Part 9

For, in order to make Japanese kittens understand and enjoy the whole story, it was necessary to go into so much detail, that it would be tiresome, especially to us human beings, who have traveled in Belgium.

For in old Japan, men with whiskers, or women with bonnets; or leather shoes, or chairs, or cheese, were unknown. Even cow’s milk, except for calves, or very old persons, was unheard of, as an article of drink or food. Grown up human beings thought it was wicked to take milk from the cow! And no wonder! for two strong men, working for an hour, could only get a quart or so, from the miserable little cows of the sort they then had.

So here is the story, as cut short, after being translated from Japanese cat talk.

When your Aunt Geiko arrived at Gingelhom, in Limburg, it took her some time to get accustomed to the strange human folks, and their ways; and, almost as much, to the cats of the neighborhood. Everything looked, smelled, and tasted so strangely.

The language bothered her a good deal, for she could not understand Flemish, even when dear little children, in wooden shoes, put out their hands and tried with gentle voices to coax Puss Geiko to come to them. Even when they wanted to smooth her back, or rub her head, she was frightened at their talk and ran away. Yet they were only saying, “Come pussy, come here”! When they brought Geiko a saucer full of something white, she would not go near it. It was cow’s milk, but she had known only mother milk, and had never seen what cows give us every day. If the Limburgers had only known it, dried fish would have tempted Geiko any time.

One day the lady, her mistress, set a saucer of cow’s milk before Geiko, and, when her own mistress called to her, in Japanese, she ran up gladly and purred as if very happy. But she did not go near the lunch prepared for her. Then the Belgian lady dipped her finger in the milk and rubbed it on pussy’s lips, and at once out came a little red tongue to lick it off. The eyes of your Aunt Geiko sparkled. This showed that she had discovered something good and liked it. She lapped up the cow’s milk, emptied the saucer, and always, after that, was glad to get more of what the lady said was “chichi” (chee-chee), which is Japanese for what we call “milk” and the Flemish “melk.”

But the story-teller is sorry to say, that, on the subject of tails, Pussy Geiko did not show either good manners, or a sweet disposition. If cats have a commandment, “Thou shalt not covet,” Pussy Geiko was an awful sinner.

Every time a cat of the country came near, Geiko would look enviously on its lovely, long tail. Then her eyes would turn green with jealousy. She would leap forward at the Belgian cat, and bite at, claw with both paws, tread upon, or scratch at its tail.

Geiko behaved just like a covetous human being, or a person who is jealous of another’s good looks, or fine clothes, or general prosperity. So she was never popular with the cats of Limburg, and some always growled, when they saw her.

Now it was not Geiko’s fault, that nature had not provided her with a handsome, long tail. For, while a Japanese cat has all the bones in that part, which a well-born kitten ought to possess, yet, for some reason, that which we call its “caudal extension” is not developed, and does not grow out.

On the other hand, it is sad to relate, that the Belgian cats were not so polite, as they might have been. They looked with suspicion on any animal from a strange country. The worst and most ill mannered among them, every time they saw Geiko, called out “Hello, Stumpy, where did you leave your tail?” This made the Japanese Puss, already in a state of nervous prostration, so lonely, that she nearly died; for she had no society. Sometimes, at night, she would go up on the roof and look up at the moon, and think of her mother and feel too sad to live.

A short life had Geiko, in Belgic Land, and one morning she was found dead. It was rumored in Japan, that the poor creature had died of homesickness. Malignant cats, that envied Geiko her trip abroad, declared, in their gossip, that it was pride and conceit, that killed her; but, anybody who knew cats was sure that these chatterers were only jealous of Geiko. The truth was, that Geiko went into a decline, when she found how the other cats treated her. Indeed, she was so miserable, and became finally so weak and frail, that a cat doctor was heard to declare that the least excitement would kill her.

The real truth finally leaked out. Her kind mistress, the lady, hoping to cheer Geiko up, strengthen her nerves, and, possibly restore her to health, tried to tempt her appetite with the local delicacy. Sad to tell, it was all mistaken kindness, for it went first to poor Pussy’s nose, and then to her brain. The lady had served up for the cat’s lunch, some Limburger cheese!

But alas, the odor, before she tasted it, even if she could have put it in her mouth, gave the final shock. So overpowered was the poor homesick puss, that she fell over and never recovered from the paralysis of her nostrils.

So, in the corner of a Belgian garden, one sees a little mound, and a memorial stone above it, with only the words:

GEIKO HIC JACET.... R. I. P.

XVI

THE MARRIAGE OF THE FAIRIES

Fairies are sociable creatures, and like to be where there are many children and some grown folks. Long ago, before human beings came on the earth, it was proposed, in a meeting of the fairies, that some of them should go to Moon Land and invite the Moonlanders to come and settle on the earth. This was because the fairies wanted more company.

In fact, life among the fairies had got to be very dull. Nothing happened, and some wanted to change their people and their scenery.

But one old fairy said “No! the earth is as yet too bare and rough. Who wants to live here, unless they are fairies, that do not eat, or like candy, or that require no clothes, or food, or houses, or carriages or pets?”

“Yes,” said another. “I agree with you. We must furnish this earth of ours with pretty things, like flowers, and fruit trees, and birds, and horses, and useful animals, and cats and dogs, and squirrels and rabbits. How can we go about it?”

During this debate among the wisest ones, there were two fairies that sat apart. It was noticed that they had put their heads together, talking every moment and sometimes both at once. They winked occasionally at each other, and often nodded knowingly, as if they understood things even better than those who talked most. Meanwhile, they seemed very happy. At last, with beaming smiles, they both spoke together to the assembled company.

We must not forget that while the fairies thus talked together, the giants of the frost kept on, busily cutting away the mountain sides, making the glacier a river of ice, that carried the rocks and gravel away and far down into the valleys and on the plains. In this way, the hard stone was ground into gravel, sand, clay, and dust, and scattered over the face of the earth. The glacier scratched, and chiseled, and grooved out the bed rocks, and then rolled the big stones over and over, and all together, until they were as round as oranges or marbles.

Usually this grinding was like that of a mill, which crushes the grain and makes meal, from which the miller blows away the bran, to get the white flour. So, at first, the rocks, thus broken and powdered, were mixed all together and tumbled about.

Yet many times the frost giants, the spirits of the storm, the wind, the sun, and the glacier worked together, and all with one purpose. Often they laid the different materials very neatly in separate beds, some in this place and some in that. By this process, the clay, the sand, the stones, and the gravel were separated one from the other. It seemed as if they expected human beings to come and live on the earth. These mighty forces, of heat and cold, were working for the fairies, so as to have everything in order and ready when men should come, so that they could plow and coax flowers out of the ground.

So when the fairies were all waiting, to hear what could be done, one of the two that had whispered together spoke out in meeting. She was a silvery looking creature, reminding one of moonlight. Her dress, which was gauzy and shining, seemed to be made of aluminum threads woven together. Her helmet, of this metal, was very light and polished until it reflected the light, like a mirror.

“I have a daughter,” said she, “named Klei. She is ready to be a bride, and, if she is married to the right one, I am sure her children will make the earth beautiful.”

“And I,” said the other, who seemed to be dressed entirely in crystal, and had on a helmet carved out of quartz, “have a son named Zand. He is tough and strong, and sometimes, when the wind vexes him, he fusses about and stings and bites. Yet neither the sea shore, nor the dunes, nor the desert, nor the wilderness could get along without him. When the tempest blows him about, it irritates him and he behaves roughly and raises a terrible storm. But, if my son, Mr. Zand, is married to your daughter, Miss Klei, I predict that wherever the two live together, or their children dwell, there the sandpipers will trip along the shore and sing their notes, the cows and sheep will graze, the flowers bloom, and the human beings will build houses and barns. In any event, if they two marry, they will make the earth beautiful.”

At this, which seemed like boasting to some of the old fairies, there was some shaking of the heads among them. “Rough and boisterous!” “Won’t settle down!” “Too full of grit to be pleasant!” “Too likely to take on different forms, and to be changeable, to make a good husband!” These were some of the remarks dropped by old fairies that were critical or jealous, or knew too well the pranks of the young fellow Zand.

“And she? Why she’s more changeable yet. Takes on different colors at different times, is hard or soft, according as she is hot or cold. Why, you can mould her to any pattern you please. Just like wax! Let water come near her and the fickle fairy will melt away, spilling and spreading herself over everything.”

“Yes, but she’s tough, and can hold water as still in its place, as in a bowl,” said another. “That shows a steady character, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t know. On the other hand, put fire near her and she hardens into stone. How frivolous! She’ll never make a good wife! If she does, she’ll so settle down, that you can’t move her!”

“Too much family pride on both sides,” snapped out a wizened old fairy. “Better not boast too much of one’s children! A little more modesty might be more becoming. As for my part, I don’t think either Mr. Zand or Miss Klei worth much. Neither has any good looks.”

The wise old fairies paid no attention to this gossip and these ill-natured remarks. They said that all these critics were jealous. The match was approved, and preparations were made, on an immense scale, to celebrate the wedding.

It would take too long to tell who were present at the marriage feast, how they were dressed, the way they behaved, and how the fairies of the fire and the ice were over-careful. The six daughters of the snow did not like to get near the sooty and smoky elves and kabouters, that came up, out of the mines and caves and lower earth, to see the company and the fun. In fact, fairies can be just as snobbish, and selfish, and impolite, as human beings. Some are very proud and selfish, and others kind and gracious.

The story-teller can only stop to say that the bride looked very sweet. She wore her mother’s dress of silvery braid, while, instead of orange blossoms, which do not grow in the mountains, or a bouquet of roses, or sweet pinks, which had not yet come on the earth, she had on her head a crown made of the edelweiss, which is found only on the highest mountains and usually growing near the edge of precipices and is very rare and precious. It was born on the earth, long before fruit trees, or forget-me-nots, or pansies, and it grew, because it had a white woolly coat like fur, that kept it warm in the intense cold that killed other plants; in fact the mischievous Jack Frost could never bite, or pinch it. So it lived on.

It is far more important, in this story, to tell of the children that were soon born of the two wonderful fairies, Zand and Klei. Wherever they touched each other, or lived for any length of time, there was born a new thing called soil. Whenever a seed was dropped in that soil, up sprang a flower, a stalk of grain, a fruit tree, or grass. Gardens, orchards, corn fields, and pastures were always found where this couple had had a home.

By and bye great forests covered the land, and in the forests, the deer roamed, and squirrels played, for many nut trees grew here. The birds built their nests in the trees and the woods echoed with their sweet songs. In fact, in the month of May, when the birds were courting and love making, and nest building, there was a continual concert. Then, when the young birds left the nests to fly, and carol, and chirrup, and find their own food, the world was indeed a lovely place to live in. So, at least, a thousand kinds of happy animals thought.

By and bye, came men and women, with babies and cradles, and boys and girls. They built houses and had happy homes. The fields were covered with grain, which the millers ground into flour, and then the mothers made bread and cakes, and crullers and doughnuts, and many other goodies. From the fruit trees, they picked pears and apples, and, from the bushes, blackberries and raspberries, to make jam and pies. From the cows, they obtained milk and cheese. Then, with pet dogs and cats, and horses and singing birds, and with every house full of children, all the people were very happy.

The men learned, from the glacier, not only how to crush grain and crack nuts, and to get food, but also how to cut and shape, and carve stone, so as to make beautiful houses, and castles, and temples, and churches. Then, when they saw how fire turns clay into a hard substance like stone, they mixed the clay with water and moulded the soft paste into cups and dishes, and pretty forms, and these they often painted and decorated. In time, they adorned their houses and halls with statues and sculpture. Then, the artists and teachers of beauty were rivals in building beautiful cities.

Now, in our language, for Zaan and Klei, we say Sand and Clay. For millions of years, after the fairies of the Zaan and Klei had married each other and made the fertile soil, from which such wonderful things came out, many other fairies were calling on men to make use of them, also, as they had already done with Sand and Clay.

They wanted human beings to know that the fairies of snow and frost, of sunshine and thaw, of light and air, and the many inhabitants of the air were willing to be continually busy, like those of the Zaan and Klei.

This couple, the two married fairies, were not selfish or lazy. They, too, kept on calling to men who had no pretty gardens, or fertile fields, to help in bringing them together and give them a home. When this was done, the ground was no longer loose, blown about, piled into billows by the wind, as in the desert, or left hard and dead, on the sea shore, or heaped up in dunes, in which no seed could sprout. But, when they mixed the clay and sand, there appeared the soil, that was soft, warm, rich and held the rain. So, wherever the seeds of wheat, or corn, or flowers, were dropped into the bosom of this new child of the clay and sand, called soil, the sun and showers made the seeds come forth as flowers, or fruit. One witty gentleman was so sure of what would happen, even on the prairies, that he said, “tickle the earth with a spade, and it will laugh a flower.” So the fairies called flowers “the smiles of the earth.”

It was out of the wedding of the fairies of the sand and clay, that beautiful Belgium was born—the country which the men and women living in it love so dearly, that they gladly die for it. In time of war, before the battle began, the knights and foot soldiers used to kneel down on the ground and kiss it. Then they prayed to be strong and brave, and vowed to defend their soil, from all enemies. How grandly they did it, we all know.

XVII

THE ENCHANTED WINDMILL

Ever so many ages ago, there were a couple of fairies, who had a very interesting family of fairy children, that lived entirely in the air. The father was named Heet and the mother named Koud.

If we were to translate these names out of Flemish, I suppose we might call them Heat and Cold. Curious names, were they not?

But then, if we knew all the names of the fairies, we should laugh at many of them, as being very funny.

This fairy father and mother had many children, which, altogether, they called Wenda; that is, if we use the oldest form of the speech which the Flemings used. On our tongues, this becomes Winds. In different parts of the world, these wind-fairies were spoken of, according as their dispositions were rough or gentle, in their behavior; or, noisy or sweet in sound; or, as they were scorching or freezing; but all winds are born of Heat and Cold, but only four were very well known by their names.

But now it is time to tell about the enchanted windmill, that first began its career along with winds, among which Zephyrus was the best liked and most attractive. The other wind fairies, children of Heet and Koud, were not exactly envious of their handsome and popular brother, Zephyrus, or of Flora his wife; but they wanted to show that they also could do something for human beings, even if not able to give them such lovely things as flowers or fruit. So the three met together to see what could be done.

Now one of the wise men, among mortals, had said that three good things a man could do, and at least one of these he ought to do—to have and name a child, or a flower, or a book.

When this was told to the other three wind fairies, Eurus, Boreas, and Auster, they were at first downcast. They had no children, and as for flowers, they were out of the question; for Zephyrus and Flora had all to do with these. As for writing books, that was not the business of fairies, but of men and women.

However, after long thought, they hit upon a plan, by which, working altogether, they might help human beings. If they could not have handsome children, they could at least save toil and trouble to others when grown up. With the help of the fairies, they could more quickly redeem swamps and morasses, changing them into lovely gardens and good grain fields, where flowers could grow and food be raised. They saw how hard men had to labor, in order to lift, pump, saw, hoist, grind, and polish. In draining the land, in cutting down trees, to make houses, and in grinding the grain, to make bread, men certainly needed help. They made up their minds that, while flowers were good, there were times, when bread and cake, cookies and crullers, puddings, and waffles, pot pie and potatoes might be better.

They summoned the elves of the mine and the forest to help them, and all together, they built a mill. It had long arms and sails outside, while within, were axles, wheels, windlass, ropes, pulleys, and grinding stones.

Set to other machinery, the mill could turn grain into flour for bread, and pump water out of a ditch, to make rich farm land, besides doing many other things.

The wind fairies were delighted with their success, and first, they made a present of the windmill to the Saracens, who employed it for hundreds of years.

But this is the way the first windmill was used. It was put on a raft, and floated on the water; so that men could pull it round to face the winds, as they blew. No one had then ever thought of putting it on land, or making a house of it.

By and bye, the crusaders from the Netherlands visited the Orient, and became acquainted with new seeds, flowers, fruits, and things they had never seen before, or at home. They watched with wonder the windmills, whirling their huge arms around and doing the work of thousands of men and horses.

Now there was a smart Fleming, Mynheer Molenaar, and crusader under Godfrey de Bouillon. When at home, he had been a miller on his lord’s manor. After studying the workings of the windmill, he put its parts on a ship and brought it home.

Then he built a raft, and, putting his windmill together, followed the custom, of hauling it around, according as the wind might blow. He anchored it by the Scheldt river side. As everyone wanted to get his grain ground more cheaply, by wind, than by horse power, the Belgian miller soon had plenty of customers and quickly made money.

But one day, the river rose to a flood and swept the windmill down and out to the sea. Distracted by his loss, and with poverty staring him in the face, he tore his hair with rage, and mourned all day and late into the night. Toward morning, he fell into a heavy slumber.

In his dreams, a Belgian wind fairy, accompanied by a Kabouter, appeared to him. Surprised at seeing a radiant and silvery creature, as bright as a star, alongside of a short, stumpy fellow, who was holding a box full of hammers and chisels, he forgot his troubles, and laughed heartily, smiling a welcome to both.

“We are glad you seem happier,” said the shining one, “for we have long wanted to help you and are ready to serve; for we fairies of the Netherlands, aided by our good friends, the Kabouters, have an idea for an improved windmill, that can beat either the Saracens, or the Greeks; for we can do what they could not.” Then they told how to make a mill that could turn its face to any wind that blew.