On a Pincushion
On a pincushion were a pebble Brooch, a jet Shawl-pin, and a common Pin. They were all complaining because they were so often left behind instead of being taken out like the other brooches and pins.
“It is all very well for you,” said the Shawl-pin, “but for me it is trying, because I have seen better days, and remember the time when I was never used to pin up anything but the finest Indian and Cashmere shawls.”
“Nay,” cried the Brooch, “you cannot expect to be used as much as I, for you are all black, and would not be taken for anything but a dark shawl. But I am all sorts of colours, and therefore might be used any day. I would sooner have been left uncut, unpolished, than brought to this.”
“I don’t think,” said the Pin, “that either of you have as much cause to complain as I, for you are neither of you as useful, and might not be wanted, but I am always needed, and so many pins are taken every day that it seems hard I should be left here for nearly a week, and all because I am run so far into the pincushion that nothing but my head can be seen.”
After a pause the Shawl-pin said, “I wish those Bracelets up there would leave off chattering. There’s nothing disturbs my nerves so much as the clatter of talking.”
“Bracelets are always great talkers,” said the Brooch. “I once passed two months in a jewel-box with a number, and I was truly thankful when I was taken out. Their talking was incessant, and it was impossible to get a wink of sleep.” And all three scowled up at the Bracelets, who were hanging over the looking-glass, but who did not mind them in the least, but went on talking just the same. “Let us do something to drown their noise,” said the Pin. “Let us tell stories.”
“I will tell you one,” said the Brooch, “and I know it to be true, for it was before I was cut and polished, and I was at the place myself where it happened;” and having cleared its throat, the Brooch began as follows.
The Story of Vain Lamorna
A pretty young girl was standing by a brook, bending over it talking to her own reflection.
“You are so pretty!” she said. “There is not such a pretty face as yours in all the village.”
The girl’s name was Lamorna, and she was the daughter of a farmer. Everyone told her she was very pretty, and so indeed she was. She had bright brown hair and big brown eyes, and a mouth like a rosebud. The brook by which she stood ran into the sea about half a mile farther down, and it was full of water people. Water people are a sort of elves, who live beneath the water, and never come to the surface, because if they were to breathe the air they would die.
They are not mermaids, but are shaped exactly like men, only they are never more than two or three inches high. They are very kindly and well-disposed towards human beings, and never hurt anyone who does not hurt them.
But when the little water people flitted up and down under the water, and heard what Lamorna said as she bent over the brook, they shook their heads and sighed and said—
“Lamorna! Lamorna! you will come to no good end if you are so vain.” But Lamorna did not hear them, and went on just the same, watching her fair face, and smiling that she might see her pretty row of white teeth; and there she stayed till the clock struck six, and she started away in a fright, knowing she would be late, to get her father’s supper, and he would be angry with her.
No sooner was she gone than there came down to the side of the brook a young fisherman, who had been watching her unperceived. He went to his boat, and pushing it off rowed out to sea and began to fish. His name was Erick, and the water people knew him well. They often watched him, and knew that he was neither cruel nor wicked, but always was careful not to torture the fish he caught, but killed them at once. So they all liked him, and threw the best fish under his boat. Today he seemed very sad, and sat leaning his head on his hand, scarcely noticing his lines.
“Ah, Lamorna!” he sighed to himself, “when we were children you said you loved me, and promised me to be my wife, and now you will not speak to me, though you know how I love you.”
The water people had all gathered around his boat, and when they heard this they shook their heads and looked very grave.
“So it is all for Lamorna,” cried one, “worthless Lamorna, who does nothing but look at her own reflection, and loves nothing so much as her own pretty face.”
“Who is she,” said another, “that she should scorn the love of a good young man like Erick? She has nothing but her good looks, and they will soon leave her. How can we punish her?”
“Nay,” said a third; “what good will it do to Erick for us to punish her? Rather let us think how we can cure her of her vanity and win him her love.”
“But you can never cure her of her vanity;” said the first, “as long as she can see herself in her looking-glass or the brook; while she can see her own face, she will continue to be vain and foolish.”
“Then what is to be done?” they cried all together; and there was silence, till at last a very wise old water elf spoke up and said—
“We cannot keep her from looking in glasses or in the brook. There is only one thing, therefore, to be done. It will be difficult, but it is quite possible. We must wait till she is leaning over the water looking at herself, and then we must steal her reflection.”
On hearing this all the elves gave a loud cheer. “You have got it,” they cried. “Ah, what a fine thing it is to have a mind like that!”
“If my poor dear son had not imprudently gone over the top looking after a flying fish, and so been suffocated, he would have grown up just such another,” said a lady elf with a sigh.
“With such a mind as that,” said another old lady elf solemnly, “one could rule countries or take cities.”
On this, the old elf who had made the suggestion bowed all round and smiled pleasantly, for he was a great favourite with the lady elves, and prided himself on his good manners.
“We now have to think,” he went on, “how this can be done, for reflections are such difficult things to keep under water when one has got them, and rise to the top like bubbles. We must make a number of sand ropes to catch it with, and all pull it down together at a given signal.”
“But,” said a very young elf, “she still will be able to go and look at herself in her looking-glass.”
On hearing this the elves all burst into a scornful laugh, and would have scolded the young elf for talking about what he did not understand; but the wise old elf stopped them with a wave of his hand, and said that he himself would explain to the young elf his mistake, as he was never angry with ignorance in the young, but he wished rather to correct it than blame it.
“Do not suppose, my young friend,” he said, blandly, “that people have more than one reflection. It is a common mistake to suppose so, but in reality there is only one reflection to each object; only, as the object moves before a glass, the reflection moves too, so that all sides of it are shown. If we can steal this vain girl’s image as she leans over the brook, she will not be able to see herself in any glass.” He stopped, and all the elves applauded his wisdom again; and the young elf felt quite ashamed of his mistake.
But now everyone began to think of how this thing was to be done, and all busied themselves making sand ropes, with which the reflection was to be caught and tied. They agreed that it could be best secured by moonlight, when the water was very smooth; and on every moonlight night some of them waited near the surface, to see if it appeared, and give warning to the others.
But Lamorna of course knew nothing of all these plans, and was still happy looking at herself in her glass, and never thinking of poor Erick.
When he came to see her in the evening, and sat by the fire watching her, she did not notice him, but kept her eyes fixed on the mirror over the chimneypiece, and if he spoke to her of his love, she would laugh and turn away. Then if he sighed she would laugh still more and say—
“Get yourself a wife, my good Erick; that will stop your sighing.”
“I never can have any wife but you, Lamorna,” he would answer.
“Then you will have to wait a long time single,” she returned merrily; “I do not mean to marry for ages—perhaps never—certainly not a fisherman.”
One night, when he went in to see her, he found her standing at the door looking at the moon, which shone brightly.
“Let us take a walk,” he said; “let us go down to the sea.”
“Yes,” said Lamorna, “I will come;” and first she ran into the house, and fetched a scarlet handkerchief, and tied it over her head, not because she was cold, but because she thought it made her look prettier.
“Let us go down to the water’s edge,” said she, taking Erick’s arm; and then they strolled down to the beach together.
The sea was smooth as glass, and the bright big moon made it almost as bright as day. A row of steep rocks stood out into the sea, and on to these Lamorna would go, because she wanted to bend over and see herself in her scarlet handkerchief in the moonlight. So they sat down on the edge of the rocks, and Lamorna leaned down till she could see all her figure and her pretty face in the deep clear water. And, when they saw her appearing, the elves who watched gave notice to all the others, who stood waiting in a crowd with their ropes in their hands.
“Look at the moon, dear Lamorna,” said Erick. “See how beautiful it is!”
“Yes, it is lovely,” said she. But she did not lift her eyes from her own image. Then, at a given signal, the water elves threw up their sand ropes, and caught her reflection, and all pulled it together, and Lamorna started back with a shudder.
“Erick,” she cried, gasping, “is anything the matter with the moon? Is it gone behind a cloud?”
“No,” said Erick, surprised; “see, there it is, as bright as ever.”
Lamorna bent over the water again, and again drew back trembling, for her pretty reflection had quite disappeared, and she could see it nowhere.
“Erick,” she cried, “I don’t feel well. Will you help me to go home?”
Erick jumped up at once, and lifted her tenderly across the rocks, and helped her up the beach to her house.
Meantime the water elves were almost wild with delight. They were pleased at the thought that they were helping Erick; but they were also pleased for themselves, that they had got such a pretty new plaything as Lamorna’s reflection. It was thirty times as big as any of them, and they had to keep it tied down, lest it should rise to the surface and float away. So they found a special grotto for it—between some large rocks, and there they fastened it down—and all were allowed to look at it, though no one might touch it, for fear it should be injured. It looked very pretty, with the bright red kerchief over the head, and the lips smiling sweetly just as Lamorna’s had smiled when she bent over the water.
“Now we know how she did her hair, and can do ours like it,” said the young maiden elves; and they were never tired of examining it. At last one said—
“It is so pretty, and poor Lamorna can never see it now. Shall we never set it free, and let it return to her?”
“On the day that she no longer cares about it, when she has ceased to be vain,” said the old elf gravely, “we will cut its ropes, and it will fly to her wherever she is.”
“But she may have grown old by then, and have changed so much that it would not know her,” said the young elf.
“Then it will change too,” said the old elf; “if even a wrinkle comes on Lamorna’s face it will at once appear on the face of her image here, and should her hair become grey its hair would be grey also.”
“Then it will be very amusing,” cried the elves; “we can watch it and know how Lamorna is going on, and if she looks well or ill.”
When Lamorna got home she felt frightened and uncomfortable, and she was cross with Erick for looking at her.
“Erick,” she said, “don’t you know that it’s very rude to stare?”
“Dear Lamorna, I feared you were ill,” said Erick, humbly.
“I am not ill,” said Lamorna, pouting; “so do look another way.”
“I shall never be able to please you, Lamorna,” said Erick, sighing, as he looked away. “Are you determined always to be unkind to me?”
“Oh, don’t talk so, Erick,” cried Lamorna. “How you tease me!”
“Do I tease you?” said Erick, very gravely. “I won’t do so any more;” and he got up and kissed her forehead, and went away without saying another word.
When Lamorna was left alone, she jumped up and ran to the looking-glass, in her usual way; but when she looked in it she stood still, staring in surprise, for she saw nothing!
“There must be something wrong with the light,” she said, and she moved the candles; but when she turned again to the glass it was just the same. She saw the reflection of the room—only her own image was wanting.
“I declare it makes one feel quite uncomfortable,” she said. “I must be ill. I’ll go to bed at once; tomorrow, doubtless, I shall wake up quite well.” So she went to bed.
Next morning she sprang up when the first rays of the sun shone in at the window, and ran at once to her looking-glass. But it was just the same as the previous evening. No likeness of herself could she see. At last she began to cry outright.
“I never heard of such an absurd thing!” she sobbed. “Not to be able to see one’s own face in the glass. Either I must be very ill, or else something must be wrong with the glasses. And I dare not tell anyone, for fear they should laugh or think I’m going mad. But I think I’ll go down and tell Erick about it. He won’t laugh at me, at any rate.”
So she dressed as quickly as she could; but when she had to do her hair without seeing it she cried again till her eyes were red. She would not look in a glass all day, but when the evening came she went down the village to the cottage where Erick lived. She tapped at the door, and it was opened by Erick’s mother, who stood behind it with a pale face and red eyes.
“Can I speak to Erick?” asked Lamorna.
“You cannot speak to him, for he is not here,” said his mother, coldly. “And it is all your doing. He was so grieved by the unkind things you said to him last night that he could not bear to stay here any longer, so he is gone to enlist for a soldier, and go to the war;” and his mother began to cry afresh. Lamorna stared in surprise.
“Why, how could it be my doing?” she said. “If Erick was so silly as to mind what I said, I can’t help that,” and she turned away in a huff. “But he needn’t have gone away just now,” she added, beginning to whimper, “for I wanted to speak to him.”
“Then you should not have been so cruel to him,” said his mother; and she looked closely at Lamorna, to see if she showed signs of repentance.
“Why are you looking at me?” cried Lamorna. “Have I done my hair badly, or do I look amiss?” for she felt frightened as she could not see herself, lest her looks might have changed.
“You are a vain, heartless girl, Lamorna,” cried the woman, angrily. “I only looked at you to see if you were sorry that Erick had gone, and you are thinking all the time of your own looks, forsooth!” and she slammed the door in her face.
Lamorna turned back and went home. She tried to laugh when she told her father that Erick had gone to the war; but in reality she felt far more inclined to cry.
“I should not have minded telling Erick,” she thought, “but I should not dare to say anything to anyone else, lest they should think me mad.”
As the time passed away, and she had new dresses and could not see herself in them, she cried afresh.
“I don’t know what I shall do,” she sobbed, as she stood in front of a looking-glass in a fine new dress that she had never worn before, and yet could not see herself in it. “I believe I shall go out of my mind. And I daresay I am growing frightfully ugly without knowing it.” And she began to fret, and lie awake at night, and grow quite pale and thin.
“What is the matter with you. Lamorna?” said one of the neighbours. “You’re growing quite thin. You mustn’t get to look like that at your age, or you’ll lose all your good looks;” and Lamorna shivered with fear as she listened. And again, another woman said to her, “Lamorna, you’ve not done your hair well today. You must not grow untidy, or you’ll never look pretty;” and Lamorna, who knew that her hair was not so well done because she could not see it, ran away to hide her tears.
So a year passed, and nothing had been heard of Erick.
Lamorna had plenty of other lovers, but as she grew cross and bad-tempered, and her enticing looks began to leave her, her lovers left her too.
Every year there was a great fair held in the village, to which Lamorna had always gone, dressed in her best, and looking her prettiest; so when the time came round for the fair again, she determined to go, and to dress herself as smartly as possible, that no one might say she was less pretty than formerly. So she chose the prettiest dress she could find, and trimmed it with cherry-coloured ribbons, and then she took out her hat, and looked at it, and thought it was too plain.
“If I could get a new feather for it,” she said, “or some flowers, it would be much better. I’ll go out and see what I can find.”
She went to the village and looked at all the shop windows, and saw nothing that would suit her; so then she turned into the fields, thinking she would pick some flowers to make a wreath instead.
She looked in all the banks and hedges, but all the flowers she saw she thought too plain, and she threw them away as soon as she had gathered them.
“If I can’t find anything prettier than these,” she said, “I will not go to the fair at all,” and she began to be cross.
At last she came to a large old tree, and on one of its lowest boughs was seated the loveliest bird she had ever seen in her life. Its body was bright blue, but its wings were striped gold and green, and it shone as if it had been set with jewels.
“Oh, what a beauty!” thought Lamorna; “if I could but get some of its feathers for my hat, how happy I should be!” and she looked at the bird longingly. Presently she took up a large stone, and going softly under the tree, threw it up at the bird, but the stone fell on the other side and missed the bird, who sat quite still and did not stir.
“You silly creature!” said Lamorna, “if you sit so still, I shall easily be able to catch you.” So she ran to the back of the tree and climbed up it on to the lowest bough, and bending across tried to seize the bird. But the bird fluttered in her grasp, and she lost her balance and fell from the bough on her face. Underneath the tree was a little heap of sharp stones, on to which Lamorna fell, and her face was cut right across, and the blood gushed out. At first she lost her senses with the fall, but she soon recovered herself and started up and ran home crying. Of course she could not see the cut, but she felt the blood flowing down, and she washed and bandaged it as best she could. But when her father came in he stared at her in surprise.
“Why, girl,” he cried, “what have you done to yourself?”
“I have fallen down and cut my face,” said Lamorna shortly.
“Cut your face—that you have, and a bad cut too. But what made you put on the plaster like that—half on and half off? I’ll go out and ask some of the women to come in and do it for you, if you can’t manage it better than that for yourself.”
So Lamorna’s face was bandaged, and of course she could not go to the fair. All thought it a very bad cut, and that it would most likely leave a scar for life. She had to lie in bed for many days, and she felt very sick and ill. But while she was thus lying alone she thought of a great many things which had never entered her head before; and most of all of Erick. She remembered how she had repaid his love with scorn, and she thought of how vain she had been of her beauty; and now it would all be gone, if ever he saw her again.
“And if it had not been for my vanity,” she sighed to herself, “I need not have been hurt at all. It was only that which made me want the bird’s wing. Ah, what a little thing beauty is to be so vain of!”
When her face was healed she strolled to the water’s edge, and stood looking down at it. All the neighbours had been very kind to her during her illness, and no one said anything to her about the mark on her face, but she knew well that her beauty was gone forever.
“If Erick would only come back,” she said as she stood looking at the water, “I should not now be always thinking about my looks, as he talked to me; I would think of him instead.”
When the water elves heard her words, they flew to the wise old elf, and said—
“See how hardly she has been punished. She is quite cured of her vanity. Let us cut the ropes of sand, and let her image free.”
But the old elf shook his head, and said—
“Not just yet. Wait a little longer.”
As Lamorna stood gazing over the water, she did not know that someone came up behind her, but she heard her name called, and looking round she saw a soldier with only one arm standing by her. He was so altered and brown that she looked at him for some time before she saw that it was Erick. Then she gave a little cry, and holding out her hands called him by his name.
“Did you really know me again, dear Lamorna?” he said, coming up to her. “I thought you would quite have forgotten me by now. And see how changed I am—I have only one arm.”
Then Lamorna turned her face, and showed him the scar. “I am more changed than you, Erick,” she said; “see here.” But she thought, “Now he will cease to love me, when he sees how ugly I am grown,” and she felt inclined to cry.
But Erick said nothing about her face. Only he asked her if she were glad he was come back.
“I am very, very glad,” she said. “Ah, how I missed you after you were gone!”
“Is that really true, Lamorna?” said Erick. “And all the time I was away I thought of no one but you; and now I should not dare: to ask you to be the wife of a poor broken-down fellow like me.”
“But if you will have me, Erick,” said Lamorna, “I will be your wife and love you dearly;” and they kissed each other, and settled that they would be married as soon as they could. And then they went home to tell Erick’s mother, and were as happy as they could be.
So they were married, and on the evening afterwards Lamorna asked Erick to go down with her to the rocks on which they had sat the evening before he went away. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the sea was smooth as glass.
“It was on just such a night as this that we last sat here,” said Erick; “but how different you were then! Do you remember how unkind you were to me that night?”
“Yes, Erick, indeed I do,” said she. “But my looks were different then as well. I don’t mind about them for myself, but I wish I had not lost my pretty face, as you used to admire it.”
When the water elves heard these words, the old elf said—
“Now is the time!” and they all hastened to the reflection and cut the sand ropes, and with a mighty crash it rose straight through the water to the surface, exactly beneath Lamorna’s gaze.
“Erick!” she cried with a start, “what’s the matter? Has anything happened to the moon?”
“No, dear Lamorna, it is all right. Are you ill?” asked Erick anxiously.
“I think I must have been ill for the last year, and now I am quite well again,” said Lamorna, as she looked at her own face in the water.
“How much my cheek is marked! But I don’t mind it if you don’t, dear Erick;” and Erick kissed the scar, and told her he loved her all the better for it.
The water elves made a great festival when they heard this, and danced till morning.
“Anyhow, that is one good thing we have done in the past year,” they said. “We have cured Vain Lamorna.”
“Ah, a terrible thing is vanity!” said the Shawl-pin solemnly. “I have suffered from it. I myself make a point of pricking anyone who I think is getting too vain.”
“It rather depends on what one has to be vain of,” said the Brooch. “Of course some people are vain of almost nothing.”
“I like your story,” said the Pin, “but I cannot say that I consider it natural.”
“It is true, nevertheless,” said the Brooch. “Now someone else must tell one. Perhaps the Shawl-pin will oblige us.”
The Shawl-pin hesitated for some time, and then said he would try and remember a story which was told to him many years back by an Indian Scarf into which he was often stuck.
The Seeds of Love
Many years ago, in a country far over the sea, was a little village standing by a great river; and over the river was a bridge, with gates which were opened and shut when carriages and horses went through. A little white cottage stood close beside the bridge, and in it lived an old woman and her two granddaughters, whose business it was to open and shut the heavy iron gates. The woman was very old, and her two granddaughters were the children of her two sons, who were both dead; so the young girls were cousins. They were just the same age, but not the least alike. They were named Zaire and Blanchelys. Blanchelys had gold-coloured hair, and eyes like blue cornflowers, and she laughed and sang from morning till night. Zaire’s hair was black as a raven’s wing, and her eyes were like large sloes. She was called the prettiest girl in all the village, but no one loved her as they did the blue-eyed Blanchelys.
The old grandmother did nothing but sit by the fire and knit; so one or other of the girls was always out attending to the gates and receiving the tolls of the passersby. Zaire grumbled at the work, but Blanchelys did it cheerfully, and always said a pleasant word to each of the villagers as they came over the bridge.
One winter the old grandmother was feebler than ever, and on Christmas Eve she called the two girls to her bedside and said—
“My dear children, I feel that my end is now fast approaching, but before I die I have something to say to you both. I trust you will always be good girls, and then you are sure to be happy. I have little to leave you except my blessing, but there is something more I have for each of you. That is these two little candles; they are magic candles, and when you set them alight there will appear to you a fairy who will grant you the wish of your heart. If it is a good wish it will be a good fairy that appears, but if it is a wicked wish it will be a wicked fairy that comes; so I advise you to beware, for bad fairies help none. You must burn your candles alone on a night when there is neither moon nor star, and you can only have one wish, for when that is granted the candle will burn out; but if you will take my advice you will never light them at all. Many, many years ago they were brought over the sea, from a strange land where animals spoke and men and women flew, by a sailor who gave them to my grandmother, who gave them to my mother, who gave them to me. So I have had them all my life, but no one has ever used them, for we all thought that if people live honestly and do their duty, they are sure to be happy without the help of any fairy folk.”
So saying the good woman drew from under her pillow two tiny candles, and gave one to each of the two girls, who stood by her bedside. They took them in great surprise, and Blanchelys stooped down and kissed her, and as she did so the old woman died.
Blanchelys grieved and wept much, for she had loved her well, but Zaire was so busy thinking of her magic candle that she did not grieve for her grandmother’s death, but sat brooding over what great thing she should wish for when she lit it.
“I will keep it till I know of something I long for very much indeed,” she said to herself. So she put the candle safely away; and Blanchelys put hers away also, meaning to take her grandmother’s advice, and never to light it. So the two girls lived in the same little cottage, going out as before to open the gates for the passersby. On the other side of the river was a grand castle which belonged to the King. Long ago he used to stay there to hunt, but now he was grown too old, and the castle was never used. One day the girls heard that the King’s son was coming, and all the village was to be decorated in his honour. The first day he rode through it on his way to the hunt, Zaire and Blanchelys knew that he would cross the bridge; so they both dressed themselves in their very best to come out and open the gates; but Zaire said to Blanchelys, “You stand back, and let me go first, for, as people say I am the prettiest girl in the village, it is right I should be seen.” So Blanchelys stood behind and looked over her cousin’s shoulder.
She saw the party of riders coming across the bridge, and they were all splendidly dressed in coloured velvets and gold, and in the middle, riding on a snow-white horse, was the King’s son, clad in a suit of burnished gold, that sparkled and shone in the sunlight. His hair, which was darker and redder than his golden dress, hung over his shoulders and stood out around his head like fine wires. On his head was a velvet cap, from which hung a long white feather fastened down by a diamond clasp; and as he smiled and talked to those around him, Blanchelys thought she never had seen anyone so beautiful in her life. In front of the party rode trumpeters, blowing on their trumpets, to clear the way, and behind were servants and pages leading hounds and bearing hawks.
But none of the party noticed the two girls who stood at the cottage door, and the horses’ feet raised a cloud of dust, which flew into Zaire’s face, and she fell into a passion. “If that is all one gets, forsooth, for opening the gate for the King’s son,” she cried, “I will never do it again.” But Blanchelys stood at the door and watched the party of horsemen till they were quite out of sight, and then she sighed. “I would stand at the gate all day if he would only ride by once,” she said, and her cousin laughed at her scornfully. But when the royal party rode back, Blanchelys opened the gate, and stood and gazed at the King’s son as before, and when she returned into the cottage she wept silently, and when she slept at night she dreamed of the King’s son. Every day he came across the bridge on his snow-white horse as he rode to the hunt, and every day Blanchelys came out and opened the gates and gazed on his face; but he never noticed her, and she sighed as she turned again to the cottage. So the days passed, and Blanchelys grew thin and pale. Zaire laughed at her, and asked what ailed her. “If you lose all your good looks like that,” she said, “you will never get a husband.”
“I want no husband whom I shall ever wed,” said Blanchelys sadly; and at that Zaire laughed the more.
One night when Zaire was sleeping soundly Blanchelys, who had lain awake all night, rose out of her little bed, and stepping softly to the window, looked out at the night. There were neither moon nor stars, and the night was very dark.
“I must be quick,” said Blanchelys, “for soon the sun will rise.”
So she dressed herself quickly, but she left her hair hanging down her back, and trod noiselessly to the cupboard, and softly opened the door. She took out the candle, and hid it in her bosom. Then she crept from the room, down the passage, and into the little garden. In the middle of the garden stood a great yew-tree, whose branches almost touched the ground. It looked like a great black giant in the night, and Blanchelys trembled as she looked at it; but she summoned her courage, and going up to the tree crept under its branches, and knelt down, leaning against the trunk. It was black, black night, but not a breeze was blowing, and it was as hot as if the sun was shining. Blanchelys stuck her candle firmly in the ground, and then lit it. Directly it began to burn, there came a little rustling sound through the trees like the flapping of doves’ wings, and then in front of where Blanchelys knelt, in the light of the candle she saw a boy, who was not like anyone she had ever seen before, so beautiful was he. He had curly golden hair, which spread round his head like a halo, and he wore on his hair a wreath of pink roses, and he carried a branch of roses in his hand. His robe was white, but it did not hide his bare feet, on which were golden sandals; and a golden girdle was round his waist. From his shoulders grew soft pink wings, and his face was as beautiful as an angel’s.
“I am Love. What do you want with me?” said the boy; and at the sound of his voice all the wood-doves in the neighbouring trees awoke and began to coo. But Blanchelys trembled and looked at him in silence; and he spoke again—
“Speak quickly—tell me what is your heart’s wish, for soon your candle will have burnt out, and then I shall vanish.” Then Blanchelys summoned all her courage, and clasping her hands, said in a low, trembling voice—
“Give me the love of the King’s son.”
Love looked at her for a moment, and he smiled and laughed low to himself; then he gently shook the branch of roses he carried, and into his hand from the heart of the roses fell some tiny seeds.
“Take them,” he said, holding them out to Blanchelys, “and plant them in the earth just as the sun is rising; but ere you cover them up breathe over them the name of him whose love you desire. From them will spring a rose-tree, and as it grows so his love for you will grow. While that tree lives he will love you more than all the world, but should it pine and die his love for you would wane and die also, and then only one thing in the world would make it live again. And beware of one thing, that is the prick of the thorns which grow upon the tree; for should one pierce your skin, and draw the blood, be it never so little, the wound will never heal, even if it do not kill you. Farewell, and see that you guard well your tree.”
“Stay for one moment,” entreated Blanchelys. “Tell me how and where I should seek you if I want to find you.”
“I am to be found in many places,” answered Love. “But I am often where you would never seek me, and seldom where you would look for me. Farewell!” And again there was a soft whirring of wings, and in a moment Love had disappeared, and the light from the candle died out, and Blanchelys was left alone under the tree in the dark night. The wood-doves stopped cooing, and all was still again. Then she rose from her knees, and turned into the house. She could not see the seeds in the darkness, but she grasped them firmly in one hand as she crept again into her little bed. Zaire moved in her sleep, but she did not wake.
As the first rays of the sun began to shine, Blanchelys arose again, and examined her seeds. They were more like jewels than seeds, for they were bright clear red, like rubies, and each one was in the form of a heart. Blanchelys kissed them, and then she sought about for a spot in which to sow them. At last she took a flowerpot and filled it with earth, and in it laid the seeds, and breathed over them the name of the King’s son, and covered them over with earth. Then she put the flowerpot in the window of her room. “Now I can watch it both night and day,” she said, “and see that no harm comes to it.”
That morning, when the King’s son rode past to the hunt, he stopped at the cottage door, and asked Blanchelys to give him a glass of water. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her, and her heart beat high with joy. At night, when she went to look at her flowerpot, she found that a tiny shoot was appearing above the earth in the pot.
Next day as the Prince rode past he stopped again at the cottage, and every day he stopped and spoke with Blanchelys, and every day stayed with her a longer time; and the plant in the pot grew larger and larger, till at last Blanchelys saw that it was a rose-tree, and that it was covered with tiny buds.
One evening, when the Prince came back from hunting, he came into the cottage with Blanchelys, and asked her if she would be his wife, and told her that when he was King she should be Queen.
Blanchelys wept for joy; and when she went to look at her flower she found that one of the buds had burst into a splendid white rose, which scented the whole room.
So Blanchelys married the King’s son, and there were great rejoicings at the wedding all over the country, and illuminations everywhere; and Blanchelys had fine ladies to wait on her, and beautiful jewels given to her, and fine dresses made for her; but what she valued more than all was her pot with the rose-tree in it, which grew more and more beautiful every day, for fresh roses bloomed.
But Zaire was bitterly jealous of Blanchelys, because she was going to be Queen, though Blanchelys was very kind to her and gave her beautiful things, and took her to live with her at the palace. Still Zaire hated her, and thought night and day of how she could do her any harm, and as she saw how happy Blanchelys was, and how much her husband loved her, she hated her all the more. So the time passed on. Blanchelys’ rose had grown into a big tree, and she had planted it in the palace garden, just beneath her bedroom window, so that it might be the first thing she saw when she woke in the morning. All her ladies knew that Princess Blanchelys’ favourite spot in the palace garden was close to the beautiful rose-tree, where she would sit for hours gazing up at its flowers and smelling them. She never allowed anyone to gather them, and she always watered it herself. Her first care in the morning was to examine her rose-tree, whilst she brushed from it all insects, and cut off the dead leaves. And sometimes, when no one was there to see, she would press her lips to the roses; but Zaire watched her secretly, and longed to know why Blanchelys loved the tree so much.
After a time, Blanchelys had a little son, who was heir to the crown, and she was even happier than before, and her husband loved her better. The bells were rung at the birth of the prince, and all the people rejoiced. And the rose-tree grew so fast, that when Blanchelys came out into the garden, with her baby in her arms, it was quite a big tree, and she was able to stand under the shade of its branches.
“You are a very happy woman, cousin Blanchelys,” said Zaire, coming up to her from behind, as she stood under the tree.
“Yes, indeed, I am happy,” said Blanchelys, looking at the baby in her arms. “And I hope, dear cousin Zaire, that you will be as happy as I am.”
“That is impossible,” said Zaire, “for one day you will be Queen, and I never shall.”
“I am not so happy because I am going to be Queen,” said Blanchelys, “but because I love my husband and baby so dearly.”
“And, next to them, what do you love best?” asked Zaire.
“Next to them, I love my rose-tree,” said Blanchelys; and she laughed, and wound her arms round the tree-trunk.
“Then if that tree were to die, would you be very unhappy, cousin Blanchelys?” asked Zaire, and her eyes glittered eagerly.
“Yes, if my tree were to die, I think it would break my heart,” said Blanchelys, and she turned quite pale at the thought.
But from that day Zaire thought of nothing but how she could kill the rose-tree that her cousin loved so much. First she pulled off its leaves, and cut its branches, but fresh leaves grew in the old ones’ places, and the maimed branches budded and sprouted anew. Then she took a sharp knife, and pierced it through the trunk, and peeled off the bark, so that it bled. But the gash soon healed up, and the bark grew again, so that the tree was finer than before. Zaire might do what she could, but the tree grew and grew, and she could not hurt it.
Soon after the baby prince was born the old King fell ill and died, so Blanchelys and her husband were to be crowned King and Queen. Again the country was illuminated for the coronation, and Blanchelys and her husband sat on two golden thrones while the crowns were placed on their heads, and the baby lay in a golden cradle at their feet.
Queen Blanchelys was dressed in white satin and gold, with some of her dear roses in her dress, and she smiled and wept for joy; and all the crowd cheered and shouted. But when Zaire saw Blanchelys seated on her golden throne, her hatred and envy knew no bounds, and she wept with rage; for she saw that Blanchelys was better and fairer than she, though she too wore a grand satin dress, and had jewels in her hair.
At night a great ball was given in the palace; but Zaire would not dance, and stood in a corner watching Blanchelys, her lips trembling with rage. At last she started up with a thought in her mind, and ran into the palace garden, in the dark night. In one hand she held tightly grasped the little wax candle her grandmother had given her long before. The night was dark and cold, there were neither moon nor stars, and a shrill wind whistled, and Zaire shivered and trembled in her yellow satin dress. The rain began to fall, but she lifted her skirts and picked her way among the puddles in her thin shining shoes till she came to where stood Blanchelys’ rose-tree.
Here she stopped, and taking the candle, planted it firmly in the ground and lit it. The wind blew and the rain fell, but the candle burnt on steadily. All at once there was the sound of a hiss like a serpent’s hiss, and in front of Zaire was the ugly figure of a grizzly hag clothed in black. Round her head she wore a crown of twisted living snakes, who moved their heads and spit venom on all sides. In her hand, which was more like a claw than a hand, she carried a staff, round which twined a snake who had seven heads, the first a serpent’s, the second a monkey’s, the third a toad’s, the fourth a vulture’s, the fifth a tiger’s, and the sixth and seventh a man’s and a woman’s; and all the heads hissed and chattered and spit and shrieked with anger. About her feet crawled frogs and toads and loathsome reptiles of all sorts, but most hideous of all was her face, for it was so seamed and wrinkled with rage and anger that it looked more like a fiend’s than a woman’s.
“What do you want with me?” she hissed in a voice that made Zaire tremble. “Speak—what is your wish?”
Then Zaire pointed to the rose-tree, and said, “Tell me how to kill that tree.”
The hag chuckled, and drew from her bosom a small viper, which she held out to Zaire, who trembled still more, but took it in her hand and held it, though it was as cold as stone and very slimy.
“Take that,” croaked the witch, “and dig to the roots of the rose-tree. Lay it among them and it will twist around them, and as it tightens its hold so shall the tree die.”
“Who are you, and what is your name?” gasped Zaire.
“I am Envy,” answered the hag; and then again Zaire heard a long low hiss, and the old woman had disappeared and left her alone still holding the cold slimy viper. At once she returned to the palace, and took it to a light when no one was watching her. It was bright green, and glittered as it moved. Its eyes were flaming scarlet, and from its mouth came a long forked tongue, and it hissed spitefully, but it did not attempt to hurt Zaire, and she kissed and caressed it, then hiding it in her bosom went back to dance at the ball.
Next morning, as was her wont, Queen Blanchelys came down with the baby in her arms to her rose-tree, and Zaire stepped out from behind the tree and watched her as before.
“Ah, my sweet tree, each day you are more beautiful, and I am happier,” said Queen Blanchelys, and she put her white arms round the tree-trunk and laid her cheek against it and caressed it as before.
“Your pet seems well, cousin Blanchelys,” said Zaire, coming to where she stood.
“What! are you there, cousin Zaire?” said Blanchelys, drawing back from the tree.
“And see, I have also a new pet,” said Zaire; and she drew from her bosom the cold long snake, and let it twist about her arms and throat.
“What hideous creature have you there, cousin Zaire?” cried Blanchelys, trembling and hiding her eyes from the snake.
“You have a pet, why should I not have one also?” said Zaire, as she kissed the snake’s glittering green head.
“But you will surely not make a pet of that dreadful snake?” said Blanchelys. “Dear cousin Zaire, throw it away, and I will give you a beautiful pet—a dove, or a gazelle, or a rose-tree like mine.”
“I would not change my snake for anything in all the wide world,” said Zaire; and her eyes glittered almost like the snake’s own, as she turned away still fondling it; but Queen Blanchelys shuddered, and felt very sad, though she knew not why.
Zaire waited till night, and then she took a spade and went into the garden to dig at the roots of the rose-tree. It was quite dark, and no one could see her. She dug and dug till she came to the long deep roots that went far into the earth, and then she stood on the ground beside the hole and took the snake from her bosom and kissed it.
“Pretty snake,” she said softly, “tighten about the roots of the tree, and kill it as quickly as you can, that it may die and cousin Blanchelys may mourn.”
Then she took the snake in her little white hand and placed it among the tree’s roots. For a moment it lay quite still, then it began to coil itself slowly about them, and to twist itself round and round them.
Zaire laughed as she watched it. “Goodbye, sweet snake,” she said; “do your work well.” Then she filled up the hole with earth and smoothed the top so that no one should see.
Next day when Queen Blanchelys came to look at her tree she found it drooping, so she called to the gardeners to give it water, but not all the water in the world could refresh it, and each day it drooped more and more, and the flowers began to die and fall away. Poor Queen Blanchelys watched it with tears in her eyes. She sent for gardeners from far and near, but they could do nothing for it, and the Queen was sick at heart, and grew pale and thin, for she knew that her husband was beginning to love her less and less, Every day he rode out hunting with Zaire, and at all the Court balls he danced with no one else. Queen Blanchelys mourned in silence till the last leaf fell from her tree.
“Now I will stay here no longer,” she said, “since my tree is dead and my husband no longer loves me. I will go and find Love, and ask him to help me.” So she rose in the night, and wrapped herself in a large cloak, and said goodbye to her baby, and started alone.
She wandered and wandered and wandered till she came to the village where she was born, and to the little house by the bridge where she had lived.
She went into the garden where the yew-tree stood, and where she had seen Love before, but no Love was there now, and when she asked the neighbours if he had passed that way they stared at her and thought her mad. So she went on and on, night and day, till her feet were sore and her face burnt with the sun. She was so weary that she could scarcely walk, but still she pressed on, looking everywhere for Love, but seeing him nowhere. At last she came to a church in which a grand wedding was taking place. “Here shall I surely find him,” she said, and she quickened her steps, and went into the church and sat down among the people. She waited till the wedding was over, and then watched the bridal procession coming out to see if Love was amongst them. The bride was grandly dressed, and there were many smart carriages and finely dressed people, but nowhere amongst them did she see the figure of Love, and she turned from the church with a heavy heart. As she went along the road, she came to a large tree under which sat a couple of lovers courting. “Ah, here will Love surely be,” she said, and she drew near the tree, and stood silently watching the young people as they whispered and laughed together; but Love was not there, and Queen Blanchelys sought him in vain. Then she went on again till she came to a green, on which were playing a number of children.
“Now among these little ones shall I find him,” she said, and she waited and looked on at their games, but still she saw no trace of Love. So she went on and on and on, till she was so weary that she could toil no farther, and stopped on a desolate barren plain on which stood a few miserable cottages, and near them an old church and churchyard. Close by, the sea roared loud, and wild seabirds flew all about. Queen Blanchelys dropped exhausted on a little mound in front of a cottage door, and overheard two women who were talking together as they sat spinning.
“He made her work for him day and night,” said one, “and never gave her a kind word.”
“He beat and kicked her,” said the other; “it’s very well for her that he is dead.”
“They are beginning to toll the bell for the funeral now,” said the first, “but there’ll be very few mourners there, I expect. He was the wickedest man for miles round.”
Then Queen Blanchelys looked across to the church, and heard the bell tolling, and saw a small dark procession winding towards the churchyard.
She raised herself from the ground and turned towards the churchyard.
“Poor woman! she is unhappy; so am I,” she said with tears in her eyes.
The priest was already reading the service beside the grave when she reached it. Only one woman stood beside it, but when she looked at her, Queen Blanchelys’ heart beat high, for close by her was Love dressed as a mourner. She waited till the service was over, and the woman and the priest had turned away, and then she sprang forward and caught Love by the cloak, and sank at his feet.
“Help me, sweet Love!” she cried, and then began to weep.
“Poor Queen Blanchelys!” said Love, “your rose-tree is dead, then.” His face looked sad, and his cheeks were pale and thin.
“My tree is dead,” sobbed Queen Blanchelys, “and the King loves me no more. Ah, tell me who has killed my tree?”
“Your cousin Zaire has killed it,” said Love. “She asked Envy to help her, and Envy has given her a viper, which she laid at the tree’s roots, and it has spat its deadly venom on to the red heart which is in the centre of the trunk and killed it.”
“Tell me, then, how to make it live again,” gasped the Queen.
“There is only one thing in the world that can do that!” said Love.
“And what is that?” asked the Queen.
“The blood from your own heart,” said Love. “You must pierce your heart with a thorn from the tree, and let it flow to the tree’s roots. Then, when it touches the snake it will shrivel and die, and the tree will bloom out afresh.”
When Queen Blanchelys heard this she turned very pale, but she rose and left the churchyard, and turned homeward. She walked for many days, for it was far to the palace, and as she drew near to it she saw that it was all decorated with flags as if for some great rejoicing. So she stopped and asked a countrywoman what it was for.
“You must indeed be a stranger, that you do not know that,” answered the good woman. “Tomorrow the King marries the Princess Zaire, the late Queen’s cousin. Queen Blanchelys has now been dead many years, so tomorrow the marriage will take place, and all the decorations are in honour of the wedding.”
Then Queen Blanchelys asked the woman if the late Queen had not left a little son, and where it now was.
“It is always with the King, and he is so fond of it, that people say Princess Zaire is jealous of it, and would send it away if she dared,” said the woman.
Queen Blanchelys thanked her and then sat down by the roadside, and waited till night came and everyone was asleep in bed. Then she rose and stole quietly into the palace, when no one heard her, and first she took a piece of paper, and on it she wrote how she had gone away because the King did not love her, and how Love had told her that Zaire had killed her rose-tree from jealousy, and had stolen the King’s love, and she prayed that the King would be good to her little son when she was dead, and that she might be buried under her rose-tree. Then she went upstairs, and first she went to the bedside of her cousin Zaire. “Ah, cruel cousin Zaire,” she said, “I have never hurt you. Why did you hate me so? But you shall never be Queen, in my place, though you are dreaming it now.”
Then she went to the bedside of her little son, and she kissed him and fondled him, but she did not wake him.
“Ah, little son,” she said, “if I had not come home tonight, tomorrow you would have had a cruel stepmother in my place, but now you will never have any stepmother, and your father will always love you well.”
Then last of all she went to the bedside of her husband the King, and laid her letter on the pillow, close by his head.
“Alas! dear husband,” she said, “tonight I am looking at you, and you do not see me, but tomorrow morning you will be looking at me, when I shall not see you.”
Then she kissed him softly thrice, and bid him adieu, and went out of the palace to her dear rose-tree in the garden. It was nothing now but a bare black stump. So Queen Blanchelys lay down on the ground, and put her arms round the trunk, and from the dead branch she tore a long smooth thorn, and pierced her heart with it, and the drops of blood trickled to the roots of the tree, and at once the serpent at the roots shrivelled and died, and the tree again began to bud and sprout.
When the King woke in the morning the first thing he saw was the Queen’s letter, and he took it and read it at once, and as he read his cheeks turned pale, and he sighed bitterly, and then he called his courtiers, and told them what had happened, and they all went out into the garden to the rose-tree, under which lay poor Queen Blanchelys dead. But the tree which before was only a piece of dead wood was covered with green leaves and rosebuds.
The King kissed the Queen’s pale face, and ordered that there should be a grand funeral, and that she should be buried under her rose-tree, and from that day forth the King thought of no one but Queen Blanchelys, and each day sat by her grave under her rose-tree; but Zaire was stripped of all her fine dresses and jewels, and had the clothes which she wore before she came to the palace, and was banished from the land, and had to beg her bread from door to door.
But when the rose-tree burst into bloom, the roses, which were white before, were as red as the blood which sprang from the Queen’s heart, and which had coloured them.
“Now I call that an uncomfortable story,” said the Brooch, in rather a husky voice. “For my part, I like stories that end up all right.”
The Pin did not speak, for it was crying quietly, and was dreadfully ashamed of its tears being seen. Even the Bracelets had stopped chattering, and come down to listen. The Shawl-pin smiled. He felt his story had been a success, so he did not mind what the Brooch said.
“Now it is your turn,” said the Brooch to the Pin, who, after thinking a little, said he would tell them a story once told him by an Opal Ring he knew, when he asked how it came by its wonderful colours.
The Story of the Opal
The Sun was shining brightly one hot summer day, and a little Sunbeam slid down his long golden ladder, and crept unperceived under the leaves of a large tree. All the Sunbeams are in reality tiny Sun-fairies, run down to earth on golden ladders, which look to mortals like rays of the Sun. When they see a cloud coming they climb their ladders in an instant, and draw them up after them into the Sun. The Sun is ruled by a mighty fairy, who every morning tells his tiny servants, the beams, where they are to shine, and every evening counts them on their return, to see he has the right number. It is not known, but the Sun and Moon are enemies, and that is why they never shine at the same time. The fairy of the Moon is a woman, and all her beams are tiny women, who come down on the loveliest little ladders, like threads of silver. No one knows why the Sun and Moon quarrelled. Once they were very good friends. Some say it is because the Sun wished to marry her, and she did not like him, but preferred a sea king, for whose sake she always keeps near the world. Others think it is because of a piece of land which the Moon claimed as her own, and on which the Sun one day shone so strongly that he dried up and killed all the plants and grass there, which offended the Moon very much. Anyhow, it remains that they are bitter enemies, and the Sunbeams and Moonbeams may not play together.
On the day on which my story begins, the Sunbeam about whom I am going to tell you crept into a tree, and sat down near a Bullfinch’s nest, and watched the Bullfinch and its mate.
“Why should I not have a mate also?” he said to himself; and then he began to feel very sad, for the Sunbeams never mate. Yet he was the prettiest little fellow you could imagine. His hair was bright gold, and he sat still, leaning one arm on his tiny ladder, and listening to the chatter of the birds.
“But I shall try to keep awake tonight to see her,” said a young Bullfinch.
“Nonsense!” said its mother. “You shall do no such thing.”
“But the Nightingale says she is so very lovely,” said a Wren, looking out from her little nest in a hedge close by.
“The Nightingale!” said the old Bullfinch, scornfully. “Everyone knows that the Nightingale was moonstruck long ago. Who can trust a word he says?”
“Nevertheless, I should like to see her,” said the Wren.
“I have seen her, and the Nightingale is right,” said a Wood-dove in its soft, cooing tones. “I was awake last night and saw her; she is more lovely than anything that ever came here before.”
“Of whom are you talking?” asked the Sunbeam; and he shot across to the Bullfinch’s nest. All the birds were silent when they saw him. At last the Bullfinch said, “Only of a Moonbeam, your Highness. No one your Highness would care about,” for the Bullfinch remembered the quarrel between the Sun and Moon, and did not like to say much.
“What is she like?” asked the Sunbeam. “I have never seen a Moonbeam.”
“I have seen her, and she is as beautiful as an angel,” said the Wood-dove. “But you should ask the Nightingale. He knows more about her than anyone, for he always comes out to sing to her.”
“Where is the Nightingale?” asked the Sunbeam.
“He is resting now,” said the Wren, “and will not say a word. But later, as the Sun begins to set, he will come out and tell you.”
“At the time when all decent birds are going to roost,” grumbled the Bullfinch.
“I will wait till the Nightingale comes,” said the Sunbeam.
So all day long he shone about the tree. As the Sun moved slowly down, his ladder dropped with it lower and lower, for it was fastened to the Sun at one end; and if he had allowed the Sun to disappear before he had run back and drawn it up, the ladder would have broken against the earth, and the poor little Sunbeam could never have gone home again, but would have wandered about, becoming paler and paler every minute, till at last he died.
But some time before the Sun had gone, when it was still shining in a glorious bed of red and gold, the Nightingale arose, and, coming forth from his concealment, began to sing loud and clear.
“Oh, is it you at last?” said the Sunbeam. “How I have waited for you. Tell me quickly about this Moonbeam of whom they are all talking.”
“What shall I tell you of her?” sang the Nightingale. “She is more beautiful than the rose. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Her hair is silver, and the light of her eyes is far more lovely than yours. But why should you want to know about her? You belong to the Sun, and hate Moonbeams.”
“I do not hate them,” said the Sunbeam sadly. “What are they like? Show this one to me some night, dear Nightingale.”
“I cannot show her to you now,” answered the Nightingale; “for she will not come out till long after the Sun has set; but wait a few days, and when the Moon is full she will come a little before the Sun sets, and if you hide beneath a leaf you may look at her. But you must promise not to shine on her, or you might hurt her, or break her ladder.
“I will promise,” said the Sunbeam, and every day he came back to the same tree at sunset, to talk to the Nightingale about the Moonbeam, till the Bullfinch was quite angry.
“Tonight I shall see her at last,” he said to himself, for the Moon was almost full, and would rise before the Sun had set. He hid in the oak-leaves, trembling with expectation.
“She is coming!” said the Nightingale, and the Sunbeam peeped out from the branches, and watched. In a minute or two a tiny silver ladder like a thread was placed among the leaves, near the Nightingale’s nest, and down it came the Moonbeam, and our little Sunbeam looked out and saw her.
She did not at all look as he had expected she would, but he agreed with the Nightingale that she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. She was all silver, and pale greeny blue. Her hair and eyes shone like stars. All the Sunbeams looked bright, and hot, but she looked as cool as the sea; yet she glittered like a diamond. The Sunbeam gazed at her in surprise, unable to say a word, till all at once he saw that his little ladder was bending. The Sun was sinking, and he had only just time to scramble back, and draw his ladder after him.
The Moonbeam only saw his light vanishing, and did not see him.
“To whom were you talking, dear Nightingale?” she asked, putting her beautiful white arms round his neck, and leaning her head on his bosom.
“To a Sunbeam,” answered the Nightingale. “Ah, how beautiful he is! I was telling him about you. He longs to see you.”
“I have never seen a Sunbeam,” said the Moonbeam, wistfully. “I should like to see one so much;” and all night long she sat close beside the Nightingale, with her head leaning on his breast, whilst he sang to her of the Sunbeam; and his song was so loud and clear that it awoke the Bullfinch, who flew into a rage, and declared that if it went on any longer she would speak to the Owl about it, and have it stopped. For the Owl was chief judge, and always ate the little birds when they did not behave themselves.
But the Nightingale never ceased, and the Moonbeam listened till the tears rose in her eyes and her lips quivered.
“Tonight, then, I shall see him,” whispered the Moonbeam, as she kissed the Nightingale, and bid him adieu.
“And tonight he will see you,” said the Nightingale, as he settled to rest among the leaves.
All that next day was cloudy, and the Sun did not shine, but towards evening the clouds passed away and the Sun came forth, and no sooner had it appeared than the Nightingale saw our Sunbeam’s ladder placed close to his nest, and in an instant the Sunbeam was beside him.
“Dear, dear Nightingale,” he said caressingly, “you are right. She is more lovely than the dawn. I have thought of her all night and all day. Tell me, will she come again tonight? I will wait to see her.”
“Yes, she will come, and you may speak to her, but you must not touch her,” said the Nightingale; and then they were silent and waited.
Underneath the oak-tree lay a large white Stone, a common white Stone, neither beautiful nor useful, for it lay there where it had fallen, and bitterly lamented that it had no object in life. It never spoke to the birds, who scarcely knew it could speak; but sometimes, if the Nightingale lighted upon it, and touched it with his soft breast, or the Moonbeam shone upon it, it felt as if it would break with grief that it should be so stupid and useless. It watched the Sunbeams and Moonbeams come down on their ladders, and wondered that none of the birds but the Nightingale thought the Moonbeam beautiful. That evening, as the Sunbeam sat waiting, the Stone watched it eagerly, and when the Moonbeam placed her tiny ladder among the leaves, and slid down it, it listened to all that was said.
At first the Moonbeam did not speak, for she did not see the Sunbeam, but she came close to the Nightingale, and kissed it as usual.
“Have you seen him again?” she asked. And, on hearing this, the Sunbeam shot out from among the green leaves, and stood before her.
For a few minutes she was silent; then she began to shiver and sob, and drew nearer to the Nightingale, and if the Sunbeam tried to approach her, she climbed up her ladder, and went farther still.
“Do not be frightened, dearest Moonbeam,” cried he piteously; “I would not, indeed, do you any harm, you are so very lovely, and I love you so much.”
The Moonbeam turned away sobbing.
“I do not want you to love me,” she said, “for if you touch me I shall die. It would have been much better for you not to have seen me; and now I cannot go back and be happy in the Moon, for I shall be always thinking of you.”
“Could it have been better not to love, as I love you? I do not care if I die or not, now that I have seen you; and see,” said the Sunbeam sadly, “my end is sure, for the Sun is fast sinking, and I shall not return to it, I shall stay with you.”
“Go, while you have time,” cried the Moonbeam. But even as she spoke the Sun sank beneath the horizon, and the tiny gold ladder of the Sunbeam broke with a snap, and the two sides fell to earth and melted away.
“See,” said the Sunbeam, “I cannot return now, neither do I wish it. I will remain here with you till I die.”
“No, no,” cried the Moonbeam. “Oh, I shall have killed you! What shall I do? And look, there are clouds drifting near the Moon; if one of them floats across my ladder it will break it. But I cannot go and leave you here;” and she leaned across the leaves to where the Sunbeam sat, and looked into his eyes. But the Nightingale saw that a tiny white cloud was sailing close by the Moon—a little cloud no bigger than a spot of white wool, but quite big and strong enough to break the Moonbeam’s little ladder.
“Go, go at once. See! your ladder will break,” he sang to her; but she did not notice him, but sat watching the Sunbeam sadly. For a moment the Moon’s light was obscured, as the tiny cloud sailed past it; then the little silver ladder fell to earth, broken in two and shrunk away; but the Moonbeam did not heed it.
“It does not matter,” she said, “for I should never have gone back and left you here, now that I have seen you.”
So all night long they sat together in the oak-tree, and the Nightingale sang to them, and the other birds grumbled that he kept them awake. But the two were very happy, though the Sunbeam knew he was growing paler every moment, for he could not live twenty-four hours away from the Sun.
When the dawn began to appear, the Moonbeam shivered and trembled.
“The strong Sun,” she said, “would kill me, but I fear something even worse than the Sun. See how heavy the clouds are! Surely it is going to rain, and rain would kill us both at once. Oh, where can we look for shelter before it comes?”
The Sunbeam looked up, and saw that the rain was coming.
“Come,” he said, “let us go;” and they wandered out into the forest, and sought for a sheltering place, but every moment they grew weaker.
When they were gone, the Stone looked up at the Nightingale and said—
“Oh, why did they go? I like to hear them talk, and they are so pretty; they can find no shelter out there, and they will die at once. See! in my side there is a large hole where it is quite dark, and into which no rain can come. Fly after them and tell them to come; that I will shelter them.” So the Nightingale spread his wings, and flew singing—
“Come back, come back! The Stone will shelter you. Come back at once before the rain falls.”
They had wandered out into an open field, but when she heard the Nightingale, the Moonbeam turned her head and said—
“Surely that is the Nightingale singing. See! he is calling us.”
“Follow me,” sang the bird. “Back at once to shelter in the Stone.” But the Moonbeam tottered and fell.
“I am grown so weak and pale,” she said, “I can no longer move.”
Then the Nightingale flew to earth. “Climb upon my back,” he said, “and I will take you both back to the Stone.” So they both sat upon his back, and he flew with them to the large Stone beneath the tree.
“Go in,” he said, stopping in front of the hole; and both passed into the hole, and nestled in the darkness within the Stone.
Then the rain began. All day long it rained, and the Nightingale sat in his nest half asleep. But when the Moon rose, after the Sun had set, the clouds cleared away, and the air was again full of tiny silver ladders, down which the Moonbeams came, but the Nightingale looked in vain for his own particular Moonbeam. He knew she could not shine on him again, therefore he mourned, and sang a sorrowful song. Then he flew down to the Stone, and sang a song at the mouth of the hole, but there came no answer. So he looked down the hole, into the Stone, but there was no trace of the Sunbeam or the Moonbeam—only one shining spot of light, where they had rested. Then the Nightingale knew that they had faded away and died.
“They could not live away from the Sun and Moon,” he said. “Still, I wish I had never told the Sunbeam of her beauty; then she would be here now.” So all night long he sang his saddest songs, and told their story again and again.
When the Bullfinch heard of it she was quite pleased. “Now, at last,” she said, “we shall hear the end of the Moonbeam. I am heartily glad, for I was sick of her.”
“How much they must have loved each other!” said the Dove. “I am glad at least that they died together,” and she cooed sadly.
But through the Stone wherein the beams had sheltered, shot up bright beautiful rays of light, silver and gold. They coloured it all over with: every colour of the rainbow, and when the Sun or Moon warmed it with their light it became quite brilliant. So that the Stone, from being the ugliest thing in the whole forest, became the most beautiful.
Men found it and called it the Opal. But the Nightingale knew that it was the Sunbeam and Moonbeam who, in dying, had suffused the Stone with their mingled colours and light; and the Nightingale will never forget them, for every night he sings their story, and that is why his song is so sad.
“I like that kind of story,” said the Brooch; “it is instructive as well as amusing. Now we know why the Opal has changing colours.”
“I cannot bring myself to believe anything so improbable,” said the Shawl-pin, scornfully. “I have known a great number of Opals, and they never told me any such thing.”
“Do you dispute my word?” said the Pin, fiercely, and a quarrel was just going to begin when a hand descended on the Pincushion, and taking up the Shawl-pin and Brooch, bore them both away.
“Shawl-pins are always quarrelsome,” said the Pin to itself, “and my story was the best after all.” And then, having nothing else to do, it went to sleep.