The Triumphal Procession.
[See page [131].

THE
ENTERTAINING STORY
OF
KING BRONDÉ,
His Lily and his Rosebud.

By ANNA M. DIAZ.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. L. SHEPPARD.

BOSTON:
TICKNOR AND FIELDS.
1869.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co.,
Cambridge.

CONTENTS.

THE
ENTERTAINING STORY
OF
KING BRONDÉ,
His Lily and his Rosebud.

THE KING’S
LILY AND ROSEBUD.

CHAPTER I.
THE THREE PRINCESSES.

IF anybody had happened to be walking along what was called the Robbers’ Road, in Long Forest, a part of the possessions of good King Brondé, who lived many, many hundred years ago, he would have perceived that the road was continually curving towards the right. He would also soon have grown weary, for this winding road led, by degrees, to the top of a mountain. But if he had kept on and on, and did not give up for weariness, he would at length have come to the palace of the very king himself. A magnificent palace it was, too, and a sight of it well worth the long journey.

If you could but have seen how the gilded roof shone in the sunlight! and the white marble statues in the gardens! and the fountains and the round ponds filled with gold and silver fishes! and the flocks of lambs with blue and pink ribbons around their necks! and the shepherdesses all dressed in white, each with her crook and her wreath of flowers!—if you could but have seen all these beautiful things, then would the weary journey have been soon forgotten.

And could you have entered the palace itself, and have kept your eyes from being blinded by the bright colors, the sparkling ornaments, and all the splendor of this wonderful place, and have wandered on and on, through the spacious apartments, you would at last have come to an ivory door, over which was perched a red-and-green parrot. This parrot was fed upon flowers made from crystals of white sugar; and had you given him one of these he would have told you a riddle. But this, of course, you could not know. And indeed, when the door was once open, you would have forgotten parrots and everything else in gazing at the beautiful lady within,—the beautiful pale lady, King Brondé’s queen.

This is her private chamber. The windows are lofty, and more than half hidden by rich curtains of crimson. The walls are covered with cloth of crimson and gold. Vases of white lilies fill the air with their fragrance. How beautiful is the pale lady, reclining upon her dark cushions of velvet! Her robe is of blue silk, embroidered with silver. Her fair hair is adorned with a wreath of blue flowers. These flowers are made of precious stones, and the leaves are of silver. Her eyes are blue, too, very blue,—bluer than her silk robe,—bluer than the flowers in her hair. And oh! if her cheeks had but looked rosy then, she would have been the most beautiful queen in the world. But her face was very, very pale; so that when she was not called the Queen, she was often called the Pale Lady, or the White Lady, and sometimes the Lily Queen.

But what are those blue eyes looking upon so earnestly, so tenderly, so sadly?

Ah! that I can soon tell you.

But first I must tell you that fastened to the ceiling was a golden eagle, holding in its claws a long silver cord. This cord sustained a sort of canopy, made of white velvet, and fringed with silver. From this canopy hung curtains of the most gauzy, delicate lace. These were now looped up with their jewelled bands, and it was something underneath upon which the blue eyes of the Pale Lady were fixed so earnestly.

Now this something underneath was something very charming indeed.

It was a babe which lay there, sleeping in its cradle.

This cradle was curiously wrought of sandalwood and rosewood and boxwood and ivory. It was lined with down, and its cushions were white and soft as new-fallen snow. The quilt was embroidered with pearls. At each of its four corners, and bending over it, was the sculptured figure of a little smiling boy. Those at the foot seemed playing softly on musical instruments, as if soothing the child to slumber. The two at the head were represented as holding out poppies over the infant beneath.

But why should the mother look with sadness upon her babe? If any one could weep in such a beautiful place, we might fancy almost those were tears in her blue eyes.

The Pale Lady had, no doubt, cause for sorrow; for she sighed frequently, and bowed her head upon the velvet cushions, saying, “O my precious one! what shall I ask for thee?”

At length she took from her bosom a curiously shaped whistle, which, when she put it to her lips, gave forth the sweetest notes you ever heard.

Then the ivory door opened softly, and there came in a bright black-eyed little boy, in a red turban. The lady, without speaking, pointed to a casket at the opposite side of the room. This the little black-eyed, also without speaking, placed in her hands, and then, with the very lightest of footsteps and the very lowest of bows, he left the room.

The lady unlocked the casket, and, after opening many little drawers, she at last took out a most fairy-like cup, made of alabaster, perfectly plain and white. Then, lifting the crimson and gold hangings from the wall near by, she pressed her finger upon what seemed to be a small picture fastened in the wood-work. A drawer flew out, from which the Pale Lady took three small green stones and a vial. Placing the stones in the cup, she poured over them a liquid from the vial, and very soon there began to arise a vapor, which spread through the apartment. And the Pale Lady, while the vapor was rising, sang, in low tones, these words:—

“Wild Mountain Fairy, in robes of green,

List to the call of the Lily Queen.

O, speed thee! speed quickly o’er land and o’er sea,

For the child and its mother are waiting for thee.”

As the vapor melted away, there was seen, standing by the cradle, a beautiful white lamb; which, after walking three times around the room, became transformed into as pretty a green fairy as ever was seen. Now this is what the fairy said to the lady, and what the lady said to the fairy.

Fairy.—“Yes: three times I promised to come at thy bidding. This is the third. What now is the wish of the fair Lily Queen?”

Lady.—“Fairy, I pray thee bestow something good—something blessed—upon my youngest-born.”

Fairy.—“Yes, lady. And what shall it be? It is thine to choose. How is it with the two princesses, her sisters? Did I not well by them?”

Lady.—“Fairy, what I asked thou gavest. For the eldest, I chose the gift of perfect beauty, for I said, ‘Every one loves the beautiful; she will draw all hearts to herself.’”

Fairy.—“And thus did it prove?”

Lady.—“Listen! I hear her step. Judge now for thyself.”

As the ivory door swung open, the beautiful princess entered. Perfect beauty had indeed been given her. There was in her countenance such a bloom, such a freshness, such a smile upon her lip, such a light in her eye, that, having once looked, one was hardly able to turn away. She wore no ornament, well knowing that gold could buy nothing so pretty, so bright, so radiant, as herself.

“And such beauty as this, or even greater, wouldst thou choose for thy youngest-born?” asked the fairy.

“O no, no, no!” said the lady, earnestly. “O fairy! yonder beauty has no heart, and none love her. She is not happy; she makes no one happy.”

“And did I not warn thee?” asked the fairy.

“Fairy, thou didst. The blame is mine,—mine only. I foolishly trusted that beauty alone would draw loving hearts around her. Oh! she is vain; she is silly; she is proud. Examine the book she holds. Inside its covers are little mirrors, that she may continually enjoy the sight of her beauty. All the artists in the kingdom are busy painting likenesses of her face, her form, her hands. And you will perceive that the very figures upon her dress are only so many miniatures of herself.”

“And her sister, the second princess,” inquired the fairy, “upon whom, at your request, I conferred great wisdom,—you surely find comfort in her?”

“Alas!” replied the lady, “although she can converse in all languages, and not even the wisest philosopher can puzzle her with questions, yet she cannot make herself beloved, for she knows not the secret of making even the poorest child happy. Though despising beauty, yet she is envious of her sister; and their want of affection saddens my whole life. But you will see, now, this wise princess. That is her step approaching. It will be very fortunate if we understand her, for seldom does she converse in our own language.”

Again the ivory door opened, to admit the second princess, who instantly began talking.

“Alski, mofo, se lup tak sba tab enryo dyo!” she exclaimed.

Her dress was a brownish robe, reaching to the floor. It was covered with ink-spots. Her hair was tumbled, and stuck full of pens. Her hands were filled with big charts and rolls of manuscripts.

“Potobi, ritu fo bam. Shik, sho, tabi,” said she, approaching her beautiful sister so awkwardly that she almost trod upon one of the pretty miniatures in her dress. The beauty sprang angrily up, and there would have been a great quarrel, had not the Green Fairy, with a motion of her wand, ordered them from the apartment.

Meanwhile, the pale Lily Queen, paler now than ever, sat sighing and weeping.

“Arouse yourself, dear lady,” said the fairy, “and choose quickly, for others may summon me, and I must soon be gone.”

“Good fairy,” said the lady, “bestow upon her, not happiness for herself, but the blessing of bringing happiness to others. I ask for her the gift of exceeding love. Kindle a love-flame in her heart which shall never grow dim.”

“Alas!” said the fairy, “what you ask is not mine to give. Far, far away, in a land which no mortal and no fairy ever saw, is an altar upon which the holy fire is constantly burning. Now, although no mortal and no fairy may enter there, yet there may, and there do, come messengers from thence, bearing sparks of this holy fire. Happy the heart which receives such messengers, for the love-flame, once kindled from the sacred fire, is never quenched. And all who have love in their hearts possess the blessing you have chosen,—the power and the will to create happiness. Be silent, now, and let only beautiful and holy thoughts enter your mind.”

The fairy then described with her wand a circle upon the floor, in the centre of which she stood for some time, motionless. At last, in a low voice, she began chanting,—

“Beautiful Spirit! Spirit of Love,

Why dost thou tarry? O, where dost thou rove?

Linger not by the altar, sweet Spirit, for see!

The child of the Lily Queen waiteth for thee.”

As she chanted, her voice grew fainter and fainter. Her form faded, becoming more and more shadow-like, until, at length, its last dim outline disappeared.

But while the Pale Lady was still gazing at the spot where the fairy had stood, she heard a voice faintly singing,—

“The Fairy Green

No more is seen.

Look not for me,

Dear lady. But see!

Where cometh above

The Spirit of Love.”

The lady raised her eyes to the ceiling, and saw there what appeared to be a kind of white cloud. While gazing, full of wonder at this strange appearance, she perceived, flying from it, a small, white dove. Following its motions with her eye, she saw that it was flying in circles around the cradle. These circles grew smaller and smaller, and at length the beautiful little creature alighted upon the clasped hands of the child, and then creeping into its bosom, just where its little heart was beating, it lay there as quietly as if it had never in its life known any other nest.

The lady now perceived that the air was filled with the singing of birds, and, looking up, she saw that the white cloud had changed, and was now of the most brilliant colors; and that from the midst of it were flying birds such as she had never before seen or heard,—birds of the most radiant plumage, purple and gold and scarlet, and whose warbling was inexpressibly melodious. The whole room was filled with their brightness and with their music. They seemed to be attendants of the white dove, for they hovered about the cradle, though not one alighted. Poised in the air, fluttering their bright wings, their singing was not like that of birds, but like some heavenly anthem, such as she had imagined might be sung by angels.

At first this music was overpowering, but grew softer by degrees, and so soothing that the lady soon lost all consciousness of what was about her. Her eyelids drooped, and she wondered how it was that the music sounded so far away.

When the power of opening her eyes was restored to her, she looked eagerly about, and then grew very sad, for there were no sweet sounds in the room,—no birds, no music.

Running to her child, she searched eagerly in its bosom. But no dove was there,—nothing but a warm, bright red spot, just over its little heart.

The babe opened its blue eyes, smiled, and put out its tiny hands to its mother; and the Pale Lady might have thought she had been dreaming, were it not for the bright red spot which, as I said before, was plainly to be seen just over the little quick-beating heart.

CHAPTER II.
KING BRONDÉ.

ALTHOUGH I have told you something of his palace and of his daughters and of his queen, I have as yet hardly spoken of the king himself.

King Brondé was once a poor little boy, and lived with his mother in a brown hut or cottage, near the borders of a forest. One day, when he was in the forest with some other children, chopping fagots for his mother’s fire, a giant chanced to pass that way, and, by accident, his foot became entangled in the branches of a thick thorn-tree, causing him to roar out most lustily. The other children screamed, and ran away. But Brondé climbed the tree, and, with his hatchet, hacked away the branches.

“Thank you, my little man!” said the giant. “Come, live with me, and I’ll teach you to grow. Would you like that?”

“With all my heart,” said the lad, “if mother will say yes.”

He then ran quickly home, and cried out,—

“Mother! mother! May I grow up a big man?”

“To be sure!” said his mother. “What’s to hinder?”

“Well,” said the lad, “I shall go now to live with the giant, and he will teach me.”

Then his mother began to weep and to wail most bitterly, and to say, “O no! O no!”

But when the little boy said he was not afraid, and told how stout he would grow and how he would take care of her, and how proud she should be of such a big son, she wiped her tears and gave him her consent. So Brondé ran to the forest, and cried out, “Sir giant! sir giant! I am ready.” And then the giant put him in his pocket, and walked away.

And Brondé lived a year in the cave; and the giant fed him with something which caused him to grow very big and very tall and very strong. This something was a mountain herb which giants fed upon, and may, no doubt, be still found in that region, only that no one knows the spot where it grows.

Brondé, as I said, grew very large and strong, and would, no doubt, have some day become a giant himself, had his stout friend lived long enough.

But the giant grew sick, and laid him down to die. Knowing that his end was near, he called Brondé close to his mouth, and said to him:—

“I shall soon leave you now. Have I not been a friend to you? Have I not fulfilled my promise?”

Then, as Brondé could not answer for crying, the giant went on:—

“There is but one man living as large and strong as yourself. He calls himself Magnus, or ‘The Great.’ Years ago, I did for him what I have done for you. But he grew wicked as fast as he grew strong, and I drove him from me. You will readily know him; for he is exactly your size. His hair, however, is not fair and curly like yours, but black and coarse. I pray, however, that you may never meet, for he would gladly kill you, that there may be no man living as large and as strong himself.

“Death is near,” continued the giant, “and I am not sorry; for mine has been but a lonely life. But before we part I would bestow upon you a parting gift. It is one which this Magnus, of whom I have spoken, often begged of me, but never obtained. You see this vial. A few drops of its contents confer upon the person swallowing them immense strength. As its effects pass off, he sinks into a stupor resembling death, from which he awakes with only his usual powers. You are young, active, and will seek adventure,—brave, and will fear no danger. You will encounter perils; you will be reduced to extremities in which even your uncommon strength shall not avail. Preserve, therefore, this little vial with the utmost care, and never use it unless your very life depends upon its aid.

“This, then,” said the giant, as he hung the vial about the neck of Brondé by a stout cord, “this is my dying gift; listen, now, to my dying request.

“When I am dead, leave my body in this cave. Roll rocks about the mouth of it, till no opening can be seen. Pull up oak-trees and plant them around, that no one may ever discover the entrance to my tomb.”

So the giant died; and Brondé, with his immense strength, rolled rocks and planted trees, until the cave was entirely concealed. And, to this day, no traveller journeying that way ever knew he was passing the tomb of a giant.

Now Brondé had lived in the cave just a year and a day. And the same flowers were in bloom, the meadows were as green, the waters as blue, the sky was as bright, the air as soft, and the birds were singing as sweetly the very same tunes, as on the day when he kissed his mother and ran to meet the giant in the forest.

And Brondé wondered, as he travelled homeward, whether he really were Brondé, and really had a mother living in a brown cottage by the edge of a forest. And the more he wondered, the faster he walked; until, at length, he walked so fast that no horse could pass him by.

Now, when his mother, who was looking out from her little window at the house-top, saw this big fellow coming at such a rate, she ran down to fasten the door. She was too late, however, for he was already in the room, and searching for something on the top shelf of the cupboard.

“Ah, here it is!” said he,—“the little blue honey-pot. Now it is certain I am Brondé. For though there might be a brown cottage like this, it would not have a cupboard like this, and a little blue honey-pot on the top shelf.”

When the good dame reached the bottom of the stairs, she was terribly frightened to see such a powerful man in possession of her room and her honey-pot.

“Pardon me,” said he, “but I have travelled long, and am very hungry.”

The dame, seeing she could do no other, brought her oatmeal cakes and all her pans of milk, and then, by way of passing the time, asked if there were any news.

“O, great news!” said he; “the giant is dead.”

“Alas!” said the good woman, beginning to weep, “where, then, is my little son?”

Then Brondé laughed, and cried out,—

“I am your little son!”

And he pulled from his pocket the whole suit of clothes which he had worn away.

Then the dame knew it was her own son, and would have fainted away for joy, had not Brondé caught her in his arms and kissed her and hugged her as if she had only been a little child.

And Brondé lived many years with his mother, and was a good son to her till she died.

He then went forth into the world to seek his fortune. And chancing to stop in a great city, through which a legion of soldiers was passing, he resolved to join the army, and fight for the king.

Now the king of the land soon heard of the marvellous deeds of his new soldier, and straightway sent for him to come to the palace, that he might behold with his own eyes this great wonder.

Brondé, therefore, visited the palace. And the king was so charmed with his lofty stature, his noble air, and his fine appearance, that he must needs have him among his own private guards, and very soon made him captain over them all. And it was soon found that this great soldier was as good as he was great, and as gentle as he was strong. For never in his life had he used his strength to oppress the weak; but, on the contrary, sought to help all who were in distress.

Now the king had an only child, a daughter as fair and sweet as a lily. And the king never called her anything but his White Lily, or his Precious Lily. This princess was the life and light of the court. She was sweet-tempered and modest, yet merry and playful as a kitten, dancing and singing from morning to night.

And one day, when the king was away, and the courtiers were feasting in the grand banquet-hall, there ran in among them maidens weeping, and crying out,—

“Save the princess! Oh! who will save the princess?”

And every one rushed from the palace to learn what had befallen the king’s Lily.

The maidens ran swiftly towards the river, and then every one thought she had been drowned. But no. On towards the mountains the maidens ran. And, half-way up the mountain path, they pointed below to a crevice between two huge rocks, and told how the princess, in her eagerness to chase a gazelle, had slipped and fallen through. And hardly had they finished speaking before the voice of the princess was heard, in tones of distress, calling out for help.

All were now in dismay, crying out, “Alas! alas! the princess will die!”

But when Brondé arrived, and saw that trees were growing about the foot of the outer rock, he quickly let himself down, and began pulling them out by their roots. This so loosened the earth that, by means of his great strength, he could easily start the rock from its nest. And this he did, and sent it rolling, whirling, plunging, nobody looked to see how far, for all were busy with the princess, who, though very little hurt, was trembling with fright. And Brondé, seeing that she could hardly stand, took her in his arms and bore her to the palace, the rest following far behind.

If he had not taken her in his arms and borne her to the palace, it is probable this story would never have been written, as will presently be shown.

When the princess found herself unhurt, she began to laugh within herself at this adventure, and at the odd way she was travelling home. And as her head lay upon the shoulder—the big, broad shoulder—of Brondé, his long, fair curls touched her cheek. So, being fond of mischief, she slyly drew forth her scissors, cut off one curl, and kept it hid in her hand. And Brondé did not know a word about it; though, had he known, it would not have displeased him, since, had she wished, he would gladly have given her every one of them; for he was quite fond of the charming little princess.

And he grew still more fond of her as years passed, and wondered within himself whether such a big fellow as he could ever please such a delicate little creature as the king’s Lily. And if that could ever happen, why, what would the king say then? It was quite doubtful whether he should be thought worthy to be the son-in-law of a king. Whatever his thoughts were, therefore, none were the wiser for them, as they remained hidden in his own breast.

Now the king’s Lily looked with admiration upon the brave, noble-hearted Brondé.

“Ah!” said she to herself, “he is gentle and good, and can do no wrong; he is strong and brave, and can fear no danger; and he is handsome enough to gaze upon for a lifetime. And I think,—I think he likes very well even a small, pale thing like me; yet he has never told me this.”

So she, too, kept her own counsel, and nobody was the wiser. But it is curious to see how, sometimes, events are brought about.

The king said one day to his daughter: “Choose you now a husband, for old age is coming upon me, and I would know, before I die, that my child and my kingdom are well cared for.”

But the pretty White Lily grew bashful and said, “Let me not choose, but rather be chosen.”

Then the king said: “Who would dare to choose my beautiful Lily, my princess? But give yourself no uneasiness, since I myself can make the choice.”

Then the princess was quite troubled, not knowing upon whom the choice might fall. And she thought that by a cunning little trick matters might be well arranged. So she said to her father, the king: “My dearest father, in coming from the mountains one day, I discovered a lock of hair, so beautiful that I have preserved it ever since. Whoever, now, in all your court, can match this lock with one of his own, he, and he only, shall be my choice.”

Now when this declaration of the princess was made known, it caused great commotion among the young nobles of the court. All were examining their locks, and longing to know the color of that which the king’s Lily had discovered in coming from the mountain.

Brondé sent in one of his fair curls with the rest, and was, of course, the lucky winner. For not one in the whole court had hair so soft and of so beautiful a color as he.

And he soon found that the heart of the princess was quite large enough to love even so big a fellow as himself. And the princess made the discovery that the small, pale thing, as she had called herself, was the very thing, in all the world, that Brondé most wished for. The king, too, was well pleased to give to his daughter so kind a protector, and to his kingdom so brave a defender. And thus it happened, for once, that everybody was pleased. The lady with her lover, the lover with his lady, the king with his son-in-law, and the people with their king that was to be.

There was one person, however, who, far away, hearing of Brondé’s good fortune, was not so well pleased. This person was a man of great strength and size, who has already been spoken of. He called himself Magnus, or “The Great.”

He, too, had once been among the king’s guards, and would have been quite ready to take both daughter and kingdom. But by reason of his cruelty and for his many bad acts, he was banished from the country. After Brondé had been made a great captain in the army, Magnus went to him secretly, by night, and said: “Come, now, we two are strong and can accomplish whatsoever we will. Let us gather about us a troop of brave men; let us entice the king’s soldiers; there are many who will gladly fight under two such powerful leaders. We will attack the palace, throw the king into prison, and become ourselves rulers of the land.”

But Brondé said, “I will not use my strength to do evil.” And Magnus, for this, hated Brondé, and was, therefore, far from rejoicing at his good fortune.

His envy and his displeasure, however, were alike unknown to Brondé and the princess. They were married and lived happily. Their father, the king, built for them two fine palaces, one within the city and the other far away among the forests and mountains. It was this summer palace, standing high, all glittering with silver and gold, which was spoken of in the beginning. And it will now be understood that the Pale Lady, sitting in the Crimson Chamber, was the good old king’s Lily Princess whom Brondé saved on the mountain, whom he bore home in his arms, and whom he afterwards married. The old king had now long been dead, and King Brondé was enjoying a peaceful reign. Affairs went smoothly on, his people loved him and he loved his people, and he still spent the summers at the beautiful palace in Long Forest.

But peaceful days last not always, and troubles, dangers, and bitter sorrows were in store for the good King Brondé and his Lily Queen.

CHAPTER III.
THE WOOD-CUTTER’S CHILDREN.

WE left, at the end of the first chapter, a child sleeping in its cradle within a chamber of the royal palace. To this child, this third little princess, was given the name of Rosebud. Her father, King Brondé, it was, who gave his little daughter this name. He came into the chamber one day just as she had awakened, with flushed cheeks, from a long sleep. Now the Lily Queen, in remembrance of the Green Fairy, had the child dressed always in green. King Brondé, when he lifted her in his arms, said: “Why, my dear Lily, with her red cheeks she is like a rosebud in its green jacket.” And they agreed that she should be called Rosebud.

And a sweet Rosebud she was to them always. First, till she was a year old, when she walked; then, till she was two years old, when she talked; then, till three years old, when she sang; then, till four years old, when she could sit before her father, on horseback, and go forth riding in the forest. The lords and ladies of the court were quite charmed with the king’s Rosebud, and as her years increased she came to be the delight of the whole palace.

For the love-flame kindled in her heart was always burning there. It shone through her eyes, it lighted up her face, and she had smiles and pleasant words and loving ways for everybody.

The heart of the Pale Lily Queen was comforted. And as for King Brondé, there was nothing too beautiful or too costly for his darling Rosebud. She was the joy of his heart.

But very often his Lily Queen would say to him: “My dear Brondé, we are now too happy. Surely some evil will soon befall us.”

Then would Brondé encircle the child with his arms, and say, “O, may this precious one, at least, be kept from harm.”

But the Lily Queen, sighing, would murmur softly to herself, “Ah, she is too bright, too lovely a flower for earth!”

As Rosebud grew older, she showed great delight in birds, squirrels, wild flowers, and everything which lived or grew in the woods, and her attendants had plenty to do in following her up and down about the country. The woodmen all knew her, for she was continually dancing along the forest paths, or dropping like a sunbeam into their rude huts. Yes, like a sunbeam, for she brought the light of her bright face and the warmth of her loving heart. She made little children glad, she made the old people glad, and for miles around every one knew and loved the king’s Rosebud.

One day as Rosebud was walking with her sisters along the river’s bank, they heard a noise as of some one calling, “Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La!”

It was not a shout, but a faint, mournful cry. Looking up, they saw, at a short distance from the shore, a small boat drifting along with the stream. A pale, ragged child sat leaning his forehead upon the boat’s edge, now and then raising it to call out, in a feeble voice, “Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La! Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La!”

Seeing the three maidens, he eagerly stretched forth his hands as if asking for assistance.

The eldest princess said: “Pshaw! what do we care for the ugly, dirty fellow?”

And the second princess said: “Stupid, ignorant little wretch! Let him go!”

But the third princess ran for a man and a boat, which were soon in readiness; for every one was eager to obey even the slightest wish of little Rosebud.

When the drifting boat was towed to the shore, there was found in it not only a boy, but a little girl, lying in the bottom of the boat,—a very pale little girl, who seemed too weak to do more than just open her brown eyes and gaze piteously about her. But when food and cordials had been given them, it was found that they could both talk, and that quite well.

Now this is the story the little boy told of himself and his little sister.

They belonged a great way up the river. A long time ago, he could not tell how long, there was famine in that country, and their mother sickened and died.

One day their father embraced them, with tears in his eyes, and said:—

“Farewell, farewell, my pretty dears. I am going now to seek employment in the kingdom of good King Brondé, where, as I am told, all may find work and bread.”

And they were left in the care of a woman who treated them ill. This woman was not only cruel, but a thief. She kept the gold their father sent, and would give them no news of him, except that he was a wood-cutter, in Long Forest.

One moonlight night the boy showed to his sister a bag of dry crusts, and said, “Let us go and seek our father.”

And she said, “O yes!”

Then they jumped into a little skiff, which had no oar. “No matter for that,” said the boy; “it will be sure to drift down.” For they knew that their father had sailed away down the river.

And a very long river the boy thought it must be. For they had drifted, night and day, through many a desolate plain and gloomy forest. And all the time he had kept shouting, loud and clear at first, but more feebly as his strength grew less, “Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La! Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La!”

“And what was that for?” asked Rosebud.

Why, in their own country, the boy said, were robbers and bandits and many fierce men. There was danger always; and their father, as he returned from his day’s hunting, or his day’s labor, would call out, while crossing the little bridge near their cottage, “Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La! Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La!” to let them know of his safety. And they would answer back the same cry, that he might be sure no harm had come to them in his absence.

“And so,” continued the little boy, “we called, ‘Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La!’ while floating along, that our father might hear.”

“But he did not hear!” said the little girl, sadly.

“Now, children,” said Rosebud, “do not be sorrowful any more, for this is Long Forest. The palace of King Brondé is near, and I am his little girl, and I shall help you to find your father. Pray what is his name?” But the children knew only that he was called “Father.” “For all that, we shall find him,” said Rosebud. And every morning, though dressed out in costly array, and her princess’s crown, she took the two children by the hand, and they walked together along the forest paths; and whenever they heard the sound of a wood-chopper’s axe they shouted:—

“Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La!” and then stopped awhile to listen, but heard only the echoes, repeating, more and more faintly, “Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La! Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La!”

And the children grew very sad, and said, “O, we shall never, never again see our father!”

And the two elder princesses said: “Rosebud, why will you keep such low company? You really trouble yourself a great deal about nothing.”

But Rosebud answered, “Is it nothing to lose a father?” And she cheered the two children, and said to them: “Do not give up yet, for I am sure we shall not fail.”

And one bright, calm summer noon, as they were passing a thick grove of oaks, there was heard, far away, the sound of a wood-cutter’s axe.

They called out, as was their custom, “Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La!” and then stood listening.

“Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La!” they heard in reply.

“That’s not an echo!” cried the boy; “call again!”

They called again, all together, very loud: “Tirra, Tirra, Tirra, Tirra La!”

The answer came back in a clear, strong voice, and much nearer than before.

Then a crashing of branches was heard, and a stout man burst through.

At first he could not speak, from astonishment. But at last he caught the two children in his arms, kissed them, hugged them, wept over them, and called them his precious, precious children.

And Rosebud, seeing that they both were crying for joy, herself stepped forward and told their story.

CHAPTER IV.
THE CAVE.

THE Robbers’ Road, spoken of in the beginning, could never have been called by that name without some reason.

Before the father of the Lily Queen built this summer palace for his children, there dwelt in Long Forest a band of robbers. So numerous and so bold were they, that few travellers dared trust themselves in the neighborhood, and the road through the forest was called the Robbers’ Road.

But before bringing his bride to the new palace, Brondé sent troops of soldiers thither, who scoured the forest, and dispersed the band.

It happened that, after many years had passed, a portion of these robbers found their way back. They were cautious at first, and wary, but grew bolder as their numbers increased; and, at the time of which we are speaking, their operations were seriously felt by the shepherds, the farmers, and the woodmen.

Their head-quarters were in a large cave. There they plotted mischief and divided the spoils.

It was in this cave that, late one summer’s night, they came together, each bringing with him the booty he had secured during the day. Blazing torches hung around on the dark walls. In the corners were piles of grain, fruit, meats, stolen from the farmers; also bags and portmanteaus taken from unfortunate travellers.

They gathered about the long table,—tall, gaunt figures, with dark faces,—they gathered about the long table with but few words, for they had travelled fast and far, and were eager for food.

When their appetites were satisfied, their captain drew forth a heavy bag, from which he emptied a heap of gold. Half of this he locked up in an iron box, and was proceeding to divide the remainder, when, chancing to raise his eyes, he saw, standing at the foot of the table, a man of great size, dressed in skins and well armed. A company of men, dressed and armed like himself, but inferior in size, were stealing softly into the cave and grouping themselves around him.

“Betrayed!” shouted the robbers; and each man felt for his sword.

But the fierce-looking stranger threw down his arms, bade his followers do the same, and, waving his hand to the company, said:—

“No, not betrayed. We are no spies, but, on the contrary, would become your friends. Listen, now, for a while, that I may show you how well we shall agree, and that our interests are the same. Do you love a wild life, and to be your own masters?”

“We do.”

“So do I. Do you like plenty of gold, good living, and light labor?”

“We do.”

“So do I. Do you care for law?”

“We do not.”

“Neither do I. For knowledge?”

“We do not.”

“Neither do I. For goodness?”

“We do not.”

“Neither do I, my friends. And now another question. Do you hate King Brondé?”

“We do!” they exclaimed.

“Do you wish his destruction?”

“We do.”

“Will you do your best to accomplish this?”

“We will! We will!” they cried.

“And so will I. You see, now, how well we are agreed, and that our interests are the same. My name is Magnus. These are my trusty followers. Shake hands, my brave fellows. Right! We are brothers now. You hate King Brondé, because it was to make room for him that your once powerful band was dispersed. Many of you mourn the loss of friends, comrades, kindred, slain by his orders.”

“True! True!” they cried, eagerly.

“Yes, true,” exclaimed Magnus. “And I hate King Brondé because he is richer and luckier than myself. There is no reason why I should not have wedded a princess and inherited a kingdom. I am as strong to protect, as brave to defend. And I seek his death; for, when he is gone, I need not then say, ‘I am the largest and strongest man living, except—’; but, ‘I am the largest and strongest man living,’—and nothing more. I have a plan, my friends, which I will now unfold to you.”

This speech was received with cheers and wild hurrahs; but Magnus, with a wave of his hand, said:—

“Quietly, my brave fellows. Our time is not yet. Nothing can be done openly. King Brondé is surrounded by brave soldiers, who would shed for him their last drop of blood. Listen now.”

There was then deep silence in the cave, while Magnus, in a long speech, unfolded his plans.

But what those plans were, need not here be related, since all who read further will discover for themselves.

CHAPTER V.
MEETING OF THE FAIRIES.

NOW on this very night the Green Fairy was holding her court in Daisy Hollow, deep in the forest. How lovely were these pretty creatures, as they appeared, one after another, their bright wings fluttering, and glistening with dew!

Truly fairy-like were their greetings! A mortal, listening near, might have supposed he heard only the sighing of the summer breeze, the murmur of brooklets, or the far-off tinkling of little bells.

But their queen allowed them very little time for greeting. For it had been long since they met, and much was to be told and much heard, before the dawn. She therefore began singing:—

“Where the softest grass is found,

Quickly form your circle round.

Let each one say,

E’er the dawning of day,

What wonderful things she has seen on her way.

Through meadow and wildwood ye’ve been on the wing,

What news do ye bring? What news do ye bring?”

They then began telling, each in turn, of all their adventures since the last meeting. And, at last, one little pink fairy jumped up briskly, singing thus; and, as she sang, a little attendant fairy echoed her last words:—

“I know a cave in the forest deep,

Forest deep,

Where a wicked band their revels keep,

Revels keep.

Old Magnus now has joined them too,

Joined them too,

With his bold and fearless crew,

Fearless crew.

I scented mischief in the air,

In the air.

There’s mighty mischief brewing there,

Brewing there.”

Now, when the Green Fairy heard this, she quickly broke up the court. For Magnus’s hatred of King Brondé was well known to her; and, although ignorant of his plans, yet she knew very well whose life they would endanger.

In the shape of an owl she flew into the cave, and there, perched on a rock near the roof, she listened while Magnus made known to the company his intentions with regard to King Brondé and his court.

Next day, changing herself to a beautiful bird, she flew swiftly to the palace, where the queen was sitting with her ladies upon the balcony. And while flying over their heads, she sang thus:—

“There is danger in the air.

Lily Queen, beware, beware!

Danger dark to one you love;

Bid him not afar to rove;

Bid him keep a watchful care;

There is danger in the air!”

None but the queen understood the song. The ladies only said, “Truly a pretty bird, and a sweet singer!” and wondered why it was that their Lily Queen turned so deadly pale and left them so hastily.

She ran swiftly through the rooms of the palace, found the king in his private apartments, and eagerly told him of the beautiful bird and its warning song.

But when the king learned that the others had only heard sweet music, he treated the matter rather lightly, thinking it to be merely her fancy. What could a little woman fear, he said, who had a husband so big and strong! But, that she might be comforted, he promised to be watchful, and not to roam about the forest unattended. If he had only known what we know, he would have sent to the city for a strong army of soldiers, who could easily have taken possession of the cave and routed the whole band.

But, as he did not know, he only took his Lily Queen upon his knee, and there they sat, a long, long time, talking of their sweet little Rosebud, and of old times, and of the good king, her father, and how she was near dying in the rocky chasm. And then, as she felt his brown curls brushing her cheek, she confessed, for the first time, the trick she played him on their way from the mountains. But I don’t believe he was at all angry with her,—do you?

Not long after this, as the king and all his court were amusing themselves one fine morning on the lawn, in front of the palace, there came running in among them a wood-cutter, crying out that two lions had been seen in the forest! Then ran every man for his bow and spear, the king as swift as any. All were eager for the hunt, but the queen was full of alarm. She wept, and, clasping the hands of her husband, begged him to remain. But this, of course, he would not do. What were a couple of lions to a strong man like him?

CHAPTER VI.
GOING A HUNTING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

NOW these were the orders which Magnus had given to his company.

First, no blood must be shed. King Brondé’s men were to be carried off prisoners to his strong castle, in a far country,—an immense castle, whose walls were of such thickness, and so well defended, that the king of the country himself dared not attack it. The ladies of the court were also to be taken to the castle, and even their children. For all these prisoners, Magnus expected that heavy ransoms would be offered in silver and gold. King Brondé, loaded with chains, would be confined in the cave, until Magnus should decide the manner of his death. As for the lower people, the wood-cutters, foresters, laborers, they must also be carried off with the rest, as laboring men were much needed at the castle.

But in the first place Magnus sent a message to the powerful band he had left behind, commanding that one hundred of his strongest, boldest men, well armed, should come to him without delay.

As soon as this order was received, one hundred strong, bold men, well armed, mounted their fleetest horses, and rode night and day until they reached the cave.

Spies were then sent out, with orders to watch the movements of King Brondé, and to give timely notice whenever he should go forth to hunt.

But a whole week passed, and still the wished-for notice was not given.

“King Brondé is weary of hunting deer,” said one of the men, as they were gathered, one evening, in the cave.

“If that be so,” cried Magnus, “why, we can easily manage a lion or two.”

He then made a sign to one of his men, who suddenly gave such a terrible roar that the whole company sprang to their feet, thinking there was surely a lion near.

Magnus then took some skins, and had them stuffed so well that they might easily, at a distance, be taken for lions.

Not long after this the most terrible roarings were heard in the forest, and on several occasions, when the wood-cutters were walking homeward at twilight, the stuffed lions were popped out so suddenly before them, with such awful roarings, that they ran home almost out of their wits, and with scarcely breath enough to tell the story.

This trick of the robbers accomplished their purpose. The wood-cutter, with his story, startled the whole court. All were eager to join the lion hunt; and, in an hour’s time after the alarm was given, lords, high captains, knights, squires, pages, foresters, woodmen, were scouring the forest in every direction.

It was a fine, breezy day. The skies were clear, the sun shone brightly, birds sang sweetly. The horses were fleet, the hearts of the huntsmen were light and gay. Baying of hounds, merry shouts and bugle calls, resounded through the forest.

Orders had been given that at midday all should assemble at Daisy Hollow, there to report progress, and to partake of the refreshment which must at that time be needed.

Accordingly, at the time appointed, they began to appear, one after another, at this rendezvous, and to relate their adventures.

It seemed that but little had been done. One had seen a tail, another a head, many had heard roarings, and many had neither seen nor heard anything at all. Provisions were spread upon the grass, and, after eating and drinking, the whole company joined in singing a hunting-song.

Meanwhile, Magnus’s men had quietly formed a circle around the Hollow, and were eagerly awaiting from their leader the signal to advance. Magnus had ordered that each should select his man, he himself taking King Brondé. But knowing that the strength of his rival fully equalled his own, he had selected from the company ten stout men to assist him.

While the hunting party were gayly eating and drinking, the circle had been gradually closing around them. As soon as the singing began, Magnus waved his sword. This was the signal agreed upon, and the wild crew crept stealthily forward among the trees, now flat upon the grass, now over rocks, and now forcing with their swords a way through tangled thickets.

And at last, just as the chorus of the merry band rang loudly and cheerily out, they burst with loud cries from the wood, and in an instant each one of the hunters found himself laid prostrate upon the ground, a powerful foot upon his breast, a sharp knife at his throat. And so quickly and so skilfully was this accomplished, that hardly a single drop of blood had been shed.

The moment that King Brondé saw the powerful form bending over him, he knew well who was his enemy. Exerting all his immense strength, he endeavored to set himself free. But Magnus was armed, and had strength fully equal to his own. He was also assisted by the ten picked men.

King Brondé, recollecting the little vial hanging at his neck, contrived to draw it forth, and was in the act of drawing out the cork with his teeth, when Magnus, who knew its contents, snatched it away, at the same time breaking the cord.

But in the contest the little vial fell to the ground. Magnus vainly sought it, for one of Brondé’s men, who had in some way escaped from his captor, very cunningly, with the tip of his sword, rolled it under a plantain-leaf. When the search was over, he hid it in his bosom, and amid the confusion contrived to make his way unnoticed to the woods, and so escaped.

King Brondé and his men were taken to the cave, and there made to exchange clothes with their captors. Magnus cut off King Brondé’s fair curls, and covered with them his own coarse black locks, that the Lily Queen might suppose him to be the real Brondé.

The robbers then, clothed in the garments of their prisoners, and bearing their bows and spears, marched boldly to the palace. Now the queen and all her ladies were met upon the Velvet Lawn, near the palace, where they were amusing themselves by shooting at a mark. They wore dresses of pure white, their heads were adorned with wreaths of flowers, and about their waists were green garlands. Their arrows were silver-tipped, and their bows decked with ribbons. But the dress of Rosebud was green, besprinkled with diamonds like dew-drops on the grass. For she was always dressed in this color, in remembrance of the Green Fairy.

The robbers approached, amid the winding of horns and bugle-blasts.

“Ah!” cried Rosebud, “I see my stout, handsome father coming!” And she was off like an arrow to meet him.

“Ah, yes!” cried the queen; “there are my Brondé’s fair curls. And there is the red feather I placed this morning in his cap!”

Ah, poor Rosebud! And ah, poor Lily Queen! In one short hour after this, queen, ladies, servants, children, laborers,—all were prisoners! All bound, and on their way to some gloomy castle belonging to Magnus. Also the costly treasures of the palace, the gold, the jewels, the ermine robes,—everything of value which could be taken.

One precious thing only was left, and this precious thing was the king’s Rosebud.

It happened in this way.

Rosebud, with outstretched arms, ran to meet her father, her face beaming with joy, her heart brimming over with love for him. He had returned!—returned safe! Nothing had happened to him in the forest.

“Dear, dear father!” she cried.

As we all know, however, it was not really her father, but the wicked Magnus.

Now, when this wicked Magnus looked down into the face of Rosebud, he beheld there something which he never saw before. He had seen courage, he had seen strength, he had seen bravery; but a deep, o’erflowing love, like that expressed in the flushed and beaming face before him, he had never yet known.

And while he secured her as his prisoner, and saw her tears, and the horror and affright with which she regarded him, he felt a strange desire creeping into his heart to bring back that same look again; and, more than this, to have that beautiful look meant, really meant, for himself. That grim, bad man actually felt that the love of a little child would be a pleasant thing to have!