year’s bird’s nest. But when she drew off the cover she nearly dropped it with surprise. There was still a handful of rice in the bottom of the bucket.

“Bless my stars!” cried the old woman, and she looked again at the monkey. But the monkey only grinned and pointed towards the teapot.

“That at least I know to be empty,” said the old woman positively, “for I squeezed out the last drop with my own hand.” But what was her amazement when she tilted the spout and out came an amber drop of comfort.

“Bless my stars!” again cried the old woman. “Here is really enough for another meal. Witchcraft or no, you have certainly brought me good luck, little guest, and though we may die of hunger to-morrow we should greatly rejoice now, for we thought to be dead, even this same day.”

So that night passed, and another and still others. Every morning, as at first, the monkey prepared breakfast for the little old woman ere she was awake. And still there remained a dipperful of water in the well, a handful of rice in the bucket, and a drop of tea in the teapot. Every night the old woman found the same for their supper.

[Illustration: THE OLD WOMAN IS SURPRISED]

She was growing very fond of this queer little creature who helped her so heartily, and she wondered how she could ever have disliked monkey-folk. She even forgot that she had once thought her guest ugly, for the small face seemed, indeed, to have changed and to have become more human. The old woman had made for the monkey a pretty dress of green to match the green cap which her guest ever wore upon its head. The long tail which once she had used as an extra strong hand had shrunk away and disappeared beneath the pretty dress; perhaps it was gone altogether--for the monkey was certainly changing in many ways, though the poor old woman was too weak-eyed to see how greatly this was so.

Now the weeks passed, and the months passed, and it was exactly a year and a day from the time when the monkey had first appeared. On that morning the old woman woke up and saw as usual the little green figure flitting about the cottage, making things neat and tidy, and preparing the tiny breakfast which was always the same,--scanty and simple, but sufficient for the two, with kindness and good feeling to eke it out. This morning, when the old woman was ready to get up, the busy little creature came skipping up to the cot. And as it stood looking down, smiling kindly, the old woman suddenly blinked and rubbed her eyes.

“Bless my stars!” she cried. “How big you are! How pretty you have grown! What! Who is this? You are not my little monkey, you are a lovely girl smiling at me.”

“Good morning, Mother,” said a sweet voice. “I am your little guest. I am the same poor creature whom you took in out of kindness, and whom you have allowed to dwell with you this long year, sharing your scanty store. I owe you more than words can say.”

“Words!” cried the old woman, “and how long since a monkey could use words?” She sat staring blankly.

“You see I am really the same,” said the pretty girl. “I still wear the green dress which you made for me and the green cap which I had upon my head when I came to you. In that green cap lies my secret. I am a Fairy, Mother.”

Then she told the old woman a strange story,--how because she was naughty the Fairy Queen had punished her by giving her that ugly monkey-shape, which she must wear for a year and a day. But at the end of that time she could take her own shape and go back to Fairyland. And now the time had come.

“But you have been so kind to me, dear Mother, that I may give you one wish before I go back to my beautiful home,” said the Fairy maiden.

Then the old woman burst into tears and flung her arms around the neck of her little guest. “Oh, do not leave me, kind Fairy-child!” she said. “I love you very dearly, and how shall I live without you? I loved you when I thought you were only a little monkey, but now I love you a thousand times more.”

Gently the Fairy kissed her and said, “Now hear what the gift is that I may give you. I may give you one wish of three, and you shall choose between them. You shared your simple food with a poor little animal-guest. Now for the first wish: Would you live always on princely fare? If you so choose you may have more than you need to eat. You may have meats and fruit, fine wheaten bread and choice sweets, such as are set upon palace tables. You may have everything that a dainty palate could desire, and every day a different feast of goodies. This you may choose, if you so will. Or, if you think the second choice a better one, you may become young again as I am now, for I am a picture of your lost youth which you have forgotten. You may have health and strength, and appetite to enjoy life, and the hearty meals which you will be able to earn. That is a goodly gift, is it not?”

The old woman nodded, but still her eyes were unsatisfied.

“Then there is the third choice,” said the Fairy, and her voice was very soft. “But that one it seems selfish for me to name, because it is a wish for my happiness.”

“What is the third wish?” asked the old woman eagerly.

“You may wish, if you choose--and the wish will be granted by the Fairy Queen--that all may remain as it now is; you will be what you are, a dear old woman living still in this little hut, with your little well in which there will ever be one dipperful of water, no more; with your little bucket in which there will ever be one handful of rice, no more; with your little teapot in which there will ever be one drop of tea, no more. It is scanty fare for one, Mother; yet withal, if you would have one to share it, I will do so still, as I have done so long. I will become your child--no longer a Fairy-child, but your little human girl-child, such as I seem now. I will live with you always, love you and take care of you always and share your scanty portion.”

The old woman gave a cry of joy. “But do _you_ wish it?” she said. “Would you not rather go back to your beautiful Fairyland, where you can be happy and care-free always?”

“Nay, dear Mother,” said the Fairy; “if the choice were mine I would rather remain here with you than anywhere in the whole wide world, for I have been very happy here and I have learned many things. I do not want to go back to Fairyland to be an idle, careless, selfish Fairy. I would rather be a human child and share my mother’s joys and sorrows. Dear Mother, will you have it so?”

“Yes, I will have it so!” cried the old woman joyfully.

“Think,” said the Fairy, lifting a warning finger, “think of the fine feasts and the dainties you might have. Think of the youth and strength. Would you give up all this for only me--who must share half the refreshment from your well, your bucket, and your teapot?”

“That is enough,” said the old woman. “What do we need more? We can still offer a sup to any poor stranger who may come as you came to my door. Oh, dear child, if you will stay with me, that is all I ask!”

“Well, then, let us sit down and have breakfast,” said the dear little girl, tossing her green cap into the fire. “Now I am a Fairy no longer, but your very own little girl-child. And here is a dipper of water--the only one left in the well. Here is a dish of rice--I used the last handful from the bucket. Here is just a tiny drop of tea in the teapot. Oh, Mother, I am so glad!”

So they sat down to their frugal meal, and they laughed, and they laughed, and they laughed, they were so happy.

CHILD OR FAIRY

’Tis good to be a Fairy-thing, And flit about on gauzy wing; To sleep in cradles made of flowers, Or play through all the joyous hours. For Fairies have no grief nor care, Happy they are, and always fair,-- I suppose.

And yet ’tis better far to be A little human child like me, With lessons hard and tasks to do, And sometimes little troubles, too. For I have Mother’s tender kiss, And nothing is so good as this,-- Every one knows!

KARL AND THE DRYAD

[Illustration]

KARL AND THE DRYAD

There was once a lad named Karl who lived with his father and mother in a little village of the Flat Land. Karl was a big fellow, tall and yellow-haired. But all his strength was in his long, lean body. There was none in his poor head. Karl was the village simpleton.

Poor Karl! His life was a sorry one. He was despised and jeered at by the whole village. The children followed and tormented him at every chance, because he could not learn at school; the grown folk were little kinder, but nudged one another and made jokes about him when he came to the market-place. Even the cur-dogs followed and barked at him, but they knew no better. They were cruel folk, those dwellers in the Flat Land.

Karl’s own parents were the unkindest of all. They did not love their son nor pity his wretchedness, but were ashamed because he was so simple. They were angry, too, because in their poverty he could not help them earn a living. For there seemed little indeed that poor Karl could learn to do,--he was so very simple. His parents were continually telling him how useless he was in this workaday world.

“Oh, you stupid fellow!” they would sometimes say, driving him out of the house with blows of broom or stick. “Oh, you great good-for-nothing, sitting here and eating our bread without doing aught to pay for it! Were ever parents troubled with so worthless a son? Other folk have bright boys and girls who will grow up to do some good in the world and be a credit to their parents. But you will always be a big, overgrown baby for us to take care of. Bah! Karl, we are tired of seeing you about!”

With the tears streaming down his face poor Karl would shuffle out of the mean little cottage where they lived, the most unhappy boy in the whole wide world. There was one place whither Karl loved to go at such times, the only place where he was sure of finding rest and quiet and a friend. In a corner of the village was a little wood,--a rare sight in the Flat Land, where trees grew but sparsely.

Few other persons came here, for the folk of the country cared little about rest or quiet, and nothing at all for the beauty of nature. They were quite satisfied with the look of their clean-shaven country, their smooth lawns and geometrical canals, their straight, shadeless roads, curbed neatly on either hand. It had never occurred to them to plant trees for beauty and shade, and for the other good things which trees offer. The little wood had grown quite by accident, and no one cared anything about it. But Karl loved the lonely, pretty place, and especially the great oak which grew in the midst thereof, the only oak in the whole Flat Land. It was so big, so sturdy, and yet withal so gentle when it stretched its great limbs protectingly over his wretchedness, giving the comfort of its shade and coolness to refresh him in his troubles. It was Karl’s only friend.

A hot, sultry day came upon the Flat Land, and it seemed to be Karl’s evil day. In the morning a rout of children and dogs chased him through the village, pelting him with bad eggs and fruit, and with stones, too. They chased him until the school bell rang, when he escaped; for Karl did not go to school,--he was too simple. When he returned home, breathless, bruised, and weary, scarcely able to speak from fright and exhaustion, his father beat him because he could not tell where he had been all the morning. Poor Karl! There was no part of the whole town where he had not been in that dreadful chase. But he had not the words to explain this to his parents; so his cruel father punished him, and his mother drove him out without his dinner.

More wretched than ever before, Karl fled to his refuge, the little wood, and flung himself on the greensward beneath the giant oak tree. He buried his face in the cool, soft moss, and cried as though his heart would break.

“Poor fool! Poor fool!” he wailed. “Poor Karl, good for nothing!”

While he lay thus, sobbing aloud and filling the cups of the moss with his tears, he heard a heavy tread approaching. Glancing up fearfully,--for he had no hope to meet a friendly face, since none in all the world had ever smiled upon him,--he saw a Farmer approaching with a great axe over his shoulder.

“Hullo, there!” cried the Farmer when he spied Karl under the tree. “You Simpleton, better get up. I am going to cut down that tree which grows over your head.”

“Cut down my tree!” gasped Karl, and he began to tremble. Was he to lose his only friend?

“_Your_ tree!” jeered the Farmer. “Poor Fool, I never knew that you owned anything, even your senses. The tree is mine, with the land on which it grows and acres on every hand. I am going to cut down the tree to make firewood for next winter. That is all trees are good for.”

“Oh, do not do that!” begged Karl, spreading out his arms as if to protect the tree. “I will not let you cut it down!”

“Ho ho!” laughed the Farmer. “How will you prevent it, Simpleton? And what is the tree to you, anyway?”

“The only big tree there is anywhere!” sobbed Karl. “The only shade; the only safe, quiet, cool, kind place in the whole world! O Man, do not cut down the tree! You cannot make another.”

The Farmer had lifted his axe to strike, but now he paused and rested it on the ground. Karl’s last words had struck him with a new thought. “The Fool speaks a word of wisdom,” he growled to himself. “It is easier to cut down a tree like this than to make another. The acorn which I might plant to-day would become no such tree in my lifetime--nor in that of my son, or my grandson, or my great-grandson, for that matter. Fool, I will think it over (the more fool I, ’tis likely). I will spare _your_ tree--ha ha!--for a time. I can cut it down whenever I like. But as you say, I cannot soon grow another. My folly bids yours good-day, Fool.”

[Illustration: KARL AND THE DRYAD]

Shouldering his axe, the Farmer trudged half sulkily away. Then Karl fell to sobbing again, but this time with joy that his tree was spared. He flung his arm around the great trunk and pressed his lips against the rough bark, kissing it again and again. Suddenly he heard a sharp crack in the oak; another and another, as if the bark were being ripped away. He started up in a fright and stood back from the tree, wondering what was happening to his old friend.

Presently a long vertical slit appeared in the side of the tree and grew gradually wider and wider. A door was opening in the trunk! Karl stood gazing spell-bound at this amazing sight, when out from the dark entrance stepped a figure most wonderful to see. It was a lovely maiden, dressed all in brown,--the color of the tree-bark. About her head was twined a wreath of green oak leaves and acorns, and in her hand she carried a wand, made from a branch of the tree. She was a Dryad, the spirit whose home was the old oak tree; but Karl was too simple to know that. He merely stood staring at the beautiful stranger, too much surprised even to close his poor foolish mouth, which hung wide open.

The Dryad smiled sweetly at the lad and said, “Thanks, kind friend, for saving my tree. I heard your wise words to the cruel Farmer, and brave you were to speak them. Now what can I do to make you happy, as we Dryads love to make happy him who does kindness to our sheltering trees?”

Poor Karl did not understand how he had saved the tree. He only knew that for some reason the cruel Farmer had changed his mind. As little did he understand why the Dryad thanked him. But he heard the kindness of her voice, and knew she offered aid.

“Oh, can you help me, beautiful Stranger?” he cried, clasping his hands eagerly and looking at her with tears in his eyes.

“Indeed, I will help you all I can, kind lad,” said the Dryad, waving her wand and taking a step towards him. “Tell me about your trouble.”

Then Karl told the Dryad all the sorrow of his life,--how he was foolish and of no use, a burden to his parents and a disgrace to the town; how all the village, even the little children and the cur-dogs, hated and despised him; how unhappy and lonesome he was.

“O fair Stranger,” said Karl as he finished the sad little tale, “I am only a poor simpleton, and I can never do anything good or great. But if you could only teach me how to do some little thing that will be of use to the world, so that I shall not always be hated and despised even by the little children and dogs of the village, I should be so very happy! Will you do this, dear Tree-Maiden?”

The Dryad looked at him pityingly, and the tears stood in her own brown eyes when she heard his wish. “Poor boy,” she said, and her voice was very sweet, “you ask nothing for yourself, neither riches nor happiness nor even wisdom. You ask only to be taught how your simplicity may be of some use to the world which has treated you so unkindly. Some would call it a foolish wish. But I say, O Karl, that it is not foolishness. Twice to-day you have spoken wisely, lad.”

The Dryad looked up into the tree under which they stood; she looked down upon the ground; then she glanced around and about, thinking hard for Karl’s sake. And at last she spoke again.

“Remember the words which you spoke to-day when the Farmer raised his axe. You told him that he could not make another such tree; and those words saved this great oak. You were right, Karl. And he was right when he agreed that the acorn which he might plant to-day would not become like this king of trees in his lifetime, nor in that of his son, or his grandson, or his great-grandson. Yet the acorn which you plant will grow, and its shade, its beauty, its greenness will one day equal this. Though you may never see it, the world will be better for your deed, and future generations will bless you for it. This shall be your task, Karl, to fare forth upon a lifelong pilgrimage and plant as you go the blessed trees which will shelter the many people who are to come after you. Thus the Flat Land will become famous for all time as the place of happy wayfaring.”

Now poor Karl understood not one word of all this which the Dryad had so prettily spoken, save that he was to go away. But this thought he seized eagerly.

“I am to go away!” he cried. “When, dear Maiden, and where?”

“You must go to-night,” answered the Dryad, waving her wand. “See, already the shadows are falling. You must not be missed nor sought for this night. You must take with you only this,--a sack of acorns upon your shoulders. See where they lie all about us under the tree, ready for you to gather! And look! I will take this green mantle which I wear and make of it a sack to hold your burden. Take it, Karl, and fill it thus with the gift of your old friend, the oak.”

Karl did as she showed him, and presently he had the long, soft sack filled with brown acorns. Then the Dryad gave him a lesson in planting. She showed him how to dig a little hole for each acorn and cover it with mould; and though Karl was so simple he learned the lesson readily, for he had a loving teacher. Then the Dryad told him how he must walk a hundred paces from the planting of one acorn before he turned earth to cover the next.

“Now, Karl, you shall go forth,” she said, “from village to village wherever your thought may lead,--for it does not matter,--planting acorns on either side of the way. And if any one asks you why you do this, do you tell him the story of this day; and I warrant you will need no other pence to pay for food or a bed whenever you need them. Do not forget this story, Karl. Do not forget.”

“I am a simpleton,” said Karl humbly, “yet I shall never forget this day’s happenings, nor your words to me. But shall I indeed be doing something for the world’s good? I do not see how that can be.”

“Trust me, Karl,” said the Dryad kindly. “Indeed and indeed, you will be doing much, I promise you,--more than many men who call themselves wise. But see, already the night is falling. It is time that you were starting upon your journey.”