For a long time nobody about the palace could understand what was the matter—the ladies-in-waiting looked so astonished, and the king so vexed; but at last it was whispered through the city that the queen’s seventh child had been born with such miserably small feet that they resembled nothing ever seen or heard of in Stumpinghame, except the feet of the fairies.
All the relations of the king and queen assembled at the palace to mourn with them over the singular misfortune. The whole court and most of the citizens helped in this mourning; but when it had lasted seven days they all found out it was of no use. So the relations went to their homes, and the people took to their work, and to cheer up the queen’s spirits, the young prince was sent privately out to the pasture lands, to be nursed among the shepherds.
The chief man there was called Fleecefold, and his wife’s name was Rough Ruddy. They lived in a snug cottage with their son Blackthorn and their daughter Brownberry, and were thought great people, because they kept the king’s sheep. Moreover, Fleecefold’s family were known to be ancient; and Rough Ruddy boasted that she had the largest feet in all the pastures. The shepherds held them in high respect, and it grew still higher when the news spread that the king’s seventh son had been sent to their cottage.
The king and queen had given him fourteen names, beginning with Augustus—such being the fashion in the royal family; but the honest country people could not remember so many, so they called him Fairyfoot. At court it was not thought polite to speak of him at all. They did not keep his birthday, and he was never sent for at Christmas, because the queen and her ladies could not bear the sight. Once a year the undermost scullion was sent to see how he did, with a bundle of his next brother’s cast-off clothes; and, as the king grew old and cross, it was said he had thoughts of disowning him.
So Fairyfoot grew in Fleecefold’s cottage. Perhaps the country air made him fair and rosy—for all agreed that he would have been a handsome boy but for his feet, with which nevertheless, he learned to walk, and in time to run and to jump, thereby amazing everybody, for such doings were not known among the children of Stumpinghame. The news of court, however, travelled to the shepherds, and Fairyfoot was despised among them. The old people thought him unlucky; the children refused to play with him. Fleecefold was ashamed to have him in his cottage, but he durst not disobey the king’s orders. Moreover, Blackthorn wore most of the clothes brought by the scullion. At last, Rough Ruddy found out that the sight of such horrid jumping would make her children vulgar; and, as soon as he was old enough she sent Fairyfoot every day to watch some sickly sheep that grazed on a wild, weedy pasture, near the forest.
Poor Fairyfoot was lying in the shadow of a mossy rock one warm summer’s noon, with the sheep feeding round, when a robin, pursued by a great hawk, flew into the old velvet cap which lay on the ground beside him. Fairyfoot covered it up, and the hawk, frightened by his shout, flew away.
“Now you may go, poor robin!” he said, opening the cap; but instead of the bird, out sprang a little man dressed in russet-brown, and looking as if he were a hundred years old. Fairyfoot could not speak for astonishment, but the little man said:
“Thank you for your shelter, and be sure I will do as much for you. Call on me if you are ever in trouble, my name is Robin Goodfellow;” and darting off he was out of sight in an instant.
For days the boy wondered who that little man could be, but he told nobody, for the little man’s feet were as small as his own, and it was clear he would be no favorite in Stumpinghame. Fairyfoot kept the story to himself, and at last midsummer came. That evening was a feast among the shepherds. There were bonfires on the hills, and fun in the villages. But Fairyfoot sat alone beside his sheepfold, for the children of the village had refused to let him dance with them about the bonfire, and he had never felt so lonely in all his life. But remembering the little man, he plucked up spirit, and cried:
“Ho! Robin Goodfellow!”