“Why, of course,” said the children.
“How funny!” said Katharine.
Then Marie, who had been left far behind, came up and introduced the little stranger to Juffrouw Van Dyne and Juffrouw Boekman, who took her into the house, followed by the three children who belonged there and the four cousins who belonged next door. They took off her coat and hat and gave her an arm-chair to sit in as she nibbled a tiny piece of gingerbread, while large pieces from the same loaf disappeared as if by magic among the other children. Then Gretel showed to her her doll; Jan shyly put into her hand a very pretty small model of the boat she had come in on that morning; Lotten offered her a piece of Edam cheese, which she took, while politely declining Mayken’s offer to teach her to knit, little Katrine deposited a beautiful white kitten on her lap; Ludolf showed her a fine pair of klompen on which his father was teaching him to carve some very pretty figures; Freitje brought all his new fishing-tackle and invited her to go fishing with him at the back of the house. It was not long before Katharine forgot that she was homesick, and grew really interested in her surroundings; and later the dinner, consisting chiefly of fish and rye bread, tasted very good to the now hungry Katharine.
It was after dinner that the tragedy happened. The children had all started out for a walk. Before they had gone more than a mile from the house the fog settled all around them—so dense, so thick, blotting out everything, that they could not see more than a step ahead. They were not frightened, however, as all they had to do was to turn round and go straight ahead toward home. The children took one another’s hands at Gretel’s direction, stretching themselves across the road, Katharine, who held Gretel’s hand, being at one end of the line. They walked on slowly along the dike for a short time, talking busily, though not able to see where they were going, when suddenly Katharine felt her feet slipping. In trying to steady herself she let go of Gretel, gave a wild clutch at the air, and then rolled, rolled, right down a steep bank, and, splash! into a pool of water at the bottom. For a moment she lay half stunned, not knowing what had happened to her; then, as her sense came, “Oh,” thought she, “I must be killed, or drowned, or something!” She tried to call “Gretel,” but her voice sounded weak and far off, and she could see nothing. Slowly she crawled out of the pool, only to plunge, splash! into another. She felt, oh, so cold, wet, and bruised! “I must have rolled right down the dike,” she thought. “If I could find it, I might climb up again.” She got up and tried to walk, but sank to her ankles in water at every step.
She was a little lame from her fall, and soaked from head to foot. Her clothes hung around her most uncomfortably when she tried to walk. But, if she had to crawl on hands and knees, she must find the house; so, plunging, tumbling, rising again, she crawled in and out of ditches, every minute getting more cold and miserable.
But on she went, shivering and sore, every moment wandering farther from her friends, who were out searching all along the bottom of the dike.
After what seemed to her a long time, she came bump up against something hard. She did not know what it was, but she could have jumped for joy, if her clothes had not been so heavy to hear a voice suddenly call out in Dutch “What’s that? Who has hit against my door? Ach! where in the world have you come from?” Then in a considerably milder tone: “Ach! the little one! and she is English. How did you get here, dear heart?”
“I—I—fell down the dike. I have—lost—everybody. Oh, how shall I ever get back to father?” answered Katharine in her very poor Dutch.
“But tell me, little one, where you came from—ach! so cold and wet!”
“I was spending the day with Marie and Gretel—and—Jan—and we were walking on the dike when the fog came on; then I fell, and could not find my way—”
“Gretel and Jan—could they be Juffrouw Van Dyne’s children?”
“Yes, yes,” eagerly; “that is where I was. Oh, can you take me back, dear, dear juffrouw?”
“Yes, when the fog clears away, my child. I could not find the house now; it is more than two miles from here. Besides, you must put off these wet clothes; you will get your death of cold—poor lambkin.”
At this Katharine’s sobs broke forth afresh. It must be late in the evening now, she thought; her father would come to Marie’s and would not be able to find her—
“No, dear child, it is only four o’clock in the afternoon. The fog may clear away very soon, and then I will take you back.”
Quickly the wet garments were taken off and hung about the stove. Katharine presently found herself wrapped up in blankets in a great arm-chair in front of the fire, a cushion at her back and another under her feet, drinking some nice hot broth, and feeling so warm and comfortable that she fell fast asleep, and awoke two hours later to find the room quite light, the fog almost gone, the juffrouw sitting beside her knitting, and a comfortable-looking cat purring noisily at her feet.
“I think I have been asleep,” she said.
“I think you have,” said Dame Donk.
Just then a loud knock was heard at the door, a head was poked in, then another, and still another. The cottage was fast filling up. There stood, first of all, poor, pale, frightened Marie, holding a large bundle in her arms, Jan with another smaller one, Gretel carrying a pair of shoes, and one of the sisters, completely filling up the doorway with her ample proportions, last of all.
It appears that as soon as the fog had begun to clear, the good Dame Donk had despatched a boy from a neighboring cottage to let them know where Katharine was, and that her wardrobe would need replenishing.
The excitement on finding the child safe and sound may be better imagined than described. How she was kissed, cried, and laughed over, what questions were asked and not answered, as she was taken into an adjoining room and arrayed in a complete suit of Gretel’s clothes, even to the klompen, for, alas! her French shoes were now in no condition to be worn, the pretty blue frock torn and stained and hopelessly wet, the hat with its dainty plume crushed and useless; indeed, every article she had worn looked only fit for the rag-bag.
Gretel was so much smaller than Katharine that the clothes were a very tight fit, the skirt which hung round Gretel’s ankles reaching just below Katharine’s knees, and it was a funny little figure that stepped back into the room—no longer a fashionably dressed New York maiden, but a golden-haired child of Holland, even to the blue eyes, sparkling now with fun and merriment.
“But didn’t you bring a cap for me, Marie?” she asked in a grieved tone.
“Ah, no, deary; I never thought of a cap.”
“Well, you must put one on me the minute we get back.”
“Oh, what will father say?” she cried delightedly, as she surveyed herself in the little mirror.
This sobered Marie at once. What would “father” say, indeed? Would he not have a right to be very angry with her, that she had allowed the child to get into such danger?
“Where is Katharine?” asked the colonel, as he stood, tall and commanding, on the threshold, later that evening, surveying eight small Hollanders, looking so much alike, except for the difference in their sizes, that they might have passed for eight Dutch dolls propped up in a row against the wall.
A sudden shriek of laughter, and one of the dolls was in his arms, smothering him with kisses. Then every one began to talk at once, as usual, and it was not until late the next evening, when he and Katharine were steaming out of Amsterdam, that the colonel was told the whole story and for the first time fully understood all that had happened to his little girl on that eventful day.
Meanwhile the new light in his daughter’s eyes and the laughter on her lips kept him from any desire to inquire too deeply into the reason for a certain embarrassed frightened look on the faces of the women.
Before leaving Amsterdam the colonel was obliged to purchase a complete suit of Dutch garments for Katharine as a memento of this visit, and “because they are so pretty, father,” she said, and “oh, father, I just love Holland! As for those Dutch children, I think they are simply the dearest, sweetest things I ever saw, and I have promised to write to Gretel as soon as ever I get to Paris.”
There lives in a town that is called Chu-Bo
A little Jap girl named Nami-Ko.
She learns to spell and she learns to write,
But her A B C’s are the oddest sight!
For this is the way that the letters look
In her neat little, queer little copy-book:
This little Jap girl has shoes most neat
To put on her tiny Japanese feet,
But O! They are queer—such heels, such toes!
You’d think she would fall on her little Jap nose!
And these are the shoes—beware of mishap
If you wear what belongs to a queer little Jap!
When this little Jap girl goes out to call
She wears no hat—but a parasol!
And her little Jap mother wears one too—
In fact it’s the way that the Japs all do.
And this is the curious parasol
Which the little Jap girl wears out to call:
This little Jap girl, when she goes to bed,
Has no soft pillow beneath her head,
For little Jap girls have to take great care
Of their smooth little, black little Japanese hair!
And this is the pillow! Imagine, chicks,
A pillow like this—and as hard as bricks!
BY EMMA C. DOWD
The Little Cousin from Constantinople was to have been given a party on her seventh birthday; but, just before the invitations were written, Mumps came uninvited, and, of course, there could be no other guests while Mumps stayed.
The Little Cousin could not help feeling just a little tearful on her birthday morning, for Mumps, as nearly everybody knows, is a painful, disagreeable visitor. She did not cry when anybody was near—oh, no, indeed! She even tried to smile; but she found smiling very difficult with a poultice on each side of her face, and she had to give it up. The Merry Mother understood, however, and told her she was a dear, brave little girl, and strove to comfort her just as the dear absent Mother in Constantinople would have comforted her if she had been there.
Before the Merry Mother left her the Little Cousin felt almost happy, sitting up among her soft pillows, and wearing her new, pink, birthday sacque, with its pretty ribbons.
“I am sorry I must be away all the morning,” the Merry Mother said; “but I hope your pleasant company will keep you from missing me. I am going to shut your door for a minute, and when it opens you can pull in your visitors as fast as you please.” She laughed to see the Little Cousin’s astonished face, for the doctor had said that the children must not come in to see her as long as Mumps stayed. Then the door closed.
There was a slight commotion outside. The Little Cousin listened eagerly. What could it mean? Hushed voices, bits of laughter, the sliding of something over the polished floor, scurrying footsteps here and there—the Little Cousin heard it all, and waited breathlessly.
At last the feet retreated, the door opened, and the Merry Mother’s face appeared. Something attached to a string came flying toward the bed.
“Catch it!” she called.
The Little Cousin grabbed it—only a small block of wood, on which was printed, “PULL.”
Eagerly the little hands obeyed, when in through the doorway slid an oblong package. Across the rug and up on the bed the Little Cousin drew it, till her excited fingers clasped the package tight—what could it be?
Fastened to the further end of the bundle was another block of wood, and attached to it was another string which led outside the door. On this block was printed. “When you are ready, PULL again!”
“I’ll open this first,” said the Little Cousin to herself, untying the block, and laying it aside with its dangling cord. Eagerly she tore off the wrappings—it was, it was a doll, such a darling of a doll! It had brown eyes and fluffy yellow curls, and—this seemed very strange—the only thing in the way of clothing that it possessed was a little blanket that was wrapped around it.
Never mind! she was learning to sew, and she would make it a dress as soon as she was well again. She cuddled Dolly down against the pillows. She would not be lonely any more, even if Mumps should stay for a longer visit than was expected. Her dolls had all been left for the Little Sister in Constantinople, and it was so nice to have a dolly of her own again!
Then her eyes fell on the block of wood, with its inscription, and she began to pull in the string.
A square package appeared in the doorway, and she drew it toward her. Attached to it was a third block. This she untied as before, and removed the paper from her gift. It was a small trunk. She lifted the cover, and there were Dolly’s missing garments! A blue dress, a pink dress, a white dress, dainty underwear, sash ribbons, a coat and hat, and even a tiny comb and brush, were found in that wonderful trunk. Of course, Dolly had to come out from her nook in the pillows, and be dressed. It took some time, because Little Cousin must stop to admire every separate garment. At last, however, the third present was pulled in, and it was a chair for Dolly to sit in.
The fourth package was big and rather heavier than the others. The Little Cousin wondered what it could be, and she found out just as soon as she could get it open. It was a dining-table for Dolly, with a real little table-cloth, and napkins, and a set of pretty china dishes.
“Oh, oh!” gasped the Little Cousin, in sheer delight. It is a pity there was no one there to see the shining of her eyes. She rested awhile among her pillows; but not long, for Dolly must have her table set for luncheon—she might be hungry.
Ready for the make-believe repast, string number five was pulled, and when the box was opened the Little Cousin fairly squealed, for there was a real luncheon for Dolly and herself, all in twos! There were two tiny buttered biscuits, two very small apple turnovers, and two little frosted cakes. There were, also, two small bottles containing a brownish liquid. It was chocolate! Oh, how glad the Little Cousin was that she had passed the stage where she could not eat! It would have been hard, indeed, to have left all those goodies for Dolly. As it was she had to take food in very small bits, but that only made it last the longer; and if it did hurt a little once in a while she did not mind, it tasted so good. So on the whole, the luncheon was a very happy affair.
When the sixth present was pulled upon the bed the Little Cousin said, “Oh!” to the accompaniment of very bright eyes, for the shape of it told her that must be a carriage—a carriage for Dolly, and it proved to be one of the very prettiest that ever a small doll rode in. She was put on the seat in a twinkling, and had only one tumble—which did not even muss her dress, and the next time she was strapped in so that she could not fall.
The seventh gift was a little white bedstead, with mattress and sheets, a dear little puffy comfortable, and a dainty coverlet and two pillows. Of course, Dolly was tired enough after her ride to be undressed and go to bed, and very sweet she looked as she was tucked snugly in.
“Now shut your eyes and go right to sleep!” Dolly was bidden, and she obeyed at once.
“What a perfectly lovely birthday!” murmured Little Cousin, drawing her darling—bed and all—close to her pillow. Then she shut her own eyes, to keep Dolly company.
When the Merry Mother peeped in, the Little Cousin from Constantinople lay quite still among her treasures—fast asleep.
RETOLD FROM GRIMM
There was once a sweet little girl, who had gained the love of every one, even those who had only seen her once. She had an old grandmother, who knew not how to do enough for her, she loved her so much. Once she sent her a little cloak with a red velvet hood, which became her so well that she obtained the name of Little Red Riding-Hood.
One day her mother said to her: “Come, Red Riding-Hood, I want you to go and see your grandmother, and take her a piece of cake and a bottle of wine; for she is ill and weak, and this will do her good. Make haste and get ready before the weather gets too hot, and go straight on your road while you are out, and behave prettily and modestly; and do not run, for fear you should fall and break the bottle, and then grandmother would have no wine. And when you pass through the village, do not forget to courtesy and say ‘Good-morning’ to every one who knows you.”
“I will do everything you tell me, mother,” said the child as she wished her good-by and started for her long walk.
It was quite half an hour’s walk through the wood from the village to the grandmother’s house, and no sooner had Red Riding-Hood entered the wood than she met a wolf.
Red Riding-Hood did not know what a wicked animal he was, and felt not the least afraid of him.
“Good-day, Red Riding-Hood,” he said.
“Good-morning, sir,” replied the little girl, with a courtesy.
“Where are you going so early, Red Riding-Hood?” he asked.
“To my grandmother, sir,” she replied. “Mother baked yesterday, and she has sent me with a piece of cake and a bottle of wine to her because she is sick, and it will make her stronger and do her good.”
“Where does your grandmother live, Red Riding-Hood?”
“About half a mile from here through the wood; her house stands under three large oak trees, near to the nut hedges; you would easily know it,” said Red Riding-Hood.
The wolf, when he heard this, thought to himself, “This little, delicate thing would be a sweet morsel for me at last, and taste nicer than her old grandmother, but she would not satisfy my hunger; I must make a meal of them both.”
Then he walked quietly on by the side of Red Riding-Hood till they came to a part of the wood where a number of flowers grew.
“See, Red Riding-Hood,” he said, “what pretty flowers are growing here; would you not like to rest and gather some? And don’t you hear how sweetly the birds are singing? You are walking on as steadily as if you were going to school, and it is much more pleasant here in the wood.”
Then Red Riding-Hood looked up and saw the dancing sunbeams shining between the trees and lighting up the beautiful flowers that grew all around her, and she thought, “If I were to take my grandmother a fresh nosegay, it would make her so pleased; it is early yet, and I have plenty of time.”
So she went out of her way into the wood to gather flowers. And when she had picked a few, she saw some more beautiful still at a little distance so she walked on further and further, till she was quite deep in the wood.
Meanwhile the wolf went straight on to the grandmother’s house, and knocked at the door. There was no answer.
So the wolf lifted the latch and the door flew open; then he rushed in, hoping to seize upon the poor old grandmother, and eat her up. But she had gone out for a little walk, so he shut the door, dressed himself in the old woman’s nightgown and nightcap, and lay down in the bed to wait for Red Riding-Hood.
After Red Riding-Hood had gathered as many flowers as she could carry, she found her way back quickly to the right path, and walked on very fast till she came to her grandmother’s house, and knocked at the door.
“Who is there?” said the wolf, trying to imitate the grandmother. His voice was so gruff, however, that Little Red Riding-Hood would have been frightened, only she thought her grandmother had a cold.
So she replied: “It’s Little Red Riding-Hood. Mother sent you a piece of cake and a bottle of wine.”
“Lift up the latch and come in,” said the wolf.
So Red Riding-Hood lifted the latch and went in.
When she saw her grandmother, as she thought, lying in bed, she went up to her and drew back the curtains; but she could only see the head, for the wolf had pulled the nightcap as far over his face as he could.
“Good-morning,” she said; but there was no answer. Then she got on the bed, and cried out: “Grandmother, what great ears you have!”
“The better to hear with, my dear,” he said.
“Grandmother, what great eyes you have!”
“The better to see you, my dear, the better to see you.”
“Grandmother, what great teeth you have!”
“The better to eat you up!”
The old wolf jumped out of bed, and Little Red Riding Hood, in the greatest terror, screamed as loud as she could.
Just then the door opened, and in came the grandmother and some woodmen who were passing. They were just in time to save Little Red-Riding-Hood from the old wolf.
Mary
Come and see my baby dear;
Doctor, she is ill, I fear.
Yesterday, do what I would,
She would touch no kind of food;
And she tosses, moans, and cries.
Doctor, what do you advise?
Doctor John
Hum! ha! good madam, tell me, pray,
What have you offered her to-day?
Ah, yes! I see! a piece of cake—
The worst thing you could make her take.
Just let me taste. Yes, yes; I fear
Too many plums and currants here.
But, stop; I must just taste again,
For that will make the matter plain.
Mary
But, Doctor, pray excuse me, now—
You’ve eaten all the cake, I vow!
I thank you kindly for your care;
But surely that was hardly fair.
Doctor John
Ah, dear me! did I eat the cake?
Well, it was for dear baby’s sake.
But keep him in his bed, well warm,
And, you will see, he’ll take no harm.
At night and morning use once more
His draught and powder, as before;
And he must not be over-fed,
But he may have a piece of bread.
To-morrow, then, I dare to say,
He’ll be quite right. Good day! good day!
BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
She had a little house of her own, a little garden, too, this woman of whom I am going to tell you, but for all that she was not quite happy.
“If only I had a little child of my own,” she said, “how the walls would ring with her laughter, and how the flowers would brighten at her coming. Then, indeed, I should be quite happy.”
And an old witch heard what the woman wished, and said, “Oh, but that is easily managed. Here is a barley-corn. Plant it in a flower-pot and tend it carefully, and then you will see what will happen.”
The woman was in a great hurry to go home and plant the barley-corn, but she did not forget to say “Thank you” to the old witch. She not only thanked her, she even stayed to give her six silver pennies.
Then she hurried away to her home, took a flower-pot and planted her precious barley-corn.
And what do you think happened? Almost before the corn was planted, up shot a large and beautiful flower. It was still unopened. The petals were folded closely together, but it looked like a tulip. It really was a tulip, a red and yellow one, too.
The woman loved flowers. She stooped and kissed the beautiful bud. As her lips touched the petals, they burst open, and oh! wonder of wonders; there, in the very middle of the flower, sat a little child. Such a tiny, pretty little maiden she was.
They called her Thumbelina. That was because she was no bigger than the woman’s thumb.
And where do you think she slept? A little walnut shell, lined with blue, that was her cradle.
When she slept little Thumbelina lay in her cradle on a tiny heap of violets, with the petal of a pale pink rose to cover her.
And where do you think she played? A table was her playground. On the table the woman placed a plate of water. Little Thumbelina called that her lake.
Round the plate were scented flowers; the blossoms lying on the edge, while the pale green stalks reached thirstily down to the water.
In the lake floated a large tulip leaf. This was Thumbelina’s little boat. Seated there she sailed from side to side of her little lake, rowing cleverly with two white horse hairs. As she rowed backward and forward she sang softly to herself. The woman listening heard, and thought she had never known so sweet a song.
And now such a sad thing happened.
In through a broken window-pane hopped a big toad—oh, such an ugly big toad! She hopped right on to the table, where Thumbelina lay dreaming in her tiny cradle, under the pale pink rose leaf.
“How beautiful the little maiden is,” she croaked. “She will make a lovely bride for my handsome son.” And she lifted the little cradle, with Thumbelina in it, and hopped out through the broken window-pane, and down into the little garden.
At the foot of the garden was a broad stream. Here, under the muddy banks, lived the old toad with her son.
How handsome she thought him! But he was really very ugly. Indeed, he was exactly like his mother.
When he saw little Thumbelina in her tiny cradle, he croaked with delight.
“Do not make so much noise,” said his mother, “or you will wake the tiny creature. We may lose her if we are not careful. The slightest breeze would waft her away. She is as light as gossamer.”
Then the old toad carried Thumbelina out into the middle of the stream. “She will be safe here,” she said, as she laid her gently on one of the leaves of a large water lily, and paddled back to her son.
“We will make ready the best rooms under the mud,” she told him, “and then you and the little maiden will be married.”
Poor little Thumbelina! She had not seen the ugly big toad yet, nor her ugly son.
When she woke up early in the morning, how she wept! Water all around her! How could she reach the shore? Poor little Thumbelina!
Down under the mud the old toad was very busy, decking the best room with buttercups and buds of water-lilies to make it gay for her little daughter-in-law, Thumbelina.
“Now we will go to bring her little bed and place it ready,” said the old toad, and together she and her son swam out to the leaf where little Thumbelina sat.
“Here is my handsome son,” she said, “he is to be your husband,” and she bowed low in the water, for she wished to be very polite to the little maiden.
“Croak, croak,” was all the young toad could say, as he looked at his pretty little bride.
Then they took away the tiny little bed, and Thumbelina was left all alone.
How the tears stained her pretty little face! How fast they fell into the stream! Even the fish as they swam hither and thither thought, “How it rains today,” as the tiny drops fell thick and fast.
They popped up their heads and saw the forlorn little maiden.
“She shall not marry the ugly toad,” they said, as they looked with eager eyes at the pretty child. “No, she shall not marry the ugly toad.”
But what could the little fish do to help Thumbelina?
They found the green stem which held the leaf on which Thumbelina sat. They bit it with their little sharp teeth, and they never stopped biting, till at last they bit the green stem through; and away, down the stream, floated the leaf, carrying with it little Thumbelina.
“Free, free!” she sang, and her voice tinkled as a chime of fairy bells. “Free, free!” she sang merrily as she floated down the stream, away, far away out of reach of the ugly old toad and her ugly son.
And as she floated on, the little wild birds sang round her, and on the banks the little wild hare-bells bowed to her.
Butterflies were flitting here and there in the sunshine. A pretty little white one fluttered onto the leaf on which sat Thumbelina. He loved the tiny maiden so well that he settled down beside her.
Now she was quite happy! Birds around her, flowers near her, and the water gleaming like gold in the summer sunshine. What besides could little Thumbelina wish?
She took off her sash and threw one end of it round the butterfly. The other end she fastened firmly to the leaf. On and on floated the leaf, the little maiden and the butterfly.
Suddenly a great cockchafer buzzed along. Alas! he caught sight of little Thumbelina. He flew to her, put his claw round her tiny little waist and carried her off, up onto a tree.
Poor little Thumbelina! How frightened she was! How grieved she was, too, for had she not lost her little friend the butterfly?
Would he fly away, she wondered, or would her sash hold him fast?
The cockchafer was charmed with the little maiden. He placed her tenderly on the largest leaf he could find. He gathered honey for her from the flowers, and as she sipped it, he sat near and told her how beautiful she looked.
But there were other chafers living in the tree, and when they came to see little Thumbelina, they said, “She is not pretty at all.”
“She has only two legs,” said one.
“She has no feelers,” said another.
Some said she was too thin, others that she was too fat, and then they all buzzed and hummed together, “How ugly she is, how ugly she is!” But all the time little Thumbelina was the prettiest little maiden that ever lived.
And now the cockchafer who had flown off with little Thumbelina thought he had been rather foolish to admire her.
He looked at her again. “Pretty? No, after all she was not very pretty.” He would have nothing to do with her, and away he and all the other chafers flew. Only first they carried little Thumbelina down from the tree and placed her on a daisy. She wept because she was so ugly—so ugly that the chafers could not live with her. But all the time, you know, she was the prettiest little maiden in the world.
She was living all alone in the wood now, but it was summer and she could not feel sad or lonely while the warm golden sunshine touched her so gently, while the birds sang to her, and the flowers bowed to her.
Yes, little Thumbelina was happy. She ate honey from the flowers, and drank dew out of the golden buttercups and danced and sang the livelong day.
But summer passed away and autumn came. The birds began to whisper of flying to warmer countries, and the flowers began to fade and hang their heads, and as autumn passed away, winter came, cold, dreary winter.
Thumbelina shivered with cold. Her little frock was thin and old. She would certainly be frozen to death, she thought, as she wrapped herself up in a withered leaf.
Then the snow began to fall, and each snow-flake seemed to smother her. She was so very tiny.
Close to the wood lay a corn-field. The beautiful golden grain had been carried away long ago, now there was only dry short stubble. But to little Thumbelina the stubble was like a great forest.
She walked through the hard field. She was shaking with cold. All at once she saw a little door just before her.
The field-mouse had made a little house under the stubble, and lived so cozily there. She had a big room full of corn, and she had a kitchen and pantry as well.
“Perhaps I shall get some food here,” thought the cold and hungry little maiden, as she stood knocking at the door, just like a tiny beggar child. She had had nothing to eat for two long days. Oh, she was very hungry!
“What a tiny thing you are!” said the field-mouse, as she opened the door and saw Thumbelina. “Come in and dine with me.”
How glad Thumbelina was, and how she enjoyed dining with the field-mouse.
She behaved so prettily that the old field-mouse told her she might live with her while the cold weather lasted. “And you shall keep my room clean and neat, and you shall tell me stories,” she added.
That is how Thumbelina came to live with the field-mouse and to meet Mr. Mole.
“We shall have a visitor soon,” said the field-mouse. “My neighbor, Mr. Mole, comes to see me every week-day. His house is very large, and he wears a beautiful coat of black velvet. Unfortunately, he is blind. If you tell him your prettiest stories he may marry you.”
Now the mole was very wise and very clever, but how could little Thumbelina ever care for him. Why, he did not love the sun, nor the flowers, and he lived in a house underground. No, Thumbelina did not wish to marry the mole.
However she must sing to him when he came to visit his neighbor, the field-mouse. When she had sung, “Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home,” and “Boys and girls, come out to play,” the mole was charmed, and thought he would like to marry the little maiden with the beautiful voice.
Then he tried to be very agreeable. He invited the field-mouse and Thumbelina to walk along the underground passage he had dug between their houses. Mr. Mole was very fond of digging underground.
As it was dark the mole took a piece of tinder-wood in his mouth and led the way. The tinder-wood shone like a torch in the dark passage.
A little bird lay in the passage, a little bird who had not flown away when the flowers faded and the cold winds blew.
It was dead, the mole said.
When he reached the bird, the mole stopped and pushed his nose right up through the ceiling to make a hole, through which the daylight might shine.
There lay a swallow, his wings pressed close to his side, his little head and legs drawn in under his feathers. He had died of cold.
“Poor little swallow!” thought Thumbelina. All wild birds were her friends. Had they not sung to her and fluttered round her all the long glad summer days?
But the mole kicked the swallow with his short legs. “That one will sing no more,” he said roughly. “It must be sad to be born a bird and to be able only to sing and fly. I am thankful none of my children will be birds,” and he proudly smoothed down his velvet coat.
“Yes,” said the field-mouse, “what can a bird do but sing? When the cold weather comes it is useless.”
Thumbelina said nothing. Only when the others moved on, she stooped down and stroked the bird gently with her tiny hand, and kissed its closed eyes.
That night the little maiden could not sleep. “I will go to see the poor swallow again,” she thought.
She got up out of her tiny bed. She wove a little carpet out of hay. Down the long underground passage little Thumbelina walked, carrying the carpet. She reached the bird at last, and spread the carpet gently round him. She fetched warm cotton and laid it over the bird.
“Even down on the cold earth he will be warm now,” thought the gentle little maiden.
“Farewell,” she said sadly, “farewell, little bird! Did you sing to me through the long summer days, when the leaves were green and the sky was blue? Farewell, little swallow!” and she stooped to press her tiny cheeks against the soft feathers.
As she did so, she heard—what could it be? pit, pat, pit, pat! Could the bird be alive? Little Thumbelina listened still. Yes, it was the beating of the little bird’s heart that she heard. He had not been dead after all, only frozen with cold. The little carpet and the covering the little maid had brought warmed the bird. He would get well now.
What a big bird he seemed to Thumbelina! She was almost afraid now, for she was so tiny. She was tiny, but she was brave. Drawing the covering more closely round the poor swallow, she brought her own little pillow, that the bird’s head might rest softly.
Thumbelina stole out again the next night. “Would the swallow look at her,” she wondered.
Yes, he opened his eyes and looked at little Thumbelina, who stood there with a tiny torch of tinder-wood.
“Thanks, thanks, little Thumbelina,” he twittered feebly. “Soon I shall grow strong and fly out in the bright sunshine once more; thanks, thanks, little maiden.”
“Oh! but it is too cold, it snows and freezes, for now it is winter,” said Thumbelina. “Stay here and be warm, and I will take care of you,” and she brought the swallow water in a leaf.
And the little bird told her all his story—how he had tried to fly to the warm countries, and how he had torn his wing on a blackthorn bush and fallen to the ground. But he could not tell her how he had come to the underground passage.
All winter the swallow stayed there, and Thumbelina was often in the long passage, with her little torch of tinder-wood. But the mole and the field-mouse did not know how Thumbelina tended and cared for the swallow.
At last spring came, and the sun sent its warmth down where the swallow lay in the underground passage.
Little Thumbelina opened the hole which the mole had made in the ceiling, and the sunshine streamed down on the swallow and the little girl.
How the swallow longed to soar away, up and up, to be lost to sight in the blue, blue sky!
“Come with me, little Thumbelina,” said the swallow, “come with me to the blue skies and the green woods.”
But Thumbelina remembered how kind the field-mouse had been to her when she was cold and hungry, and she would not leave her.
“Farewell! farewell! then, little maiden,” twittered the swallow as he flew out and up, up into the sunshine.
Thumbelina loved the swallow dearly. Her eyes were full of tears as she watched the bird disappearing till he was only a tiny speck of black.
And now sad days came to little Thumbelina.
The golden corn was once more waving in the sunshine above the house of the field-mouse, but Thumbelina must not go out lest she lose herself among the corn.
Not go out in the bright sunshine! Oh, poor little Thumbelina!
“You must get your wedding clothes ready this summer,” said the field-mouse. “You must be well provided with linen and worsted. My neighbor the mole will wish a well-dressed bride.”
The mole had said he wished to marry little Thumbelina before the cold winter came again.
So Thumbelina sat at the spinning-wheel through the long summer days, spinning and weaving with four little spiders to help her.
In the evening the mole came to visit her. “Summer will soon be over,” he said, “and we shall be married.”
But oh! little Thumbelina did not wish the summer to end.
Live with the dull old mole, who hated the sunshine, who would not listen to the song of the birds—live underground with him! Little Thumbelina wished the summer would never end.
The spinning and weaving were over now. All the wedding clothes were ready. Autumn was come.
“Only four weeks and the wedding-day will have come,” said the field-mouse.
And little Thumbelina wept.
“I will not marry the tiresome old mole,” she said.
“I shall bite you with my white tooth if you talk such nonsense,” said the field-mouse. “Among all my friends not one of them has such a fine velvet coat as the mole. His cellars are full and his rooms are large. You ought to be glad to marry so well,” she ended.
“Was there no escape from the underground home?” little Thumbelina wondered.
The wedding-day came. The mole arrived to fetch his little bride.
How could she say good-by forever to the beautiful sunshine?
“Farewell, farewell!” she cried, and waved her little hands toward the glorious sun.
“Farewell, farewell!” she cried, and threw her tiny arms round a little red flower growing at her feet.
“Tell the dear swallow, when he comes again,” she whispered to the flower, “tell him I will never forget him.”
“Tweet, tweet!” What was that Thumbelina heard? “Tweet, tweet!” Could it be the swallow?
The flutter of wings was round her. Little Thumbelina looked. How glad she was, for there, indeed, was the little bird she had tended and cared for so long. She told him, weeping, she must not stay. She must marry the mole and live underground, and never see the sun, the glorious sun.
“Come with me, come with me, little Thumbelina,” twittered the swallow. “You can sit on my back, and I will fly with you to warmer countries, far from the tiresome old mole. Over mountains and seas we will fly to the country where the summer never ends, and the sunlight always shines.”
Then little Thumbelina seated herself on her dear swallow’s back, and put her tiny feet on his outstretched wing. She tied herself firmly with her little sash to the strongest feather of the bird.
And the swallow soared high into the air. High above forests and lakes, high above the big mountains that were crested with snow, he soared.
They had reached the warm countries now.
On and on flew the swallow, till he came to a white marble palace. Half-ruined it was, and vine leaves trailed up the long slender pillars. And among the broad, green leaves many a swallow had built his nest, and one of these nests belonged to Thumbelina’s little swallow.
“This is my home,” said the bird, “but you shall live in one of these brilliant flowers, in the loveliest of them all.”
And little Thumbelina clapped her hands with joy.
The swallow flew with her to a stately sun-flower, and set her carefully on one of the broad yellow petals.
But think, what was her surprise! In the very heart of the flower stood a little Prince, fair and transparent as crystal. On his shoulders were a pair of delicate wings, and he was small, every bit as small as Thumbelina. He was the spirit of the flower.
For you know in each flower there is a spirit—a tiny little boy or girl, but this little Prince was King of all the flower spirits.
The little King thought Thumbelina the loveliest maiden he had ever seen. He took off his golden crown and placed it on the tiny head of the little maid, and in a silvery voice he asked, “Will you be my bride, little Thumbelina, and reign with me over the flower spirits?”
How glad Thumbelina was!
The little King wished to marry her. Yes, she would be his little Queen.
Then out of each blossom stepped tiny little children. They came to pay their homage to little Thumbelina.
Each one brought her a present, and the most beautiful of all the presents was a pair of wings, delicate as gossamer. And when they were fastened on the shoulders of the little Queen, she could fly from flower to flower.
And the swallow sat on his nest above, and sang his sweetest bridal song for the wedding of little Thumbelina.
Once upon a time there was a little red hen. She lived in a little white house and she had a little green garden. Every day she worked in the house and garden.
Near her home lived a family of foxes. One day Mamma Fox said to Papa Fox, “I want a fat hen to eat.” There was nothing in the pantry for the baby foxes, so Papa Fox started out to find something for them all.
He ran down the road until he came to the woods. “Surely I will find something here,” he said, but he found nothing to eat in the woods. As he came near the little green garden he said, “Oh, I smell fresh cake! Oh, I smell a little red hen!”
Sure enough, there was the Little Red Hen eating her cake.
Papa Fox stole up softly behind her and grabbed her and put her into the bag on his back; then he ran quickly off down the hill toward his home.
The Little Red Hen was so frightened that she could only whisper, “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”
Just then she had to sneeze, and when she put her claw into her pocket for her handkerchief, she felt her little scissors. Quick as a flash she took them out and cut a little hole in the bag. Peeping out she saw a great hill just ahead, all covered with stones. As Papa Fox stopped to rest on his way up the hill, with his back turned toward her, she cut a big hole in the bag, jumped out and quickly put a big stone in the bag in her place.
As Papa Fox kept on up the hill, he thought the bag was pretty heavy, but he said, “Never mind, she is a fat little red hen.”
Mamma Fox met him at the front door with all the baby foxes.
“The water is boiling,” said she. “What have you in your bag?” asked the Baby Foxes.
“A fat little red hen,” said Papa Fox.
As he held the bag over the pot, he said to Mamma Fox, “When I drop her in, you clap on the lid.” So he opened the bag. Splash! went the boiling water. It spilled all over Papa Fox and Mamma Fox and the Baby Foxes. Never again did they try to catch the Little Red Hen.
BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM
There was once a shoemaker, who, from no fault of his own, had become so poor that at last he had nothing left, but just sufficient leather for one pair of shoes. In the evening he cut out the leather, intending to make it up in the morning; and, as he had a good conscience, he lay quietly down to sleep, first commending himself to God. In the morning he said his prayers, and then sat down to work; but, behold, the pair of shoes were already made, and there they stood upon his board. The poor man was amazed, and knew not what to think; but he took the shoes into his hand to look at them more closely, and they were so neatly worked, that not a stitch was wrong; just as if they had been made for a prize. Presently a customer came in; and as the shoes pleased him very much, he paid down more than was usual; and so much that the shoemaker was able to buy with it leather for two pairs. By the evening he had got his leather shaped out; and when he arose the next morning, he prepared to work with fresh spirit; but there was no need—for the shoes stood all perfect on his board. He did not want either for customers; for two came who paid him so liberally for the shoes, that he bought with the money material for four pairs more. These also—when he awoke—he found all ready-made, and so it continued; what he cut out overnight was, in the morning, turned into the neatest shoes possible. This went on until he had regained his former appearance, and was becoming prosperous.
One evening—not long before Christmas—as he had cut out the usual quantity, he said to his wife before going to bed, “What say you to stopping up this night, to see who it is that helps us so kindly?” His wife was satisfied, and fastened up a light; and then they hid themselves in the corner of the room, where hung some clothes which concealed them. As soon as it was midnight in came two little manikins, who squatted down on the board; and, taking up the prepared work, set to with their little fingers, stitching and sewing, and hammering so swiftly and lightly, that the shoemaker could not take his eyes off them for astonishment. They did not cease until all was brought to an end, and the shoes stood ready on the table; and then they sprang quickly away.