Part 14
“Lack-a-day!” said the Norseman; “I forgot one thing--I ought to have asked that good man for some supper; I have nothing left but some dry bread. However, this is better than sleeping in the woods: we must make the most of what we have, keep ourselves warm, and get to bed as soon as we can.” So after eating up all their crusts, and drinking some water from the well close by, the huntsman wrapt himself up close in his cloak, and lay down in the snuggest corner he could find. Bruin rolled himself up in the corner of the wide fire-place; and both were fast asleep, the fire out, and everything quiet within doors, long before midnight.
Just as the clock struck twelve the storm began to get louder--the wind blew--a slight noise within the room wakened the huntsman, and all on a sudden in popped a little ugly skrattel, scarce three spans high; with a hump on his back, a face like a dried pippin, a nose like a ripe mulberry, and an eye that had lost its neighbour. He had high-heeled shoes, and a pointed red cap; and came dragging after him a nice fat kid, ready skinned, and fit for roasting. “A rough night this,” grumbled the goblin to himself; “but, thanks to that booby woodman, I’ve a house to myself: and now for a hot supper and a glass of good ale till the cock crows.”
No sooner said than done: the skrattel busied himself about, here and there; presently the fire blazed up, the kid was put on the spit and turned merrily round. A keg of ale made its appearance from a closet: the cloth was laid, and the kid was soon dished up for eating. Then the little imp, in the joy of his heart, rubbed his hands, tossed up his red cap, danced before the hearth, and sang his song--
“Oh! ’tis weary enough abroad to bide, In the shivery midnight blast; And ’tis dreary enough alone to ride, Hungry and cold, On the wintry wold, Where the drifting snow falls fast.
“But ’tis cheery enough to revel by night, In the crackling faggot’s light: ’Tis merry enough to have and to hold The savoury roast, And the nut-brown toast, With jolly good ale and old.”
The huntsman lay snug all this time; sometimes quaking, in dread of getting into trouble, and sometimes licking his lips at the savoury supper before him, and half in the mind to fight for it with the imp. However, he kept himself quiet in his corner; till all of a sudden the little man’s eye wandered from his cheering ale-cup to Bruin’s carcase, as he lay rolled up like a ball, fast asleep in the chimney-corner.
The imp turned round sharp in an instant, and crept softly nearer and nearer to where Bruin lay, looking at him very closely, and not able to make out what in the world he was. “One of the family, I suppose!” said he to himself. But just then Bruin gave his ears a shake, and showed a little of his shaggy muzzle. “Oh ho!” said the imp, “that’s all, is it? But what a large one! Where could he come from? and how came he here? What shall I do? Shall I let him alone or drive him out? Perhaps he may do me some mischief, and I am not afraid of mice or rats. So here goes! I have driven all the rest of the live stock out of the house, and why should I be afraid of sending this brute after them?”
With that the elf walked softly to the corner of the room, and taking up the spit, stole back on tip-toe till he got quite close to the bear; then raising up his weapon, down came a rattling thump across Bruin’s mazard, that sounded as hollow as a drum. The bear raised himself slowly up, snorted, shook his head, then scratched it,--opened first one eye, then the other, took a turn across the room, and grinned at his enemy; who, somewhat alarmed, ran back a few paces, and stood with the spit in his hand, foreseeing a rough attack. And it soon came; for the bear, rearing himself up, walked leisurely forward, and putting out one of his paws caught hold of the spit, jerked it out of the goblin’s hand, and sent it spinning to the other end of the kitchen.
And now began a fierce battle. This way and that way flew tables and chairs, pots and pans. The elf was one moment on the bear’s back, lugging his ears and pommelling him with blows that might have felled an ox. In the next, the bear would throw him up in the air, and treat him as he came down with a hug that would make the little imp squall. Then up he would jump upon one of the beams out of Bruin’s reach; and soon, watching his chance, would be down astride upon his back.
Meantime Gunter had become sadly frightened, and seeing the oven door open, crept in for shelter from the fray, and lay there quaking for fear. The struggle went on thus a long time, without its seeming at all clear who would get the better--biting, scratching, hugging, clawing, roaring, and growling, till the whole house rang. The elf, however, seemed to grow weaker and weaker: the rivals stood for a moment as if to get breath, and the bear was getting ready for a fierce attack, when, all in a moment, the skrattel dashed his red cap right in his eye, and while Bruin was smarting with the blow and trying to recover his sight, darted to the door, and was out of sight in a moment, though the wind blew, the rain pattered, and the storm raged, in a merciless manner.
“Well done! Bravo, Bruin!” cried the huntsman, as he crawled out of the oven, and ran and bolted the door: “thou hast combed his locks rarely; and as for thine own ears, they are rather the worse for pulling. But come, let us make the best of the good cheer our friend has left us!” So saying, they fell to and ate a hearty supper. The huntsman, wishing the skrattel a good night and pleasant dreams in a cup of his sparkling ale, laid himself down and slept till morning; and Bruin tried to do the same, as well as his aching bones would let him.
In the morning the huntsman made ready to set out on his way: and had not got far from the door before he met the woodman, who was eager to hear how he had passed the night. Then Gunter told him how he had been awakened, what sort of creature the elf was, and how he and Bruin had fought it out. “Let us hope,” said he, “you will now be well rid of the gentleman: I suspect he will not come where he is likely to get any more of Bruin’s hugs; and thus you will be well paid for your entertainment of us, which, to tell the truth, was none of the best: for if your ugly little tenant had not brought his supper with him, we should have had but empty stomachs this morning.”
[Illustration: The bear would throw him in the air]
The huntsman and his fellow-traveller journeyed on: and let us hope they reached the King of Denmark safe and sound: but, to tell the truth, I know nothing more of that part of the story.
The woodman, meantime, went to his work; and did not fail to watch at night to see whether the skrattel came, or whether he was thoroughly frightened out of his old haunt by the bear, or whatever he might take the beast to be that had handled him as he never was handled before. But three nights passed over, and no traces being seen or heard of him, the woodman began to think of moving back to his old house.
On the fourth day he was out at his work in the forest; and as he was taking shelter under a tree from a cold storm of sleet and rain that passed over, he heard a little cracked voice singing, or rather croaking in a mournful tone. So he crept along quietly, and peeped over some bushes, and there sat the very same figure that the huntsman had described to him. The goblin was sitting without any hat or cap on his head, with a woe-begone face, and with his jacket torn into shreds, and his leg scratched and smeared with blood, as if he had been creeping through a bramble-bush. The woodman listened quietly to his song, and it ran as before--
“Oh! ’tis weary enough abroad to bide, In the shivery midnight blast; And ’tis dreary enough alone to ride Hungry and cold, On the wintry wold, Where the drifting snow falls fast.”
“Sing us the other verse, man!” cried the woodman; for he could not help cracking a joke on his old enemy, who he saw was sadly in the dumps at the loss of his good cheer and the shelter against the bad weather. But the instant his voice was heard the little imp jumped up, stamped with rage, and was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye.
The woodman finished his work and was going home in the evening, whistling by his horse’s side, when, all of a sudden, he saw, standing on a high bank by the wayside, the very same little imp, looking as grim and sulky as before. “Hark ye, bumpkin?” cried the skrattel; “canst thou hear, fellow? Is thy great cat alive, and at home still?” “My cat?” said the woodman. “Thy great white cat, man!” thundered out the little imp. “Oh, my cat!” said the woodman, at last recollecting himself. “Oh, yes to be sure! alive and well, I thank you: very happy, I’m sure, to see you and all friends, whenever you will do us the favour to call. And hark ye, friend! as you seem to be so fond of my great cat, you may like to know that she had five kittens last night.” “Five kittens?” muttered the elf. “Yes,” replied the woodman, “five of the most beautiful white kits you ever saw,--so like the old cat, it would do your heart good to see the whole family--such soft, gentle paws--such delicate whiskers--such pretty little mouths!” “Five kittens?” muttered or rather shrieked out the imp again. “Yes, to be sure!” said the woodman; “five kittens! Do look in to-night, about twelve o’clock--the time, you know, that you used to come and see us. The old cat will be so glad to show them to you, and we shall be so happy to see you once more. But where can you have been all this time?”
“I come? not I, indeed!” shrieked the skrattel. “What do I want with the little wretches? Did not I see the mother once? Keep your kittens to yourself: I must be off,--this is no place for me. Five kittens! So there are six of them now! Good-bye to you, you’ll see me no more; so bad luck to your ugly cat and your beggarly house!” “And bad luck to you, Mr Crookback!” cried the woodman, as he threw him the red cap he had left behind in his battle with Bruin. “Keep clear of my cat, and let us hear no more of your pranks, and be hanged to you!”
[Illustration: The elf was one moment on the bear’s back]
So, now that he knew his troublesome guest had taken his leave, the woodman soon moved back all his goods, and his wife and children into their snug old house. And there they lived happily, for the elf never came to see them any more; and the woodman every day after dinner drank, “Long life to the King of Norway,” for sending the cat that cleared his house of vermin.
* * * * *
When the Norwegian Red-cap had finished his story Titania thought it time that someone should tell another love tale, and a second German Fairy came forward and said,
“Would your majesty like to hear again the story of the goose-girl princess and the horse Falada?”
“Oh, yes,” answered the Queen, who if she really liked a story was always glad to hear it told to her several times, “Oh, yes, the pretty story of the goose-girl is one of my favourites.”
The second German Fairy then stepped on to the stool and quietly began to recount the sad experiences of the princess who became
[Illustration: The second German Fairy]
[Illustration: She set off on her journey]
The Goose Girl.
The king of a great land died, and left his queen to take care of their only child. This child was a daughter, who was very beautiful; and her mother loved her dearly, and was very kind to her. And there was a good fairy too, who was fond of the princess, and helped her mother to watch over her. When she grew up, she was betrothed to a prince who lived a great way off; and as the time drew near for her to be married, she got ready to set off on her journey to his country. Then the queen, her mother, packed up a great many costly things; jewels, and gold, and silver; trinkets, fine dresses, and in short everything that became a royal bride. And she gave her a waiting-maid to ride with her, and give her into the bridegroom’s hands; and each had a horse for the journey. Now the princess’s horse was the fairy’s gift, and it was called Falada, and could speak.
When the time came for them to set out, the fairy went into her bed-chamber, and took a little knife, and cut off a lock of her hair, and gave it to the princess, and said, “Take care of it, dear child; for it is a charm that may be of use to you on the road.” Then they all took a sorrowful leave of the princess; and she put the lock of hair into her bosom, got upon her horse, and set off on her journey to her bridegroom’s kingdom.
One day, as they were riding along by a brook, the princess began to feel very thirsty; and she said to her maid, “Pray get down, and fetch me some water in my golden cup out of yonder brook, for I want to drink.” “Nay,” said the maid, “if you are thirsty, get off yourself, and stoop down by the water and drink; I shall not be your waiting-maid any longer.” Then she was so thirsty that she got down, and knelt over the little brook, and drank; for she was frightened, and dared not bring out her golden cup; and she wept and said, “Alas! what will become of me?” And the lock answered her, and said--
“Alas! alas! if thy mother knew it, Sadly, sadly, would she rue it.”
But the princess was very gentle and meek, so she said nothing to her maid’s ill behaviour, but got upon her horse again.
Then all rode further on their journey, till the day grew so warm, and the sun so scorching, that the bride began to feel very thirsty again; and at last, when they came to a river, she forgot her maid’s rude speech, and said, “Pray get down, and fetch me some water to drink in my golden cup.” But the maid answered her, and even spoke more haughtily than before: “Drink if you will, but I shall not be your waiting-maid.” Then the princess was so thirsty that she got off her horse, and lay down, and held her head over the running stream, and cried and said, “What will become of me?” And the lock of hair answered her again--
“Alas! alas! if thy mother knew it, Sadly, sadly, would she rue it.”
And as she leaned down to drink the lock of hair fell from her bosom, and floated away with the water. Now she was so frightened that she did not see it; but her maid saw it, and was very glad, for she knew the charm; and she saw that the poor bride would be in her power, now that she had lost the hair. So when the bride had done drinking, and would have got upon Falada again, the maid said, “I shall ride upon Falada, and you may have my horse instead”: so she was forced to give up her horse, and soon afterwards to take off her royal clothes and put on her maid’s shabby ones.
At last, as they drew near the end of their journey, this treacherous servant threatened to kill her mistress if she ever told any one what had happened. But Falada saw it all, and marked it well.
Then the waiting-maid got upon Falada, and the real bride rode upon the other horse, and they went on in this way till at last they came to the royal court. There was great joy at their coming, and the prince flew to meet them, and lifted the maid from her horse, thinking she was the one who was to be his wife; and she was led upstairs to the royal chamber; but the true princess was told to stay in the court below.
Now the old king happened just then to have nothing else to do; so he amused himself by sitting at his kitchen-window, looking at what was going on; and he saw her in the courtyard. As she looked very pretty, and too delicate for a waiting-maid, he went up into the royal chamber to ask the bride who it was she had brought with her, that was thus left standing in the court below. “I brought her with me for the sake of her company on the road,” said she; “pray give the girl some work to do, that she may not be idle.” The old king could not for some time think of any work for her to do; but at last he said, “I have a lad who takes care of my geese; she may go and help him.” Now the name of this lad, that the real bride was to help in watching the king’s geese, was Curdken.
But the false bride said to the prince, “Dear husband, pray do me one piece of kindness.” “That I will,” said the prince. “Then tell one of your slaughterers to cut off the head of the horse I rode upon, for it was very unruly, and plagued me sadly on the road”; but the truth was, she was very much afraid lest Falada should some day or other speak, and tell all she had done to the princess. She carried her point, and the faithful Falada was killed; but when the true princess heard of it, she wept, and begged the man to nail up Falada’s head against a large dark gate of the city, through which she had to pass every morning and evening, that there she might still see him sometimes. Then the slaughterer said he would do as she wished; and cut off the head, and nailed it up under the dark gate.
Early the next morning, as she and Curdken went out through the gate, she said sorrowfully--
“Falada, Falada, there thou hangest!”
and the head answered--
“Bride, bride, there thou gangest! Alas! alas! if thy mother knew it, Sadly, sadly, would she rue it.”
Then they went out of the city, and drove the geese on. And when she came to the meadow, she sat down upon a bank there, and let down her waving locks of hair, which were all of pure silver; and when Curdken saw it glitter in the sun, he ran up, and would have pulled some of the locks out, but she cried--
“Blow, breezes, blow! Let Curdken’s hat go! Blow, breezes, blow! Let him after it go! O’er hills, dales, and rocks, Away be it whirl’d, Till the silvery locks Are all comb’d and curl’d!”
Then there came a wind, so strong that it blew off Curdken’s hat; and away it flew over the hills: and he was forced to turn and run after it; till, by the time he came back, she had done combing and curling her hair, and had put it up again safe. Then he was very angry and sulky, and would not speak to her at all; but they watched the geese until it grew dark in the evening, and then drove them homewards. [Illustration: Falada, Falada, there thou hangest]
The next morning, as they were going through the dark gate, the poor girl looked up at Falada’s head, and cried--
“Falada, Falada, there thou hangest!”
and it answered--
“Bride, bride, there thou gangest! Alas! alas! if thy mother knew it, Sadly, sadly, would she rue it.”
Then she drove on the geese, and sat down again in the meadow, and began to comb out her hair as before; and Curdken ran up to her, and wanted to take hold of it; but she cried out quickly--
“Blow, breezes, blow! Let Curdken’s hat go! Blow, breezes, blow! Let him after it go! O’er hills, dales, and rocks, Away be it whirl’d, Till the silvery locks Are all comb’d and curl’d!”
Then a wind came and blew away his hat; and off it flew a great way, over the hills and far away, so that he had to run after it; and when he came back she had bound up her hair again, and all was safe. So they watched the geese till it grew dark.
In the evening, after they came home, Curdken went to the old king, and said, “I cannot have that strange girl to help me to keep the geese any longer.” “Why?” said the king. “Because, instead of doing any good, she does nothing but tease me all day long.” Then the king made him tell him what had happened. And Curdken said, “When we go in the morning through the dark gate with our flock of geese, she cries and talks with the head of a horse that hangs upon the wall, and says--
“Falada, Falada, there thou hangest!”
and the head answers,
“Bride, bride, there thou gangest! Alas! alas! if thy mother knew it, Sadly, sadly, would she rue it.”
And Curdken went on telling the king what had happened upon the meadow where the geese fed; how his hat was blown away; and how he was forced to run after it, and to leave his flock of geese to themselves. But the old king told the boy to go out again the next day: and when morning came, he placed himself behind the dark gate, and heard how she spoke to Falada, and how Falada answered. Then he went into the field, and hid himself in a bush by the meadow’s side; and he soon saw with his own eyes how they drove the flock of geese; and how after a little time, she let down her hair that glittered in the sun. And then he heard her say--
“Blow, breezes, blow! Let Curdken’s hat go! Blow, breezes, blow! Let him after it go! O’er hills, dales, and rocks, Away be it whirl’d, Till the silvery locks Are all comb’d and curl’d!”