A Faery Surprise Party.
Y name is Jack Frost, and I have a story to tell. If you don't know who I am, ask my friend North East Wind, Esq., and he will tell you, and whistle a tune which he made up about me. I am Painter to her Beauty Mab, Queen of the Faeries. She gives me plenty of work to do; in the summer-time I go North, like other artists, to take sketches, but when the winter comes then I come back and paint my pictures. I paint chiefly on glass, though sometimes on pottery, the night is the time I like best to work in, for in the day-time the sun tries to put some colour into the paintings, which spoils them; white is the only colour I ever use.
I was going to tell you, however, a story about what I saw the other night. Queen Mab sent a snow-flake to me with a message. I was to paint eight large squares of glass in a certain window of a certain house. I might paint what I chose only it must be done in good season, for the Queen was to visit the painting when it was finished. So I was at the glass and at work early—'twas only a little after sundown; my friend, North East Wind, jolly old fellow! was whistling a tune right merrily as I handled my brush.
There was a light inside the room, and I could see everything that was going on there; I could hear everything too, for there was a crack in one of the panes of glass; these cracks spoil my paintings—I never can make any mark on the glass close to them—but how ever, here was this crack, and I could make out through it everything that was going on. A nurse was putting a little girl named Milly to bed, and they talked incessantly. Milly was to have a party the next day, which was her sixth birth-day; it was to be her first party. All things had been made ready for it; she had had a new dress, white with red spots like wafers all over it, and she was to wear a red sash and bronze kid slippers. Twelve little girls had been invited, but only eleven were sure to come; Susan Peabody was sick, and might not be there.
All this I heard, and I saw Milly tucked up in bed and left to go to sleep. Then I worked with a will, for I had no time to spare. I begged my jolly friend, N. E. Wind, to be off with himself, as he interrupted my work. So he gave one long wheugh! and away he went.
At twelve o'clock my painting was done. It was the best piece I had done in a long while; one square of glass in particular was superb, though I say it that ought not say it. It was a picture of the palace of Queen Mab; towers and spires were there, hung with crystal bells; the castle was set round with trees, some slim, shooting up above the towers, some stunted throwing out their branches in every direction. The whole glittered most brilliantly. There was a network over all, as if a spider had spun silver threads in front of it. I very often put that on afterwards to add to the effect, though my friend North East Wind pooh-poohs at it; but he knows nothing about art.
It was twelve o'clock, as I said, and the moon was shining brightly; as it rose higher, a moon-beam passed through the window, and through the very square of glass that I had taken such pains with. It passed like a carriage-way right by the great door of the Queen's palace, while the other end rested on the bed where Milly was sleeping. I was standing on the window sash, just touching up the work a little, when, all of a sudden, what should I see but her Beauty Queen Mab with eleven attendants; she came out of the great door of the palace I had painted—that was the finest effect of all.
She got into her sleigh which is made of a dove-feather, curling up in front, and which is drawn by twelve lady birds: the lady birds all had on robes of caterpillar fuz to keep them warm. The retinue of eleven Faeries were all riding on milk-white steeds of dandelion-down. The Queen held the reins herself, and cracking the whip which is made of a musquito leg, away they went over the moon-beam. The Queen saw me just as they left the palace, and gave me a nod. She is very gracious! It did not take them long to reach the bed, I can tell you, and they reined up at the other end of the moon-beam, which rested on Milly's breast.
I wondered what they were going to do here, but it was very soon evident. It seems the Queen knew of the party Milly was to have, and meant to get the better of her by giving her a surprise party first. So she had brought the eleven Faeries with her—just the number of little girls Milly was to have the next day.
The Queen got out of her sleigh, and tied the ladybirds to the strings of Milly's night-cap, that they might not run away. Then she walked along very carefully till she came to Milly's chin. She climbed up it and rested there for a minute, to get breath, and then went on, until she was safely perched on Milly's red lip, where she was nearly blown away, Milly breathed so hard.
Here she beckoned to the eleven and they, leaving their horses below, all set out to reach Milly's forehead, where she told them to gather. A hard time they had of it, too! some of them tried to get up by the nose, but the wind coming out of two great caves was too strong for them; others more wisely crept round by the corners of the eyes, and scrambled up the precipice there. But those who fared worst were a few who tried to get through the hair. They got lost in the forest, and wandered about for a long time, halloing and trying to find the top. You may wonder why they didn't fly—I suppose you think Faeries always do—but I know better. When winter comes they always take off their wings, and put them carefully away where the moths can not touch them—chiefly in old nut-shells; then in spring, their mantua-makers and milliners, the caterpillars and spiders, get them out and put them in repair, or else make new ones.
However, they all at last safely reached the forehead. That was a fine large play-ground for them—the forest behind, and the hill and precipices below. Here they formed a ring and took hold of hands.
Round the ring run,
Pass in and out,
Melt into one,
Puff! turn about!
cried Queen Mab, and in a twinkling the ring of Faeries was going round and round, till it looked just like a glittering ring, perfectly still; then all in a moment they had stopped, and each Faery in turn ran across the ring, ducked between two Faeries, was back again, then between two more, and so on, till I got perfectly confused, and couldn't tell one from another, they seemed so mixed up; they kept getting more and more in a maze, and nearer and nearer to each other, until it was just one solid ball of Faeries; spinning round like a top; then suddenly the ball seemed to burst, and the Faeries to scatter in every direction, but really there was a perfect ring again, and whirling round in just the opposite direction. And then the same thing was done over again, till I should have thought they would all have been ready to drop.
But that came to an end after a while, for they heard the Queen scream, and they stopped to see what the matter might be. It was nothing, though the Queen was a good deal frightened at first. Milly, who was probably dreaming about them, smiled very prettily in her sleep, and as the lip moved, the Queen perched on it almost lost her balance, and came as near as possible to falling into the pit that was open before her. If she had fallen in, she would have struck against Milly's teeth, and that might have been the death of her. She got over her fright soon, and moved a little farther back to get out of harm's way. This put an end to the dance.
After some games of hide and seek when they hid in the eyebrows and the edge of the forest, they had a Tableau. The subject was "The Faery's Sacrifice." That is a favourite story with them. I myself have painted it on glass. A Faery—so the story runs—was once in great danger from a Musquito; it would certainly have caught her and killed her, though she was winged and flying very swiftly; but just then a horse of dandelion-down came gliding by; she jumped on it and they two together were too swift for the Musquito and she escaped; but they went so fast through the wind that the poor horse lost almost all his down and finally dropped upon the ground from sheer inability to go further. The Faery loved him so for saving her that she pulled out her own wings and fastened them on the horse;—away he went, and she had to creep home as well as she could. But she did right though she suffered for it; she was never sorry, and the story is told by the Faeries to their children. This was the story that they played in the Tableau. There were two scenes; in the first the Faery is just mounting the horse to escape the Musquito—the Musquito of course they had to make believe was there, in the second the horse lies panting on the ground and she is leaning over it weeping. There should have been a third, as there usually is, where she puts the wings on the horse, but they had no material with them for that scene.
Then came a Charade. The word was a very easy one—I guessed it myself—it was Duty. It was divided into two parts; the first was dew. Dew is a drink of the Faeries in summer-time. Half a dozen Faeries sat in a circle. The hat of one of them which was made of a bit of rose-leaf, they twisted and turned till it looked a little like the cup of a violet, though the colour wasn't exact. This they put in the middle; but where was the dew? there was none of course, so one of the Faeries had crept down, got on a dandelion-down horse's back and ridden over the moon-beam to the window. In the crack of the sash he got a wee bit of ice that made part of a drop of water when he held it in his hand. It looked like dew, and he managed to get it safely back without spilling much. This had been put in the hat or pretended violet cup. Each of the Faeries, according to custom, took a spoon in hand and slowly stirred the dew in the cup. The spoons they use are made of pieces of the stamens of different flowers; here they had make-believe spoons made out of bits of hair from Milly's eyebrows. They stirred the dew in the cup, and as they stirred they sang the Dew drinking chorus:—
"The shining Dew in the Violet cup
Flows round and round in a silvery flood:—
Against the sides we'll dash the dew up,—
Then drink! and cool our summer-hot blood."
But though they each in turn lifted the cup, they only pretended to drink, for it was icy cold.
That was for du; next came ty.
This was done thus. They had a marriage-scene. Two little Faeries stood up together, and the one that was to marry them took a hair from each of their heads, and fastening the ends together, made a long string; with this he tied them together in a true-lover knot; for such is the way the Faeries do when they are married.
This was for ty; then came the whole word.
A Faery is seen busily occupied with weaving; she is making a veil for a human maiden which shall keep her from seeing sin; the Faery is singing to herself. Presently up comes a little Brownie—a male Faery that is—most daintily dressed and in the gayest mood. He wants the little weaving Faery to come with him; there is to be a most delicious little gathering in a clover-field on purpose to sip clover-honey—white clover-honey! Now of all things the little busy Faery loves clover-honey; it would be so delightful to be there this charming afternoon. She thinks she will go, but then she remembers the task which the Queen has given her to do—to go would be to disobey. The Brownie still begs, but she is firm—no, she will not go.
That was the whole word—Duty.
All this was very simple; a good many would have thought it very childish, but it pleased the Faeries and it pleased the Queen, and that was enough.
But the party had lasted a long time now—much longer than it has taken me to tell of it. The moon path was of course altered, but it didn't make much matter. The Queen ordered them all to take to their horses, and giving Milly a kiss on her rosy lips, she clambered down and untying the lady birds from the strings of the night-cap got into her sleigh. She cracked her musquito-leg whip, away went the lady birds and they passed through the window—how, I don't know, but I'm sure I saw them do it. The Queen saw me again as she passed out, and nodded to me. I had just time to nod back and they were out of sight.
That is all, and if it's not true then my name isn't Jack Frost; and if you don't believe me, ask North East Wind, who is my friend, and he will tell you the same thing.
Wheugh!
The Rock Elephant.
The Rock-Elephant.
HERE is a tradition among the Elephants that some one of the race will one day mount up to the sky and dwell among the stars. Once a young elephant thought that he must be the one, for a great stone becoming detached from a cliff fell upon his head. He instantly exclaimed, "I see stars all around me. I am surely the Elephant foretold!" and for a few moments actually thought he must have "gone up;" but those standing by saw him rambling round with uncertain step and laughed at him. When he got over the effects of the blow on his head, he had to acknowledge that he was still upon the earth, though he always solemnly declared that for a few moments he really had been in the sky among the stars. Of course he had not "gone up," and each still continued to hope that he was the one destined to immortality. The Lion, they said, was among the stars, and the Bear and even the senseless Dipper. But none knew that to live among the stars one must go through a great deal of suffering.
There were two Elephants living a long time since who were remarkably sagacious. They were married and it was their earnest desire that their son, if they ever had any, should be the one who should climb the sky and live among the stars. They often talked over the best way of securing this good, and ate up an immense number of different kinds of trees because they had heard that there was a particular kind of tree which, when eaten, would furnish the necessary knowledge. Whether they ever ate the right tree or not it is difficult to say, but one night as they were considering the matter, the father-Elephant noticed a strange light in the north.
"Look, my dear!" said he, "surely the woods are a-fire in the north!"
"Oh!" said she, "it is only the moon rising."
"Hold your trunk!" said he, sharply. "Are you such a camel as not to know that the moon never rises in the north?" But on second thoughts, he added, "I don't think it can be the woods on fire. See! the light is streaming up the sky. How many colours it has!"
"Perhaps it is the rainbow," timidly suggested the mother-Elephant.
"Rainbow! your Grandelephant!" retorted he, contemptuously. They stood looking at the increasing light for some time longer with their trunks elevated, the mother-Elephant wisely refraining from further comment; when suddenly the father-Elephant, in a state of great excitement, began whisking his trunk about, and turning, ran his ivory tusks against the large sides of the mother. It was his way of expressing joy. "Have a care!" said she, impatiently, clumsily avoiding his thrusts. "Do you want to make a hole in me?"
"I have it! I have it!" said he, joyfully. "That is the way to the stars! all we have to do is to reach the foot of these Northern Lights, and then there must be some ascent by them to the stars." Hereupon the Elephant began to dance about as well as he could, and tore up several small trees by the roots in his exultation. The mother-Elephant, however, had her doubts.
"I don't believe," said she, "that we shall be any more likely to reach these lights than I was to get to the foot of the rainbow, which you know I tried once and had the mortification of being laughed at by the monkeys in consequence. Nevertheless, I will do as you say, my dear; you know best."
That very night, accordingly, the two set out in search of the Northern Lights. They travelled for days and weeks. Every once in a while, when they began to get discouraged, the Aurora would appear and they would press on with new hope. At last they came to a very cold country. Here they made enquiries of a polar bear. Now the Polar Bear is generally courteous. Like all the family he is very affectionate and always gives one a hearty embrace upon meeting; but he is not sincere. It so happened that his family also had a story and about these very Northern Lights. The story was, that if one could find the foot of them one would discover an immense hole or pit where one could sleep forever. This was precisely what the polar bears most wanted, and they were forever going north in search of the hole. This particular Polar Bear that the Elephants met was at that very time on his way thither. So he thought to himself, "This will never do. If these immense animals reach the hole—for I'm sure that is what they are going for, the idea of the stars is only an absurd blind—they will occupy all the room." This he said to himself, and then he turned to the Elephants and said in answer to their question as to the most direct road—"You will have to keep to the east for some distance; then you will come to ice; cross it and you will come to land again, after which you can again enquire as I am unable to direct you further; though if you go a little south, and call on my cousins, the Black Bears, they will be very happy to give you any information. Just mention my name to them and it will be sufficient." He knew very well that the Black Bears knew nothing whatever of the matter. What they wished was to find the Great Tree up which they could climb and in which they could burrow. But all that the Polar Bear wanted was to put the Elephants off the track.
They thanked him for his politeness, and followed his directions. They came to the ice which they crossed; and once more they trode on land, but upon a new continent—upon North America, in fact, as it is now called. "I am not so sure about this matter of going south," said the father-Elephant. "It seems to me that we shall be going away from the Northern Lights. I begin to mistrust the Polar Bear."
"But my dear," said the mother-Elephant, "surely the way has been just as he told us; and I could never doubt one so evidently warm-hearted. Besides, don't you think it would be best to get where it is a little warmer? You know we don't propose going ourselves; the journey is taken solely on account of our son not yet born. We might let him grow a little in a warmer country and then conduct him to the Northern Lights."
The father-Elephant would not agree with her; he preferred to have his own way; but finally he said: "I think we will go a little farther South, on the whole. I am not sure but there is an easier way of getting to the North, by taking just a little southerly and then an easterly course." This was a very foolish reason, but it satisfied him. All he wished was to do as he chose and not because his wife advised it. It satisfied her too. All she wanted was to get where it was a little warmer; but she found it hard not to say—"that is just the plan I proposed." She was wise not to say it however.
They had suffered a great deal by this time. So much travel and so much severe weather, had brought sorrow and discomfort to them. They were really thin for Elephants. The father-Elephant had lost much flesh, and his skin hung about him very loosely. They complained too of the trees; they were so stunted and such poor eating. They were, in truth, very miserable. They even began to care but little for the object of their journey. The object was changed in fact. Before, they were only anxious to reach the Northern Lights—the staircase to the stars. Now, all they desired was to reach a warmer place—one like that where they once lived.
At last the father-Elephant, overcome by all his trouble died; but the mother-Elephant sustained by the hope of her unborn son, still pressed toward the South, and rejoiced as the days grew warmer. Finally, she reached a pleasant place where the hills were all about her, and the sun shone warmly. Here was born the young Elephant, the son of the two Elephants who had travelled so far. The mother now felt herself very weak.
"My son," she began with great difficulty, "there is a tradition"—but just as she got through the word, she died, and the young Elephant in vain listened for the rest of the sentence.
"What's a tradition? I wonder," he said to himself. "It must be something to eat, I am excessively hungry." He looked round and saw a birch tree standing by. "Ah! that must be the tradition my mother meant, when she said, 'There is a tradition.' Yes, her trunk is pointing to it." So he pulled up the birch tree and devoured it, as well as he could. The young Elephant continued to wander among the mountains but with no great purpose in life; for he was totally ignorant of the story that one of his race would one day mount to the sky and dwell among the stars, so that he was without that great object before him. Neither did he know how much suffering his father and mother had gone through, that he might be the fortunate Elephant who should ascend the sky. It was spring when he was born. The days grew warmer and warmer and he enjoyed them exceedingly. But after a while the days became shorter and the sun was not so hot.
"What is the meaning of this?" he one day asked of a Black Bear with whom he was somewhat intimate.
"It means," said the Bear gruffly, "that bye-and-bye the sun will go a great way off, the snow will be on the ground; there will be no whortle berries to eat, and I shall go to sleep."
"Dreadful!" said the Elephant. "Is there no way of avoiding such discomfort?"
"None that I know of or care for," said the Bear. "Roll yourself up and go to sleep as I do, and you'll be comfortable enough." But the Elephant despaired of ever rolling himself up; he was growing larger every day and such a proceeding was of course becoming more and more difficult.
"Let us call a council of the animals," said he, "and see what is to be done about it." Now the Elephant was greatly feared in the place. He was so large and powerful. So no animal dared disobey when the Hare whom the Elephant had sent brought the message to them. They assembled about a deep pool. The Elephant opened the meeting by dipping his trunk into the pool and squirting water over all the animals. He thought it was great fun, and they did not dare run away, for they feared his anger.
"The Elephant is very good-natured," whispered the Otter, who cared nothing for the wetting, to the Fox who was shivering under his ducking, and contriving a way of getting off. "You never see a large fat fellow but he is so good-natured. What a joke that was of his to squirt water all over the crowd!"
"V-v-very," chattered the Fox. "It isn't what you call a dry joke, though, is it?"
"What a cunning fellow you are!" said the Otter. "But, holloa, are you going off on the sly?" Yes, surely the Fox was starting away.
"Tell the Elephant," said he, "that I'm off after a partridge. We shall want something to eat after meeting." But he did not come back again. While they were all shivering with the wet, the Elephant wiping the end of his trunk upon some moss, opened his mouth and spake.
"I notice," quoth he, "that it is not as warm as it was, and my friend the Bear at my right hand (here the bear sitting on his hind legs nodded his head and growled,) tells me that it will grow much colder even. It would be a great calamity to all of us, and I have called you together that we may confer as to the best means of avoiding this severe cold that is to come, which my friend the Bear (another growl) calls by the name of winter. You are at liberty to make any suggestions you please."
The Wolf spoke first. "Who cares for the winter?" snarled he. "For my part I think it is great sport. The snow grows very hard, and one glides over the crust so swiftly. Besides, it is easy then to see the footsteps of my little friends," and the Wolf leered round upon the smaller animals. "The winter is grand sport."
"But I could not walk on the crust," said the Elephant, "I am too heavy. No, it will not do at all just to take the winter as you would any other season. We must either prevent the winter or protect ourselves from it. Let us hear the Hare. I am not above listening to him."
The Hare came out trembling and hardly dared open his mouth. His friend the Squirrel, however, stood near and clapped to reassure him. "Go it, Long Ears!" said he, encouragingly. Then the Hare bashfully spoke. "My own course is to make a hole and get into it." Saying this, he hopped back to his seat alarmed that he should have said so much.
"That is very ridiculous!" said the Elephant. "It would be quite absurd to expect me to make a hole and get into it." Just then there was a rustling noise over head, and a dark cloud seemingly passed over them. "What is that?" asked the Elephant. No one answered at first, when the Squirrel came forward in a deferential manner and said: "Please your Bigness, that is a flock of geese flying to the South. They go every winter to keep warm."
"Do they?" said the Elephant. "Why shouldn't I too go South to keep warm?" No one objected to this; they all secretly hoped he would go, except indeed the Wolf, who had been counting on the Elephant falling a prey to him. At last the Squirrel spoke again.
"Please your Bigness, I can show you the way to the South if you wish it."
"Pray what do you know about the South?" asked the Wolf, sneeringly, "How would you go to get there?"
"Follow my tail!" retorted the Squirrel.
"I think I will go to the South," said the Elephant, "and the Squirrel may go with me to show the way. We will start immediately; there is no time to be lost. Stay you all about here till I return." And off he walked, preceded by the Squirrel.
"How thankful I am that he has gone!" said the Hare, "but I wish the Squirrel had not gone with him." The Wolf was savage at the idea of the Elephant's going off and depriving him thus of such a fine winter's provision. He showed his teeth fearfully. And when the night was later, he stole swiftly and silently along the path over which the Elephant and Squirrel had gone. "He will go to sleep," said the Wolf, "and then I will spring upon him." He came up with the Elephant after a while, and found him as he expected fast asleep, with the Squirrel perched on one of his tusks. But the Squirrel kept good watch. He saw the gleaming eyes of the Wolf and knew that he came for no good. Quickly he jumped upon the Elephant's trunk, and running down to the end of it tickled it with his tail. This instantly awoke the Elephant. It was no use now for the Wolf to spring upon him. He could only hope to get the mastery of him if he caught him asleep and off his guard. So the Wolf slunk back into the woods again.
In the morning the Elephant and Squirrel again took up their march. For several days they walked toward the South, until they came one morning to a river that was flowing quietly along. It was not a wide river; it was hardly more than a brook, and one could scarcely hear a sound, it flowed so smoothly. It ran through the forest, its edges skirted with rows of flowers, and its banks cushioned with every variety of moss. There was hardly a large stone in it for the water to eddy about. The Squirrel ran up the Elephant's back, and he in two or three steps waded across. It was not above his knee in any place. Once over on the other side, the Squirrel ran down the Elephant's fore-leg to the ground. The Elephant drank some of the cool water and then amused himself with squirting it about in every direction. He aimed it chiefly at some rocks that lay by the side of the river—rocks of all sizes and shapes. This sport grew tiresome, however, and the Elephant began to look about for some new fun. The rocks again met his eye.
"What fun it would be," said he to the Squirrel, "if I should pitch these rocks into the river." Saying this he twisted his trunk round an immense boulder and flung it into the bed of the stream.
"Oh!" screamed the Squirrel. "Don't do so! you will hurt the river."
"It deserves to be hurt," said the Elephant. "What business has it to flow along without making any noise. I'll teach it to sing." He threw rock after rock into the river, piling them high up in some places. The Squirrel looked on mournfully, and could bear it at last no longer. He ran to the Elephant and looked up into his face.
"Do you remember the first night we left home," said he, "how I prevented the Wolf from killing you? For my sake, then, do not destroy or hurt the river!" At this the Elephant grew very angry.
"Go to the Wolf with your nonsense!" said he, and lifting his heavy foot, he cruelly stepped upon the little Squirrel and crushed him to death. The Elephant was now perfectly fiendish. He raised his trunk in the air and blew a terrible trumpet sound. He hurled rock after rock into the stream. He walked down its side and kept casting in the rocks and stones that lay about so plentifully. The river, when the first stone fell in was shocked by it, and eddied around it in a petulant way. As stone after stone came splashing in, choking its current, the river more loudly complained and remonstrated, but to no purpose. Still the rocks came crushing down, and now the river growing more and more angry, rushed foaming madly along. Over the rocks and between it rushed and roared. The moss on the banks and the tall flowers growing out of it, trembled as the stream rose higher and higher. The Elephant snorted and blew his terrible trumpet, walking up and down, and throwing rocks and trees up-torn by the roots, into the rushing flood. At last the rocks were all thrown in. Not one was left on the banks.
Where now was the beautiful, quiet river? It was turned by the remorseless Elephant into an angry, hateful flood. It was the Mad River. Where was the little Squirrel that had saved the Elephant's life and led him hither, and pleaded for the lovely river that it might be spared? Dead! crushed by the unthankful, cruel Elephant, and swept down the stream that dashed so fiercely along!
The Elephant, after he had done this deed of violence, left Mad River and walked into the woods beyond, cooler in spirit since his anger had spent itself. He began now to reflect upon his conduct. "The river had done nothing to me," he thought, "that I should treat it so harshly. And the Squirrel—I killed the Squirrel, who was my best friend. That was an unkind act." But though the Elephant thus began to blame himself, he never thought of turning back, and undoing as much as he might of the mischief he had done. He kept on his journey and tried to dismiss from his mind such unpleasant thoughts. The Elephant is called good-natured because he is so fat; that may be, but really he is both cruel and cowardly.
"He hurled rock after rock into the stream."
He was somewhat fatigued by his angry labours and did not go much further, but coming to a grassy place in the depth of the forest, he lay down and slept. Nightfall came soon after and still he slept. In the depth of the night, when all was still and dark, the sky in the north grew brighter as rays of light shot in quivering ecstasy toward the zenith. It was the Northern Lights—the Aurora Borealis. The parents of this Elephant had long sought it but had never reached it; they had hoped that it would be the staircase up which their son, the Elephant, now asleep, would mount the sky to dwell among the stars. Still he slept, though the light grew clearer and the rays became more distinctly marked. It was now twelve o'clock and deep night. What was that descending the slope of the Auroral Light? Who could tell? Who saw it? Yet the Elephant in his sleep saw it. Down the slope he knew It come—down the staircase which was the way to immortality. Now It hovered near him and thus he heard It speak:—
"Thou hast sinned. The river that flowed so peacefully and carried beauty and joy wherever it ran, thou hast despoiled and rudely ravaged. Thou smotest its breast with terrible rocks; thou wouldst not heed its complaining cry; thou turnedst its peace into mad wrangling. But worse, thou slewest with thine own foot the little one that loved thee and saved thy life from the fierce Wolf. For this the river and the Squirrel shall be avenged. Thou didst choke the river with rocks; thou didst crush the Squirrel with thy foot. Thou shalt thyself become a stone and another shall stand on thy head. Arise!"
The Elephant obeyed trembling. He stood upon his feet. For one moment he saw with his mortal eyes It that had spoken; the next he was blinded by a flash; he saw no more, but he knew that in that instant he was turned into a rock where he was standing. His feet were sunk in the ground and his trunk extended before him was also rooted in the earth. All stone. Where his eyes were, only two slight chinks in the rock remained.
But at the same moment the Elephant heard,—so faintly that he could hardly catch the sound—a last word from the voice:—
"Thus, but not forever. A Deliverer shall come and thou shalt mount up to the sky and dwell among the stars."
That was what the Elephant heard. He heard nothing more but he could feel. He could feel himself a stone; that is a dreadful thing to feel. It was a heavy, crushing feeling; a dead weight always bearing him down. He could not lift it; he could not throw it off. It was forever crushing him down, down,—though he never really sank. But it was the same thing to him; he felt that he was sinking.
But he had another evil to bear. A tree with its roots sunk in the ground all about him, stood directly over his head. That was a bitter suffering to him; he could feel it there. He knew that it was stretching its long arms into the air and waving its branches in the wind. He knew that its roots grappled his body and grew tighter fixed in the earth. The tree, indeed, died in time, but another took its place and the torment grew with it. For it kept in his mind the Squirrel he had killed. He could stolidly bear the crushing weight of the rock bringing remorse at the recollection of the happy river that he had made an angry brawling stream,—but the tree—it was a birch, the very kind that he had first devoured after the death of his mother, the tree, that moving with every breath of air, stirred in his mind the recollection of the Squirrel he had killed, who had loved him, saved him from death, and died beside for love of the river—the tree he thought he could not bear.
But still through all his remorse and bitter anguish, the Elephant seemed to hear, though faintly, the last words spoken:
"But not forever. A Deliverer shall come, and thou shalt mount the sky and dwell among the stars."
This was the only slight ray of comfort, though he did not always remember it, but still when the morning sun arose and its beams fell upon the rock, it awakened the remembrance in the Elephant's mind, and he repeated to himself, "A Deliverer shall come." And sometimes in the deep and still night, the Aurora flushing in the north would lighten up a deeper and more cheering hope, for by it he thought would the Deliverer come.
But though the Deliverer has not yet come, still some small comfort does the Elephant have. For the gentle mosses have grown over his stony body; the mosses on the river bank he had terrified and roughly beaten with the jagged rocks. Now did these spread themselves over him, covering him with green verdure and gladdening his soul with the love they gave him. The tree, too, drops yearly its leaves upon his back, and the roots, though they hug him closer, seem to him to do it more lovingly and not with the old terrible gripe.
Yes, all these things make him mindful of the Deliverer. He knows not in what form he will come, but I will tell you. A Squirrel shall finally gnaw away the roots of the tree and it will fall never to rise again. The river, turning its course, shall flow over and about him, and its constant washing shall wear away the rock. The rocky covering gone, in the night, the deep and still night, the Aurora of the north shall stream upon the bed of the river, and where the rock once stood shall rise up the Elephant, and the Squirrel that once led him shall now go before him and lead him up the quivering rays to the sky, where he shall become a constellation never before seen by men, but then discovered and named