The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

YOU SAW

these little men

on the cover guarding the

road that leads to Fairy Land.

Do you believe in Fairy Land?

If so, they will let you pass. If

not, they will make you

turn back the way you

came and will not let

you into

THE FIR-TREE FAIRY BOOK

THE PIED PIPER ORDERS THE RATS INTO THE WATER

THE
FIR-TREE
FAIRY
BOOK

FAVORITE FAIRY TALES

EDITED BY

CLIFTON JOHNSON

ILLUSTRATED BY

ALEXANDER POPINI

BOSTON

LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY

1912

Copyright, 1912,

By Little, Brown, and Company.

─────

All rights reserved

Published, November, 1912

THE COLONIAL PRESS

C. H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

IN the volumes that make up this series of fairy books are to be found the favorite wonder tales of many nations in a version especially suited for the home fireside. The interest, the charm and all the sweetness of the stories have been retained, but savagery, distressing details and excessive pathos have been dropped, and the books can be read aloud or placed in the hands of children with entire confidence.

The reasons for such changes as I have made in the stories are perhaps self-evident. Surely, most parents and teachers will agree that our little people are better off without some of the sentiments of the barbaric past when the tales originated. We can well spare most of the spectacles of falsehood, gluttony, drunkenness, torture and gore that are found in the usual tellings, and we can get along without the cruel fathers and wicked stepmothers. Civilization and culture have advanced vastly since the time when the stories started. Our primal instincts are more controlled, and law, education and ethics mean vastly more. The necessity therefore seems clear for softening or changing the crude ideals and doubtful morals and coarseness that have so often survived in the old stories.

The tales are drawn from many sources, and usually are the result of a comparison of several versions, and a combination of the best features of these versions into a simple straightforward whole such as children will read with understanding and pleasure.

The plan I have indicated was begun with “The Oak-Tree Fairy Book,” the initial volume of this tree named series, and has been consistently pursued in all the later volumes.

Clifton Johnson.

Hadley, Mass.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE

FIR-TREE FAIRY BOOK

THE PIED PIPER

THERE is a sleepy little town by the seashore, which for a time, long ago, was decidedly noisy. But the noise was not so much due to the number of people in the place, or the traffic on the streets, as it was to the fact that the town had been invaded by a horde of rats. Such an invasion had never been seen before nor ever will be seen again. The place was scarcely worth living in, so infested was it with these rats. The people found them in their breeches or petticoats when they put on their clothes in the morning, and it was nothing unusual to discover a rat’s nest in one’s shoes or pockets, or in one’s Sunday hat or bonnet.

The rats were great black creatures that ran boldly through the streets in broad daylight, and swarmed all over the houses. There was not a barn, or a cornrick, or a storeroom, or a cupboard, but they gnawed their way into it.

They fought the dogs and killed the cats

And bit the babies in their cradles,

And ate the cheeses out of the vats

And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladle.

Even the barrels of beer were not safe from them. They would gnaw a hole in the barrel head, and into this hole some master rat would thrust his tail, and when he withdrew it dripping with beer all his friends and relatives would crowd around and each would have a suck at the tail.

They were bad enough in the daytime, but they were still worse at night. Then they were busy everywhere—in the walls and ceilings, and also in the rooms from cellar to garret. There was such a chase and a rummage, and such a squeaking and squealing, and such a noise as of gimlets, pincers and saws that a deaf man could not have rested for one hour together. The people could hardly hear themselves think, and many a mother felt obliged to sit up and keep watch over her children lest some big ugly rat should run across their faces.

Cats and dogs, poison and traps were of no avail. Nor were prayers any more effective. Of course many of the rats were killed, yet others constantly came to take the place of the dead ones. The mayor and the town council were at their wits’ end. They were sitting one day in the town hall racking their brains, when a queer-looking stranger arrived in the place. As he tramped up the chief street he played the bagpipes, pausing in his playing now and then to sing this refrain:

“Who lives shall see

This is he,

The ratcatcher.”

He was a tall, gawky fellow with swarthy skin, a crooked nose, a long moustache, and piercing eyes. His broad-brimmed felt hat had a scarlet cock’s feather stuck into its band, and there was not a color of the rainbow that could not be found in his jacket and breeches. A leather belt girded his waist, and on his feet were sandals fastened by thongs passed round his legs. He stopped in the great market-place before the town hall and went on with his piping and singing. The town beadle heard the purport of the song, and asked the stranger if he could rid the town of the rats with which it was overrun.

“Yes,” was the reply, “if you will make it worth my while.”

Then the beadle hurried off to report the stranger’s words to the council. As he approached their place of meeting the mayor was saying: “What to do, I know not. My poor head aches, I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.”

Just as he said this, what should hap

At the chamber door, but a gentle tap?

“Bless us!” cried the mayor, “what’s that?

Anything like the sound of a rat

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!”

Then he said in a louder voice, “Come in,” and the beadle entered.

“Please, your honor,” said the beadle, “a very queer fellow has come to town who says he is a ratcatcher, and that he can clear the place of rats if we make it worth his while.”

“Then he is a sorcerer,” said the councilors with one voice. “We must beware of him.”

The mayor, who was considered clever, reassured them. “Sorcerer or not,” said he, “if this bagpiper speaks the truth, I doubt not it was he who sent us this horrible vermin in order to get money from us for inducing them to go away. Well, we must catch the evil-minded in their own snares. You leave it to me.”

“Leave it to the mayor,” said the councilors one to the other.

“Show him in,” said the mayor, and the beadle soon brought the ratcatcher before them.

“I am called the Pied Piper,” he said, “and ratcatching is my trade. What would you pay me to rid you of every rat in the town?”

Much as they disliked the rats they disliked parting with their money still more, and they fain would have higgled and haggled. But the Piper was not a man to stand nonsense, and the upshot of the matter was that they agreed to pay him at the rate of a penny a head as soon as there was not a rat left to squeak or scurry in the place.

The bagpiper announced that he would operate that very evening when the moon rose, and he requested that the inhabitants should leave the streets free, and content themselves with looking out of their windows while he was at his task.

When the townspeople heard of the bargain they exclaimed: “A penny a head! This will cost us a great deal of money!”

“Leave it to the mayor,” said the town councilors with a sly shrug of the shoulders.

Toward nine o’clock the Piper reappeared in the market-place, and as soon as the moon showed above the roofs he put his bagpipes to his lips and began a shrill, keen tune that penetrated to the remotest nooks and alleys of the town. Then a strange sight was seen. From every hole the rats came tumbling, and ran to the market-place, until it was so full of them that the pavement was hidden from sight. At length the piper faced about, and, still playing briskly, went down a street that led toward the harbor. At his heels followed the rats with eager feet and upturned noses. Every fifty yards he stopped and gave an extra flourish of the pipes while he waited for the toddling little rats and the less vigorous ones to catch up with those that were stronger. Meanwhile the townsfolk looked on from their windows, and many a blessing they called down on his head.

When he reached the harbor and had marched to the outer end of a wharf, he turned about and looked at the multitude of rats. “Hop, hop!” he cried, pointing with his finger toward the water.

Not far from the end of the wharf a big whirlpool had formed, and the rats, obedient to the Piper’s orders, began to leap from the wharf, and swim straight to the center of the whirlpool, where they disappeared. This continued till midnight, when only one rat was left—a big rat, white with age, who dragged himself along with difficulty. It was the king of the band.

“Are they all there, friend Whitey?” asked the Piper.

“They are all there,” replied Whitey.

“How many?” the Piper questioned.

“Nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine,” was the answer.

“Then go and join them, old sire,” said the Piper. “Good-by.”

So the old rat jumped into the water, swam to the whirlpool, and down he went out of sight.

The Piper walked back into the town and went to bed at an inn; and for the first time in three months the people slept quietly through the night. There was no noise to disturb them, and they slept the more serenely because now there was a prospect they would have a chance to enjoy food that the rats had not tasted before them. In the morning, so rejoiced were they over their delivery from the plague of vermin that they threw up their caps and hurrahed, and they rang the church bells till they rocked the steeples. But at nine o’clock, when the Piper went to the town hall to get his pay, the mayor and the council and the townsfolk generally began to hum and ha, and to shake their heads, for where was all that money to come from? Besides, it had been a very easy job that the Piper had done and had only taken him a little while.

“Sirs,” said the Piper, “all your rats took a jump into the harbor last night, and I guarantee that not one of them will come back. There were one million, and you can reckon how much is due me at a penny a head.”

“My good man,” said the mayor, “you must know that we are poor folk; surely you will not ask us to pay such a sum.”

“I only want you to do as you agreed to do,” responded the Piper.

“Ah,” said the mayor, “then let us reckon the heads. Have the kindness to bring them here that we may count them.”

The ratcatcher did not expect this treacherous stroke. He paled with anger, and his eyes flashed fire. “The heads!” he cried, “if you care about them, go and find them in the harbor.”

“So you refuse to hold to the terms of your bargain,” said the mayor. “We have good reason to refuse you all payment, but you have been of use to us, and we will be glad to recompense you to the extent of twenty pounds.”

“Keep your recompense to yourself,” retorted the ratcatcher proudly. “It would be better for you if you paid me quickly all that is my due. For I can pipe many kinds of tunes, as folk sometimes find to their cost. If you do not pay me I will be paid by your heirs.”

“Would you threaten us, you strolling vagabond?” shrieked the mayor. “Begone and do your worst now that the rats are drowned.”

“Very well,” said the Piper, and he pulled his hat down over his eyes, turned short on his heel, and left the hall.

The townspeople were much pleased over this outcome. They rubbed their hands gleefully, and laughed over the ratcatcher, who they said was caught in his own trap. Above all they laughed at his threat of getting himself paid by their heirs. “Ha, ha!”

But when the Piper reached the market-place, he again put his pipes to his lips. This time there came forth no shrill notes, but a tune that was joyous and resonant, full of happy laughter and merry play. At this call the children all ran forth to the Piper from schoolroom and playroom and nursery. Every little boy and girl in town hurried to the market-place, attracted by the magic music. Then the stranger began to walk up a street that led out of the town, and they followed him, dancing, laughing, and singing.

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,

Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering.

On they went out of the town gate and into a forest that was near by, a forest full of old oaks and wide-spreading beeches. In among the trees went the Piper in his many-colored garments, and the laughter of the children gradually faded away as they went deeper and deeper into the cool green wood.

Hour after hour passed, and the children did not return. Then their parents went in search of them, but at nightfall came back desolate to the town. Nor was searching in future days any better rewarded. The mayor sent east, west, north, and south, to offer the Piper, if he could be found,

Silver and gold to his heart’s content,

If he’d only return the way he went,

And bring the children behind him.

But never were the hearts of the townspeople gladdened by the sight of the Piper and his following of singing, dancing children issuing from the ancient oaks of the forest. What became of the children is a mystery even to this day.

THE FIR-TREE

ON the borders of a forest a pretty little fir-tree once started to grow. The sun shone full on him, the breezes played freely around him, and in the neighborhood grew many companion fir-trees, both large and small. But the little fir-tree was not happy. He was always longing to be full grown. He thought not of the warm sun and the fresh air. He took no pleasure in the songs of birds, or in the clouds that sailed over him. He cared not for the merry, prattling peasant children who came to the forest to look for berries.

By and by it was winter, and the ground was covered with the glistening snow. Then the fir-tree often saw a hare scampering about, and sometimes the hare would jump right over the little fir-tree’s head. The tree did not like that at all. However, when two winters had passed, the fir-tree was so tall the hare was obliged to run around him; for each year he sent upward a long green shoot, just as all fir-trees do, and you could tell how old he was by counting the number of joints on the main stem.

“Oh, that I was as tall as the big trees I see near me!” sighed the little tree. “Then I should spread out my branches so far, and I could look over the wide world around. The birds would build their nests among my branches, and when the wind blew I would bend my head so grandly just as all the big trees do. Yes, I want to become tall and old. That is the only thing worth living for.”

Every autumn the woodcutters came and felled some of the largest trees. The young fir-tree shuddered when he saw the grand trees crash to the ground. He watched the men chop off all the boughs from the fallen trees, and how terribly naked and lanky and long they looked then. They could hardly be recognized. Finally they were loaded on wagons, and were drawn away from the forest. Where could they be going? What might be their fortunes?

When it was spring, and the swallows and the storks returned from the south, the tree called to them, and said: “Know you whither they have taken the great trees that have been cut? Have you met these friends of mine?”

The swallows knew nothing about the matter, but one of the storks looked thoughtful for a moment, nodded his head, and said: “Yes, I believe I have seen them. As I was flying from Egypt to this place I noticed several ships, and those ships had splendid masts. I have little doubt those masts were the trees of which you speak. They supported the sails so that the ships moved on gloriously.”

“Oh that I too were tall enough to be a mast, and journey on the sea!” exclaimed the fir-tree.

“Rejoice in your youth,” said the sunbeams. “Rejoice in the fresh life that is within you.” And the sunbeams caressed the tree, and the wind kissed him, but he understood them not.

Christmas was drawing near, after the little fir-tree had lived and grown for several years, and many small trees were felled by the woodmen. Some were no taller than the restless young fir-tree who was always longing to be away. The branches were not cut off, but the trees were put on wagons, green boughs and all. When the wagons had gone, the fir-tree asked where his companions were being taken.

“We know, we know,” twittered the sparrows. “They are on the way to the town. You cannot imagine what honor and glory they will receive. We have peeped through the house windows in years gone by, and we know. They will be planted in a warm room, and be decked with the most beautiful things—sweetmeats, playthings, and hundreds of bright candles.”

“And what happens afterward?” asked the fir-tree, quivering with excitement in every bough.

“We saw no more,” the sparrows replied, “but what we did see was beautiful beyond compare.”

“That is far better than sailing over the sea,” cried the fir-tree with delight. “How I wish such a glorious lot might be mine! And there must be something still better to follow, else why should any one take such trouble to decorate the trees.”

“Rejoice in our love,” said the air and the sunshine. “Rejoice in your freedom.”

But rejoice he never would. Time went on and he grew more and more sturdy and full of dark green foliage, and when the next Christmas drew near he was the first tree that was cut. Then for a moment he forgot to think of his good fortune, and was sorry to be compelled to leave his home. He knew he should not see the other trees again, or the little bushes and flowers that had flourished under his shadow—perhaps not even the birds.

At last he found himself in the courtyard of a house in the town whither he had been carried with a load of his fellows, and a man picked him out from among the rest and said: “This is a beautiful one—the very thing we want.”

Then two smartly dressed servants came and carried the fir-tree into a large and handsome parlor where he was planted in a stout tub filled with sand. A young lady, assisted by the servants, now began to adorn him. On some branches they hung little bags filled with candy. From others apples and walnuts were suspended, looking just as if they had grown there; and a great number of tiny wax tapers, red, white, and blue, were fastened to the boughs. Here and there were hung dolls and picture books and toys, and on the summit was fastened a large star of gold tinsel. This was indeed splendid!

“In the evening the tree will be lighted up,” they said.

“Would that it were evening,” thought the tree. “Would that the candles were already lighted. What will happen then? Will the trees come out of the forest to see me? Will the sparrows look in at the windows? Shall I stand here adorned both winter and summer?”

At last evening came, and the candles were lighted. Oh, what radiance! The tree trembled in all his branches so that one of the lights set fire to a bough. “Heaven preserve us!” exclaimed the young ladies, and they sprang forward and extinguished the flame.

The tree dared not tremble again, though he felt greatly bewildered in the midst of all this glory and brightness. Suddenly, both the folding doors that communicated with the next room were flung open, and a troop of children rushed in. The older people followed more quietly. At first the children gathered about the tree soberly gazing and admiring. Then they began dancing and shouting and tearing off the presents.

“What are they doing?” thought the tree. “What will happen now?”

The candles burned down to the branches, and were blown out, and the children amused themselves with their beautiful playthings. No one thought any more of the tree except the old nurse, who came and peeped among the boughs, but it was only to see whether perchance an apple or a candy bag had been left among them.

Later in the evening the children tired of their play and begged their father to tell a story. “Very well,” said he. “Would you like to hear about Chicken Licken, or about Thumpty Klump, who fell down stairs, but afterward won a princess and came to a throne?”

“Chicken Licken!” cried some.

“Thumpty Klump!” cried others, and there was a great uproar.

When they grew quieter the man told the story of Thumpty Klump, and, as soon as he had finished, the children clapped their hands and called for another story, but they did not get it.

The fir-tree stood meanwhile quite silent and thoughtful. “The birds in the forest never related anything like this,” said he. “Thumpty Klump fell down stairs, and yet won a princess and was raised to a throne. Yes, yes, strange things come to pass in the world. Who knows but I may fall down stairs and win a princess?”

He rejoiced in the expectation of being next day again decked out with candles and glittering ornaments and playthings. In the morning the maids came in. “Now begins my magnificence anew,” said the tree to himself.

But they dragged him out of the room, up the stairs, and into an attic, where they thrust him into a dark corner and left him. “What can be the meaning of this?” thought the tree. “What am I to do here?” And he leaned against the wall and thought and thought.

He had plenty of time to think as much as he pleased, for day after day and night after night passed, and yet no one entered the attic. “It is winter,” said the tree. “The ground is hard and covered with snow. They cannot plant me now. So I am to stay in shelter till spring. How kind they are! I only wish it was not so dark and so dreadfully lonesome.”

“Squeak! squeak!” cried a little mouse, just then gliding out of a hole in the wall.

Another followed. They snuffed at the fir-tree and slipped in and out among the branches. “It is horribly cold,” said the little mice. “Don’t you think so, you old fir-tree?”

“I am not old,” responded the fir-tree. “There are many trees much older than I am.”

“How came you here?” questioned the mice, “and what do you know? Tell us about the most delightful place on earth. Have you ever been there? Have you been into the storeroom where cheeses lie on the shelves, and bacon hangs from the ceiling, where one can dance over tallow-candles, where one goes in thin and comes out fat?”

“I know nothing about that,” the tree answered, “but I know the forest, where the sun shines and where the birds sing.”

Then he spoke of his youth and its pleasures. The little mice had never heard anything like it before. They listened with all their ears, and said: “Well, to be sure, how much you have seen! How happy you have been!”

“Happy!” repeated the fir-tree in surprise, and he thought a moment over all he had been saying. “Yes, on the whole, those were pleasant times.”

He then told about the Christmas Eve when he had been decked with toys and candles.

“Oh!” cried the little mice, “how happy you have been, you old fir-tree!”

“I am not old at all,” declared the tree, “and it is only this winter that I left the forest.”

“How well you can talk!” said the little mice, and the next night they came again and brought with them four other little mice who also wanted to hear the tree’s history.

The more the tree spoke of his youth in the forest the more vividly he remembered it. “Those were pleasant times,” he remarked in conclusion, “and they may come again. Thumpty Klump fell down stairs, and yet for all that he won the princess. Perhaps I, too, may win a princess;” and then the fir-tree thought of a pretty little birch-tree that grew in the forest. She was a very real and very lovely princess to him.

“Who is this Thumpty Klump?” the little mice inquired.

So he related the tale. He could remember every word of it perfectly, and the little mice were so pleased they jumped for joy. The night following, several more mice came, and on Sunday they returned and brought with them two rats. The rats, however, declared that the story was not at all amusing, and the little mice, after hearing the rats’ opinion, did not like it so well either.

“Do you know only that one story?” asked the rats.

“Only that one,” answered the tree. “I heard it on the happiest evening of my life, though I did not then know how happy I was.”

“It is a miserable story,” the rats declared. “Do you know none about pork and tallow? Don’t you know some storeroom story?”

“No,” said the tree.

“Well, then, we have heard enough,” said the rats, and they went their way.

They did not come again, nor did the little mice. As the lonely days passed, the tree sighed and said: “It was very pleasant when those lively little mice sat around me listening to my words. Now that, too, is all past. However, I still have the pleasure of remembering it.”

One morning people came and gave the attic a cleaning out. The tree was dragged from the corner and carried down stairs. Once more he beheld the outdoor daylight. “Life is about to begin again,” he thought.

He felt the fresh air and the warm sunbeams. He was out in the court, and the court adjoined a garden where everything was fresh and blooming. The roses clustered bright and fragrant round the trellis work, the apple-trees were in blossom, and the swallows flew backward and forward twittering, “Quirri-virri-vit, my beloved is come!” But it was not the fir-tree whom they meant.

The tree was filled with delightful hope. He tried to spread out his branches. Alas! they were all dry and stiff. He was thrown down on a heap of weeds and rubbish. The star that had been fastened on his top sparkled brightly in the sunshine. Some children were playing in the court. They were the same who at Christmas-time had danced round the tree in the parlor. The youngest perceived the gold star and ran to tear it off. “Look at it, still on the ugly old Christmas-tree,” cried he, trampling and breaking the boughs under his feet.

The tree looked at the flowers of the garden blooming in the freshness of their beauty, and he called to mind his happy forest life, the merry Christmas Eve, and the little mice who had listened so eagerly when he related the story of Thumpty Klump. “Past, all past,” sighed the poor tree.

Presently a servant came and set fire to the rubbish heap. The children all ran to the place and jumped about in front of the blaze, crying, “Hurrah, hurrah!”

The tree burned to ashes and the fire flickered out. Then the boys began to play about in the court as before, and on the breast of the youngest sparkled the gold star that the tree had worn on the happiest evening of his life. But now the tree has come to an end, and the story also has come to an end.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD

A GREAT many years ago there was a brave and kind gentleman who was held in high esteem by all who knew him. His wife was good and beautiful, and they loved each other most tenderly. They lived together happily for many years, but at last the gentleman fell sick, and day after day he grew worse. So grieved was his lady by his illness that she, too, sickened. No medicine or anything else gave them any relief, and they realized that soon they would die. It troubled them greatly to think that they would be taken away from their two children, one a fine boy three years old, and the other a pretty little girl not quite two. They talked together about the children’s future, and decided to give their babes into the care of the gentleman’s brother.

He was sent for, and when he came, the dying man said to him: “Ah! brother, you can plainly see that the time of both my wife and myself on earth is short. As for pain or death, we fear them not, but we are distressed to think of what our poor babes will do without their parents. Brother, they will have no one but you to be kind to them, and I commend them to your care.”

“If you treat them well,” said the mother, “God will reward you.”

“Have no fear as to my taking good care of them,” said the brother. “May God never prosper me or mine if I should do them wrong.”

Not long afterward the gentleman and the lady died, and they were buried side by side in the same grave. It was found that the gentleman’s will gave his son three hundred pounds a year after he came of age, and the girl was to be paid five hundred pounds in gold on the day that she married. But if they happened to die before the money was paid to them their property was all to go to their uncle.

He took them to his own home, and for a time made much of them and showed them great kindness. At length, however, he began to covet their wealth, and to wish that they were dead so he could possess it; but they continued sturdy and well. Finally he said to himself: “It would not be very difficult for me to have them killed in such a way that my neighbors would never suspicion that I was responsible for the deed. Then their property would be mine, and that would be an end of the matter.”

With this thought in mind the cruel uncle soon determined how to dispose of the children. He hired two burly ruffians, who were used to doing desperate deeds, to take the little boy and girl into a thick, dark wood, some distance away, and slay them. To his wife he told an artful story of intending to send the children to London where they could be brought up by one of his friends. “Would you not like that, my pretty ones?” he said to them. “You will see famous London Town; and you, my lad, can buy a fine wooden horse there, and ride on it all day long, and you can buy a whip to make him gallop, and you can buy a sword to wear by your side. As for your sister, she shall have pretty frocks, and she shall have dolls and other nice playthings.”

“Oh, yes, I will go, uncle,” said the little boy.

“Goody-good,” said the little girl, “and I will go, too.”

So he got them ready, as if for a long journey, and sent them off in a fine coach in charge of the two wretches. As they rode along the children prattled pleasantly to the men who intended to be their butchers. When they reached the borders of the dark, thick wood, the ruffians took their charges out of the coach and told them they might walk a little way and gather some flowers. While the children were running about, the men turned their backs on them and began to talk about what they had to do.

“Truly,” said one, “now that I have seen their sweet faces and heard their pretty talk, I have no heart to do the cruel deed.”

“Nor have I,” said the other, “but we have been paid so much to do this thing that I shall complete my part of the bargain.”

The more kindly disposed ruffian would not agree to such a course, and they argued till they got angry and began to fight. They drew the big knives with which they had planned to kill the babes, and the one who wished to spare the children stabbed his comrade so that the fellow fell dead in the grass.

The victor now knew not what to do with the children, for he wanted to get away as quickly as possible lest he should be found there and made to suffer for the death of his companion. He thought the best thing he could do would be to leave them in the wood, and trust that they would be kindly treated by whoever passed that way and discovered them. So he went to where they had rambled in their flower-picking, and said, “Take my hands, and come with me.”

The babes in the wood

For two long miles he led them on, and then they began to complain that they were hungry. “Stay here,” quoth he, “and I will go and get you something to eat.”

So away he went, and the babes sat there a long time waiting for him to return. “Will the strange man come soon with some cakes for us?” said the little girl.

“In a little while, I think,” responded the boy.

“I wish I had some cakes,” said she.

Then they stood up and looked all about as far as they could among the trees, and no one could they see. They listened, too, but heard no sound of approaching footsteps—nothing, only the wind fluttering in the foliage above their heads.

“Perhaps we had better go to meet the man,” said the boy; and hand in hand they wandered about in the wood.

They found some blackberries, and stained their lips eating them. At last night came, and they sat down and cried themselves to sleep. When day dawned again they resumed their wandering, but they could not find their way out of the wood, nor were they any more successful in the days that followed, and as they could not live on blackberries, they died. There was no one to bury the pretty babes; but Robin Redbreast saw them lying in the woodland, and he covered them with leaves.

Meanwhile the wicked uncle supposed they had been killed according to his orders, and he let it be understood that they had died in London of the smallpox. He took their fortune to himself, and thought he had provided amply for his comfort and pleasure to the end of his days. But instead of happiness he experienced only misfortune. He had no peace of mind, because he had an evil conscience, and his thoughts dwelt on the death of the babes. Moreover, his barns burned, his harvests failed, his cattle died in the field, and his two sons, who had gone on a voyage to Portugal, were wrecked and drowned. In the end he was brought to want and misery. He pawned his jewels and mortgaged his land, and he was thrown into jail for debt, and there died.

About that time the ruffian who had left the children in the wood was captured, after committing some crime, and was sentenced to be hanged. When he knew that he must die, he sent for the keeper of the prison, where he had been shut up, and confessed all the wicked deeds he had done. Among other things he told of the two babes he and his companion had been hired to kill, and thus their sad fate was made known.

ALEXANDER JONES

“JEAN, move a wee bit east,” requested the town clerk as he sat at one end of the high-backed bench before his fire on a chilly autumn evening. “You’re taking too much room. You have more than your share of the seat.”

But Jean, his wife, had just got her knitting into a tangle, and was not in the best of humor. So she declined to move an inch, or to attend to what her husband was saying.

“Jean,” said he again, “move a wee bit east. It’s not right to sit so selfish. I’m at the very end of the bench, and here you are with your elbows digging into me. Sit a bit east, do you hear?” And when she did not respond, the town clerk gave his wife a rude shove.

“What do you mean by pushing me like that?” she demanded; “and what do you mean by east? There’s no such thing as east, and I can prove it.”

“No such thing as east!” shouted the town clerk. “Will you not believe the sun?”

Then he affirmed in a loud voice that, as the sun went around the earth every day and was always rising every moment somewhere in the east, therefore, everywhere was the east all over the world. So he hoped his wife would not make a goose of herself and talk nonsense.

Jean now rose to her feet, and said he did not look at the matter in the right way at all. As for the sun, it was all the time setting somewhere in the west and doing it every moment. Therefore, everywhere was west, and she trusted her husband would not be so foolish as to mention east again.

He shook his head and was going to reply, when she began to run around the table to show how the sun went, at the same time crying loudly, “West, west, west!”

This made the town clerk very angry, and he got up and ran around the table in the opposite direction, yelling, “East, east, east!” to show how he thought the sun went.

Yet it only ended by their getting extremely giddy and banging their heads together, a thing which hurt very much, and did not improve their tempers, or help the solving of the difficulty, you may be sure.

Meanwhile Alexander Jones sat quiet in a corner and said nothing.

The town clerk and his wife agreed in one thing, which was that the question was of too deep importance to be left unsettled. So they went to the grocer, who had a good-sized house up the street, and Alexander Jones went with them. They told the grocer about their dispute; and the grocer, and the grocer’s wife, and the grocer’s maiden aunt, and the grocer’s wife’s youngest married sister, and the grocer’s wife’s youngest married sister’s little girl were all much interested. But one took one view and another took another, and they all ran around the table, some this way, crying, “East!” and some the opposite way, crying, “West!” to show how the sun moved, in their opinion. It only ended in their getting extremely giddy, and banging their heads together, a thing which hurt very much and did not improve their tempers or help to solve the difficulty.

Meanwhile Alexander Jones sat quiet in a corner and said nothing.

They all agreed in one thing, which was that the question was of too deep importance to be left unsettled. So the whole company, including Alexander Jones, went to the home of the mayor. It faced on the market-place, and was the largest house in the town. They told about the dispute with all the ins and outs of the matter; and the mayor and the mayor’s wife, and the mayor’s favorite uncle, and the mayor’s oldest nephew, and the mayor’s oldest nephew’s little boy were all much interested, to say the least. But one took one view, and another took another view, and they ran around the table, some this way, shouting, “East!” and some the opposite way, shouting, “West!” to show how, in their opinion, the sun really moved. It only ended in their all getting very giddy and banging their heads together, a thing which hurt and did not improve their tempers or help to solve the difficulty.

Meanwhile Alexander Jones sat quiet in a corner and said nothing.

They all agreed in one thing, which was that the question was of too deep importance to be left unsettled. So the mayor called a meeting of the whole populace in the town hall. The people assembled, and Alexander Jones was there among the rest, and the only persons not there were Peter the watchman and his sister Jessica. Then the mayor told all about the dispute, and everyone was naturally much interested. But one took one view, and another took another view, and they all wanted to run around a table to show how each thought the sun moved. Here, however, a difficulty arose, for, alas! there was no table in the town hall to run around, and what were they to do? They were not going to be balked by a trifle like that, not they. So they requested the mayor to stand in the middle, and let them all run around him, each in the direction he or she pleased.

But the mayor objected strongly. He said it would make him dizzy to see some folks going one way around him, and some the other. “I would certainly be sick,” he declared. “Therefore, I suggest that Alexander Jones be placed in the middle. Yes, why could we not run around him? Better make use of him, he is so stupid and says nothing. Besides, I want to run around with the rest of you myself, and why should I be cut out?”

“No, no, no!” cried the people, “Alexander Jones is too small, and we should tread on him. He would not do at all.”

They insisted that the mayor must do as he had been asked. Hadn’t they only the other day given him a gold badge to wear, and he must make them some return for it, or they would take it away. So the poor man had to give in, but he insisted on having his eyes bandaged, and also on having a chair to sit in. Otherwise, he knew he would be sick. Then they bandaged his eyes, seated him in a chair, and began to run around him, some this way, crying, “East!” and some the opposite way, crying, “West!” But they only got very giddy, and banged each other’s heads, a thing which hurt and did not improve their tempers or help solve the difficulty. Worst of all, just at the end, when they could run no longer and were quite out of breath, Eliza MacFadden, the fat widow who kept the candy shop, fell plump against the mayor, and sent him and his chair tumbling to the floor.

Meanwhile Alexander Jones sat quiet in a corner and said nothing.

The mayor pulled the bandage off his eyes in a towering passion and declared that something must be settled there and then. He threatened, if they did not agree, he would put a tax on buttons, which was rather clever of him, for everyone, old and young, male and female, wore buttons, and would feel the tax. But he himself would be affected by it less than anyone else because he wore a robe, that instead of being buttoned was fastened by a buckle at his neck, and by a jeweled girdle around the waist.

Now the town clerk addressed the people, and said: “We must avoid this button tax at all hazards. Let us devise some way to solve for all time the terrible riddle which gives us so much concern. I propose that we call in from the street Peter the watchman, for he is up and about at all hours, late and early, and would know more than most about the sun’s movements. Yet, if we ask him, we must also ask Peter’s sister Jessica. She does the mayor’s washing and is a person of importance in the town. Peter would certainly decline to come into the hall unless she came with him.”

This was, indeed, most provoking for me, because there was no room left in the town hall for another person, and two would have to go out, in order to admit Peter the watchman and his sister Jessica. I was the first to be put out, for I was a stranger and only present in the hall out of courtesy. Next they turned out Alexander Jones, because he was so stupid and said nothing. Thus it happened that I never knew what was the decision of the meeting. But perhaps you wonder why Alexander Jones was so dull as to sit still in a corner and say nothing. Yet how on earth could he do anything else? Alexander Jones was the town clerk’s

TOM-CAT.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

ONCE upon a time, long ago—so long, indeed, that even the very oldest people now alive cannot remember it—there dwelt a king and queen in a great, white, marble palace with splendid halls and high towers and a golden roof that flashed in the sunlight. All round the palace for miles and miles there were gardens and pleasure-grounds with terraces and green lawns and flowers and ancient trees. Peacocks walked about on the lawns, and deer loitered in the shady glades, and gold and silver fish swam in the ponds and fountains.

But in spite of all this beauty the king and queen were not happy, because they had no child. So when at last a little daughter was born to them they were very glad and there were great rejoicings all over the kingdom. Bonfires as big as hay stacks were kept burning all night, fat oxen were roasted whole in the market-place of every town, and the church bells were rung until the ringers were out of breath.

A few weeks later all was bustle and hurry in the palace to make ready for the christening feast, and the maids trimmed the halls and chambers with flowers, and sprinkled the floors with sweet-scented leaves and petals. Among the guests invited to the christening were seven powerful fairies, and the choicest foods were provided for them, and golden dishes from which to eat.

The feast was just going to begin when suddenly there was a clashing of brazen claws and a rushing of wings, and something like a black cloud seemed to pass before the tall windows and darken the room. Then the great doors burst open with a terrible bang, and an old fairy with her face almost hidden in a black hood jumped out of a chariot drawn by fierce griffins, and came into the hall. The king turned pale, and the queen nearly fainted, for this was the spiteful fairy Tormentilla, who lived alone an immense distance away from everywhere in a dismal black castle in the middle of a desert. The queen in her happiness had forgotten all about her, and so neglected to send her an invitation.

However, another chair was brought for Tormentilla, and she was given a place of honor at the table, and everyone tried to make up for the oversight—but all in vain. Nothing pleased her. She would neither eat nor drink, and sat scowling angrily about her until the feast was over.

Then she and the seven other fairies went to the chamber where the tiny princess lay sleeping in her cradle, and each stepped forward in turn to bestow a magic gift.

The first said, “She shall be as good as gold.”

The second said, “She shall be the cleverest princess in the world.”

The third said, “She shall be the most beautiful princess in the world.”

The fourth said, “She shall be the happiest princess in the world.”

The fifth said, “She shall have the sweetest voice that ever was heard.”

The sixth said, “She shall be loved by all who know her.”

Next the old cross fairy took her place beside the cradle, and shaking her cane at the king and queen, shouted, “And I say that before she reaches the age of twenty she shall prick her hand with a spindle and die of the wound.”

At this the queen fell on her knees and begged Tormentilla to recall her cruel words. But the wicked fairy, without replying, turned and left the hall. Then the eighth fairy went to the queen and said: “Do not cry, my dear lady; for though I cannot relieve the princess of this enchantment I can make it less severe. She shall not die, but instead shall fall asleep for a hundred years. When those are past, a prince shall come and awaken her with a kiss.”

So the king and queen were somewhat comforted, and the fairies returned to their homes. The greatest care was taken of the little princess, and in order to save her from her fate a law was made that every spindle in the kingdom should be burned, and no more made. Life moved along happily for the princess until she was eighteen years old. All that the first six fairies promised had come true, and she was the best and cleverest, the most beautiful and the happiest and the sweetest-voiced princess in all the world, and everybody loved her. Indeed, by this time Tormentilla’s spiteful words were nearly forgotten.

But one morning the king and queen went away to be gone till late in the afternoon, and the princess amused herself by wandering about into the out-of-the-way nooks and corners and attics of the great building. She found dusty furniture that was often so quaint it made her laugh, and there were many other curiosities. At last she climbed a narrow winding stair in an old tower. It led to a little door with a rusty key sticking out of the lock. She turned the key, opened the door, and there, in a low chamber, sat a white-capped old woman with a spinning-wheel before her on which she was spinning flax. This poor old woman had been allowed many years previous to make her home in the tower, and it happened that she had never heard the king’s command to destroy the spindles; for she was so deaf that if you shouted till you were hoarse she never would have been able to understand you.

The princess stood on the threshold watching the old woman curiously. This was the first time she had ever seen a spinning-wheel. “What pretty work you are doing,” she said presently; “and why does that wheel go whirr, whirr, whirr?”

But of course the old woman did not hear, and she neither answered nor lifted her eyes from her work. So the princess stepped into the room and laid her hand on the old woman’s shoulder. The spinner looked up and rubbed her eyes. “Deary, deary me!” cried she in a high, cracked voice, “and who may you be, my pretty darling?”

“I’m the princess,” screamed the maiden in her ear, but the spinner only shook her head—she could hear nothing.

Then the princess pointed to the spindle on which the flax was twirling into thread, and made the old woman understand that she wanted to try if she could work it. The spinner nodded and laughed and got up from her seat, and the princess sat down at the wheel, but she had hardly begun to spin when she pricked her finger with the spindle. Immediately a faintness seized her. She staggered to a bed close by, and as soon as her head touched the pillow she became unconscious.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

At the same moment there was a deep silence everywhere in the castle. The little bird that just before had been singing so sweetly on the windowsill hushed its song. The distant hum of voices from the courtyard beneath was stilled. Even the old woman, who had been standing beside her wheel telling the princess how to spin, stopped short and fell asleep. In the great hall, the king and queen, who had just returned, and were inquiring for their daughter, fell asleep before the lady-in-waiting could answer them, and the lady herself began to snore. The guards slumbered at their posts. The horses in their stalls became motionless, and so did the dogs in the yard, the pigeons on the roof, and the flies on the wall. The fire on the hearth stopped burning, and the meat on the spit ceased roasting. In short, sleep fell on the whole castle, and round about it there sprung up a thick and thorny magic wood which it seemed impossible for anyone to penetrate, and which hid the entire castle from view except a weather-vane on the roof.

Time went on until a hundred years had passed, and then one day a king’s son happened to be hunting in the region. He became separated from his attendants in the excitement of the chase, and at length he came to a woodcutter’s cottage and dismounted to ask the way. The old man who lived in the hut gave him the required directions, and then told the prince about a thick wood a little farther on in the direction he had been riding. “No one has ever been able to get through that wood,” said the old man, “and my grandfather used to say it surrounded a castle in which was a beautiful princess condemned to sleep for a hundred years. He said some prince would come and awaken her with a kiss.”

On hearing this, nothing would do but the prince must go and have a look at the wood. He found it, and dismounted and prepared to push his way through the thorny thicket. But no sooner did he start to penetrate the wood than the tangled briars of the undergrowth were changed into beautiful flowers which parted and bent aside to let him pass. When he reached the courtyard he saw the dogs lying asleep, and on the roof the pigeons were sitting with their heads under their wings. He went indoors, and there were the flies asleep on the wall, and there was the cook with his hand uplifted to strike the kitchen boy, and a maid sitting near by had a fowl on her lap ready to pluck. When the prince entered the great hall he found the whole court asleep, and the king and queen slumbering on their thrones. Everything was so still he could hear his own breathing.

As yet he saw no princess, and he continued looking about till he came to the old tower and ascended the narrow, winding stair. He went into the little room where the princess lay, and she looked so lovely in her sleep that he could not turn away his eyes, and presently he stooped and kissed her. At once she awoke and said: “O prince, are you here at last? I have had such pleasant dreams!”

She sat up laughing and rubbing her eyes, and after a few moments stood on her feet, and they went hand in hand out of the room. The old woman stared at them in amazement, and then, mumbling to herself, resumed her spinning. They descended the stairs and passed along the corridors until they came to the throne room. The king and queen and whole court had just waked up and were gazing at each other with wonderment. The long sleep was ended for the rest of the palace also. Roosters crowed, dogs barked, the cats began to mew, the clocks struck the hours, the heralds blew their trumpets, the pigeons flew away from the roof to the fields, the kitchen fire blazed up, and the meat was again roasting, the cook gave the kitchen boy such a box on the ear that he roared lustily, and the maid began to pluck the fowl.

In short, everything went on as if there had been no enchantment at all. To be sure, the dress the princess was wearing was such as the prince’s great-grandmother might have worn, but that gave them something to laugh at.

As soon as preparations could be made, the wedding of the prince and princess was celebrated with great splendor, and they lived happily ever after.

THE LOVE OF THE SNOW-WHITE FOX

ONCE upon a time there lived a young fox that was snow-white, and it was so gentle and intelligent that it was beloved by all the good people for miles around. If, in the evening, it knocked softly at their doors with its tail they were glad, and were quick to let it in. When it entered it would play with the children, eat of their humble fare, and then trot away. But there were hunters in the country who wanted to kill the beautiful white fox. Once or twice it nearly lost its life at the hands of these cruel men.

One summer afternoon, as it was frisking about in the woods with some young fox friends, two men caught sight of it. They were fleet of foot and had dogs with them. Away ran the white fox, and the men uttered an excited cry and gave chase. Instead of going deeper into the forest the fox ran across the open farm lands until it came to a holy temple. “There, surely, I will find a safe refuge from my pursuers,” it thought.

In the temple there happened to be a young prince of noble family named Yashi, deep in meditation. The white fox, whose strength was nearly spent, came running in at the door and went directly to the prince and took refuge behind him. The poor creature trembled with fright, and Yashi took pity on it and did all he could to calm its fears. “I will protect you, little one,” said he. “No one shall harm you.”

The fox looked up at him and seemed to understand his words. It ceased to tremble. The prince went to the door of the great temple. Two men hastened up to him and asked if he had seen a snow-white fox. “It must have run into the temple,” they declared.

But Yashi, faithful to his promise, answered, “I have been in the temple praying, but I can tell you nothing of the fox.”

The men were about to go on when they caught a glimpse of the fox behind him. Fiercely they demanded that he should stand aside. The prince firmly refused. Then the men, intent on having their prey, attacked him, and he was obliged to draw his sword in self-defense. At this moment Yashi’s father, a brave old man, came up. He rushed on the assailants of his son, but a deadly blow, which Yashi could not avert, struck the old man down. This made Yashi very wroth, and with two mighty strokes he felled his adversaries to the ground.

The loss of his father filled Yashi with grief, and as he stood looking down on the body his heart was very heavy. Just then a sweet song from within the sacred building greeted his ears. Who could the singer be? for there was no one inside when he came out. He reëntered the temple, and a beautiful maiden appeared before him. He saw from her look and manner that she knew he was in deep trouble, and he told her of the snow-white fox and the cruel hunters, and of the death of his father. Then the maiden spoke to Yashi tender words of sympathy, and her voice was so kindly and gentle that even the sound of it brought comfort to him.

Presently he asked her who she was, and she replied that she was a homeless stranger. So he insisted that she should dwell with him. As the days passed she constantly became more attractive to him, until he loved her more than anyone else in the world and asked her to be his bride.

“I already love you,” she replied. “I know that you are good and brave, and I would solace you for the loss of your father.”

So they were married and lived happily together. Time passed swiftly, and Yashi ruled his people wisely. At length a son was born to the prince and princess, and they were more happy than ever. But one day Yashi noticed that the princess was sorely troubled. For hours she sat alone, and tears sprang to her eyes when Yashi asked her the cause of her sorrow.

She took his hand and said: “My life with you has been very delightful. But now that I have given you a son to be with you always, I must leave you. I am the snow-white fox whose life you saved.”

Once again she looked into his eyes, and then without another word was gone. Yashi and his son lived long and were greatly beloved, but the snow-white fox was seen no more.

THE GRAZIER’S WIFE

IN a certain valley, long ago, there dwelt a grazier who had a wife named Barbara. The grazier was famous for his valor in encountering wolves, and there was not in all the valley a man who was his match in handling the quarter-staff. Moreover, so expert was he with a sling that he could hurl a stone a distance of a hundred yards and hit a deer between the eyes, and so kill it. With his knife he was equally skilful, and he was greatly feared in a quarrel. Yet in spite of all his prowess and courage he quailed before his wife Barbara.

She was no longer young, and her beauty was a thing of the past, but she was a woman who made herself respected. She never failed to produce a startling effect on her husband when she visited him as he was tending his herds on the mountain-sides, for no other woman ever had such a tongue. He often prayed to the saints for relief, but she continued to both plague him with her tongue and mark him with her nails.

At last he applied for advice to an old wizard who lived in a neighboring valley. He had begun telling of his troubles when the wizard interrupted him and said: “I see plainly that you are complaining bitterly, but I would have you know that I am deaf, and no matter how violently you shout and jump and gesture, what you say or do will have no effect on me. Nevertheless, let me tell you, that if you have some bright yellow gold to bestow on me, you will be heard and understood. Yes, I would hear and comprehend, even if you were dumb and had no voice whatever.”

“I will hasten to the market,” said the grazier, “and sell some of my finest beasts, and the money that I receive for them I will gladly give to you.”

So away he went and sold some of his beasts and returned to the wizard and counted out the gold-pieces one by one. Then the wizard listened patiently to his story and sent him home with a promise of speedy relief.

That very night, after the grazier and his wife were in bed, and the latter was delivering a lengthy lecture on his lack of breeding in snoring when a lady was speaking, a white figure appeared at the bedside with a mirror in its hand.

“Barbara,” said the specter, “your virtues are known to me, and as a reward you shall be restored to youth and beauty, which you shall yourself behold when you look into this mirror. But beware lest angry or vain words pass your lips, for such a lapse will be punished by hideous old age and infirmity.”

So saying, the apparition vanished. Barbara lit a lamp and occupied herself in admiring her reflection in the magic mirror. Thus the grazier was enabled to enjoy an unbroken sleep till morning, a thing he had not done for years. He had peace also on the morrow and ever after, for Barbara never allowed the mirror to pass out of her possession, and it was a constant solace to her even to the day of her death.

THE MAGIC HORN

ONCE upon a time there was a poor farmer who had three sons, and the sons’ names were Peter, Paul, and Philip. None of the three liked work very well, and instead of helping their father they spent most of their time sauntering about. At last Peter heard that the king wanted a keeper to watch his rabbits. So the youth told his father that he would go to the king’s palace and apply for the position.

“I doubt if you are fitted for just that sort of work,” said his father. “He who keeps the king’s rabbits needs to be light and quick, and no lazy-bones. You could not loiter when the rabbits began to skip and frisk, for if you dawdled as you do at home you would be discharged.”

But the father’s advice had no effect. Peter was determined to go, and after filling a bag with something to eat and drink and a few other necessaries, he took the bag on his back and started. He had not traveled many miles when he heard a voice calling for help. On going in the direction of the sound he found an old woman in a pit from which she was unable to climb out. “Don’t stand there staring,” said she sharply. “Reach me your hand and pull me up. I have been in this pit a whole year, and in all that time I have not had a morsel of food.”

“What!” exclaimed Peter, “a whole year, do you say? Then you must be a witch, or you could not fast so long, and I will have nothing to do with you.”

So off he marched. At length he arrived at the king’s palace and was engaged as the keeper of the rabbits. He was promised plenty of food and good pay and maybe the princess into the bargain, for the king had decreed that any keeper who took such good care of the rabbits that not one of them escaped should have the princess for his wife.

The next day Peter let the rabbits out to browse. As long as they were near the stables and in the adjacent open fields he kept them in one flock, but toward evening they got into a wood and began to scuttle about among the trees. Peter ran after them this way and that until he had no breath left for any more running. He could not get the rabbits together. They all disappeared, and he saw nothing more of them.

After resting a while he started to go back to the palace. As he went along he kept a sharp look-out, and he stopped to call his fugitive charges at every fence. But no rabbits came, and when he reached the palace there stood the king waiting for him. It was plain that Peter had failed, and for a punishment he was banished from the country.

The king presently got a new lot of rabbits, and then he let it be known that he wanted a keeper. Peter’s brother Paul heard of this, and nothing would do but he must try for the place. Away he went, and by and by he found the old woman in the pit just as Peter had, and he would not help her out. When he got to the palace he was promptly engaged as keeper of the rabbits, and the next day he let them out to feed. All went well until in the late afternoon they went from the fields into the woods. Then they skipped and hopped away, and though he rushed about and raced after them till he was ready to drop, they all escaped. So he returned to the palace without a rabbit, and the king ordered that he should leave the country.

More rabbits were obtained to replace those lost, and again word went forth that his Majesty wanted a keeper for them. Philip, the youngest of the three brothers, heard of this and concluded to apply for the job. “It will be just the right work for me,” he said to his father. “I would like nothing better than to spend my days in the fields and woodlands watching the rabbit flock, and I would be sure to have plenty of time to nap on the sunny hillsides.”

“I fear,” said the old farmer, “that you will fare no better than your two brothers. The person who keeps the king’s rabbits must not be like a fellow with leaden soles to his shoes, or like a fly in a tar-pot.”