THE PEACOCK’S TAIL
There was once a widow of respectable family who lived in a house in a retired part of the country. Her only companion was her daughter, Ella, who was exceedingly beautiful, and continually on the look-out to see whether a wandering prince would come by and marry her.
There was also an old witch called Mother Grindle, who lived up a tree in the orchard. A deep pool was at the foot of this orchard, but in spring the sight of the water was almost shut out by the mass of blossom which covered the apple-trees. There was a peacock, too, who strutted about all day; he was not a bad fellow really, but intolerably vain. Only one thing in the place was vainer than himself, and that was Ella, the widow’s daughter. Mother Grindle and the peacock got on very well together, though the witch would sometimes laugh and rock about till the tree shook, which annoyed him very much. It was most odd.
One day he was walking along the grass; he took very high steps, and sometimes he dragged his wings on the ground. Then he would stop and set up his tail like a fan behind him, arching and twisting his neck in the sun. The apple-tree shook till the petals fell in showers.
He looked up and saw Mother Grindle sitting in the branches.
“Really!” he exclaimed. “A stranger might almost think you were laughing at me!”
“What an idea!” said the witch, “you must be mad.”
So he went on trailing and prancing. The tree shook again, and he could see Mother Grindle rocking from side to side.
“What are you laughing at?” he cried. “It can’t be me, because there is nothing about me to be amused at. Now, if I were to start laughing at that pointed hat you wear there would be some sense in it.”
At this moment Ella came out wearing her best gown, for it was Sunday; she was not, as a rule, very civil to Mother Grindle, for she also did not admire the pointed hat. But she did admire the peacock. She looked over her shoulder at her own train and was forced to admit that, for colour and design, the peacock’s tail far outdid it.
“Ah!” she sighed, “how I wish I had that tail.”
“You may have one wish—two wishes—three wishes,” sang out Mother Grindle from the apple-tree.
And before you could say “Jack!” the beautiful tail became fixed to Ella’s waist—eyes, moons, quills, fringes and all.
“Now I am simply perfect,” said she; and she ran to the hedge and looked over to see if a Prince were coming down the road. But there was no one. As for the peacock, he was furious, naturally.
Ella knew there was no mirror in the widow’s house large enough to reflect her and all her glory, and she went down to the pool and looked in at herself; she stood on the edge and leaned over, putting up her tail behind her head. All at once there came a gust and caught it like the wind catching a sail; over she went, straight in. It was very deep.
“Help! Help!” she cried. But there was no one close by but the peacock, and he wasn’t going to put himself out. He was delighted, and walked stiffly away to the yard at the back of the house; he was much consoled, and he knew very well that he would grow a new tail next year.
“La! husband, how paltry you look!” cried the peahens. They had long thought it rather hard that he should be so much better dressed than themselves.
Ella screamed and shrieked. She caught hold of some rushes, but the tail was so heavy that she could not drag herself out.
“You shall have one wish—two wishes!” sang out Mother Grindle from the tree.
“Oh! if I were only on shore!” cried Ella. And sure enough she found herself standing on the brink, dripping with water, but safe. She ran into the house as fast as ever she could go.
She was put to bed at once in hot blankets. “How you are to lie with that tail on, I can’t imagine,” said her mother. However, in she got, arranging it as best she might, and so tired was she after all she had gone through, that she fell asleep and never woke till the next morning.
She got up and dressed, but alas! alas! she had rolled about in the night, and the beautiful feathers were all broken and torn and matted together; they hung like so many limp rags, and, do what she would, she could not make them hang properly. She went into the orchard, hoping that the sun and wind might freshen them up; but though she spent some time in taking out the tangles, the effect was horrid, and she looked more draggle-tailed than words can say. The peahens peeped over the fence and tittered.
At this moment a Prince came riding by, and saw her walking in the orchard.
“Heavens! What an absurd sight!” he exclaimed, as he rode on.
Ella sat down on the grass and cried bitterly.
“You may have one wish—one wish!” sang out the witch from the tree.
“Oh! take away this dreadful thing,” sobbed Ella.
And before you could turn round it was gone. Then Mother Grindle began to sing again very cheerfully. But Ella was not cheerful—far from it.
“You may have one wish more—one wish more,” sang the witch.
But Ella has not made up her mind what to ask for yet. One cannot be too careful.