THE LAND OF FANCY

STORIES
OF
ENCHANTMENT

BY
JANE PENTZER MYERS

ILLUSTRATED BY
HARRIET ROOSEVELT RICHARDS

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1901

Copyright
By A. C. McClurg & Co.
A.D. 1901

TO KATE WINIFRED.

Just between the “Land o’ Dreams” and broad daylight is a beautiful world: where good wishes come true: where the poor and the lonely are rich in castles and friends: and where sorrowful folk are happy.

There you may hear the birds singing and children laughing, all day long. The trees are full of blossoms and fruit. The sky is always blue, the grass green and soft.

Under the trees dwell the fairies, and against the blue sky is sometimes seen the sheen of angels’ wings.

On the borders of this land the real and the unreal are so strangely blended that children are puzzled to know where the boundary lies.

Just across its borders blooms the little white ghost-flower.

It is for you, little girl.

J. P. M.

CONTENTS.

Page I. [The Ghost Flower, or the White Blackbird] 11 II. [The Little Yellow Moccasins] 31 III. [The Little Ghost who Laughed] 45 IV. [Titania’s Maid of Honor] 71 V. [Bran, the Wolf Dog] 89 VI. [The Corn Fairy] 111 VII. [At the Wayside Cross] 125 VIII. [In Quest of the Dark] 133 IX. [The King will hunt To-day] 149 X. [He was a Prince] 161 XI. [Where the River hides its Pearls] 187 XII. [The Mist Lady] 205

ILLUSTRATIONS.

Page [The pipe changed into a strange flower] 21 [Little Bravo] 35 [“Oh, you pretty dear”] 55 [Mateel sank down on her knees and gazed around] 75 [In a great carven chair sat a lady] 95 [The little girl playfully clasped her knees] 115 [Glimpses of the Wonderful City shall be given to her] 129 [Soon he was in her arms] 137 [“I think I am going to like you”] 141 [“He gave me this keepsake for my mamma”] 144 [In their palace by the water wait the king and queen] 167 [She started up in alarm] 195 [“Open your eyes wide and look at me”] 207

I.
THE GHOST FLOWER, OR THE WHITE BLACKBIRD.

There is a region of our own land, far to the westward, where great mountains lift their serene heads into the eternal calm of the upper air. Sunrise and sunset paint them with unearthly beauties; and night, with its myriads of flashing stars or its splendid moon, shines down on their white foreheads, and bids them dream on through the coming ages, as they have done in the past.

Among their barren valleys one sometimes lights upon a small oasis. A little mountain stream, fed by the melting snows of the peaks, leaps and sings and flashes to its grave in the desert sand. Its banks are fringed with cottonwood trees, and the short grass and underbrush flourish in their shade.

Usually, some energetic American or Chinaman is ranching it there, and claiming all the valley; but far away from the towns and the mines one may sometimes come upon a band of Indians, living their own lives separate and alone in their secluded valley.

A generation ago, a fierce war raged between the whites and the Indians; and during its progress a train of emigrants, passing near an Indian village, was attacked by the warriors of the tribe. All the whites were killed, except one little child, who crept away into the sagebrush, and, worn out with fear and fatigue, dropped asleep. There the wife of the chief medicine man of the tribe found her; and when the little one opened her eyes, and, putting up a piteous lip, began to sob, the woman gathered her into her arms with tender “No, no’s” and soft guttural cooings, that soothed and quieted the child. For the Great Spirit had lately called her own baby “far over the terrible mountains” to the spirit land. And this little one crept into the bereaved heart of the Indian mother.

She took the child to her husband, and received permission to keep her. And so the little girl, with her lint-white hair and blue eyes, grew up among the other children of the valley. Soon after the massacre of the wagon train, the tribe withdrew from the vengeance of the white soldiers to a fertile, wooded valley, hidden in the heart of the mountains. Here little “Snow-flower,” as she was named, lived happy with her foster parents. Her Indian mother was very proud of her childish beauty, and took excellent care of her. She bathed her often, in the clear water of the little river that ran through the valley; for, contrary to the popular belief, the Indians of the mountain are cleanly in their habits, and bathe their persons and wash their garments frequently, if water is plentiful. She braided her fair hair, and made for her pretty little dresses of pink or red calico, bought at the trader’s store at the agency, many weary miles away.

In the winter, she wore over her dress a warm fur coat reaching to the ankles, with a hood at the back to draw over her head. This was made of the skins of jack rabbits. Warm leggings and moccasins helped to keep her warm, and she was usually very comfortable.

Sometimes the supply of pine nuts would give out, the fish refuse to bite, or the jack rabbits become scarce and shy. Then the only alternative was to go to the hated agency.

At such times little Snow-flower was hidden in some secure place and warned to remain quiet; for her Indian mother was haunted by the fear of separation from the child. She knew that inquiries had been set afloat at the agency for a little one, said to have been saved from the massacre, and her heart told her that the child’s kindred would claim her, sooner or later. So, for many years little Snow-flower never saw a white person.

When she asked her Indian father or mother why she was so different from the other children, they told her The Great Spirit had made her so, and she was content.

“Perhaps it’s because I am the great Medicine Chief’s daughter,” she said to her father; and he gravely nodded.

She was very fond of both of her foster parents; but her love for the medicine man was mingled with awe. When she saw him dressed for some religious dance or yearly festival, in his strange medicine dress, with his face painted in grotesque and horrible pattern, she fled to her mother and hid her face in her lap. She loved her mother devotedly, and her love was returned. The woman was like all Indian mothers, very gentle and kind to her little daughter. The little girl was never punished, and was always spoken to in the soft, low voice peculiar to Indian women. “Little daughter,” “Little Starlight,” “Little Singing-bird,” were the fond names bestowed on her.

The years passed quietly by, until Snow-flower was ten years old, when, one summer day, the medicine man came into the tepee looking very ill. He threw himself down on the pallet on the floor and soon was unconscious. He lingered so nine days, anxiously watched and cared for by his wife and Snow-flower. On the tenth day he opened his eyes and beckoned his wife to him.

“I must go far over the terrible mountains, into the heart of the sunset, into the spirit land. You will come soon; watch for the token I will send you.”

Then, closing his eyes, he was quickly gone. And the tepee was very desolate and lonely to the wife and little Snow-flower.

All through the long days and the bright starlit nights the wife watched for the token he would send her, until her knees grew weak, and her head drooped, and she could not walk. Then little Snow-flower fed her, and waited on her, and also watched for the token that was to be sent. One day she crept into the hut and knelt by the Indian woman.

“Mother,” she whispered, “I have seen a strange sight: a flock of blackbirds lit close to our home. I thought to snare some for your food; but as I approached them, I saw that one of them was shaped like the rest,—but, mother, he was pure white; and he lit on the ridgepole of our home.”

Then the pale wife raised herself on her elbow, her eyes shining with joy.

“It is the spirit-bird, dear little one; it is the token. Go now, quickly, up the dark ravine; follow to its source the spring that runs past our door. I have never allowed you to go there, for a dark spirit lives in that dread place; but now, do not fear; the spirit-bird will protect you. Go into the deep wood that grows around the fountain head. You will come to a fallen log. Watch closely; and come and tell me what you see.”

So little Snow-flower, shaken with fear and grief,—for she knew that her mother must soon leave her,—followed the little rill, up the dark ravine, to its source. The white blackbird flitted ahead, and wherever he rested, the sunlight broke through the thick leaves overhead, so that she walked in light all the way. Presently she came in sight of the fallen log, and her heart stood still with fear; for, sitting on the log, wrapped in his blanket, and smoking a long-stemmed, strange-looking pipe, was the medicine man, her foster father. As she came toward him, he arose and fixed on her his bright eyes; and then he spoke in a soft voice that seemed to come from a long distance.

“Little pale-face daughter, take this pipe to my wife. It is a token that you have seen me. Tell her I am lonely without her; that she must be ready when the sun is setting to go with me, through the sunset gates, into the spirit world. As for you, my daughter, your path lies there,” pointing toward the east; “follow it to your own nation and your own kindred;” and, laying his pipe on the log, he was gone in an instant.

Little Snow-flower, almost overcome with fear, ran quickly to the log. She picked up the pipe, which changed in her hands into a strange flower; the leaves, the stem, and the blossoms were all white. It was the Ghost flower, or Indian pipe.

Hurrying back down the ravine, she ran with flying feet into the tepee. The Indian woman snatched the flower from the child’s hand and kissed it, then listened anxiously to her story.

“Yes, little one, I must go. I had hoped that you might go with me; but the Great Spirit does not will it so. And before I go, you must leave me; I must see you started on your journey.” And then she told her of her rescue, and of her parentage.

The pipe changed into a strange flower.

“This was tied fast round your neck. I hid it, and told no one.” She showed the little girl the case of a gold locket, with a scrap of closely written paper within. “Take this to the agency. The paper talks; but do not fear, it is not bewitched. The agent will speak for it, and I believe it will tell you where to find your kindred. Now hasten, dear child; the sun will soon reach the cleft in the mountain, and then I must go. I will see you again; my husband’s power is great; he will let me come to you whenever you find a flower like this—the Ghost flower.”

Then, with tears and sobs, they separated. And when the sun was setting, a great flock of blackbirds flew straight into its splendor; and among them were two white ones: the souls of the medicine chief and his wife. And poor little Snow-flower had begun her long journey to the agency. She left the valley secretly, crept away without bidding any one in the tribe farewell, for her Indian mother feared that they might detain her. The medicine chief’s home stood apart from the rest of the village, and was approached by the villagers with fear. When it was known that he was dead, the tribe buried him and mourned for him. But the mother and the daughter were unmolested in their grief.

A few days after Snow-flower had left, a kind-hearted woman ventured near. Great was her surprise to find the tepee empty; and it was believed by all that the medicine man had come for his wife and daughter, and had conveyed them to the spirit world.

Little Snow-flower followed the path as far as she had gone in the old days with her foster mother; but when she came to the cave where she had been concealed, she was at a loss to know which way to go. She wandered on, frightened and weary. The food she had brought with her was almost gone. One night she lay down beside a strange-looking trail. There were short logs laid across it, and on these were long slim logs or poles made of iron. It was in a valley between two great mountains. She wondered at it greatly. It was either a trail made by some wizard or medicine man, or it was made by that strange tribe to which she belonged, and of which she had heard for the first time that day, the “pale-faces.”

But at least there was companionship in it, after the horrible loneliness of the mountains. So she snuggled down near the trail, and went to sleep. She was awakened by a terrible rumble and roar that shook the earth around her. Something all fire and flashing eyes went shrieking and hissing past her. She screamed with fear, and tried to run, but her feet refused to carry her. The monster went a little way, and then stopped. Some men sprang from its back and came toward her, carrying a light. She saw that they were fair, like herself, and then she fainted.

The men came hurrying on. It was a special train, carrying the superintendent of the road, and a friend. “Did you say the massacre was just here?” said the gentleman.

“Right about here—perhaps a few feet farther north.”

The gentleman sighed. “And has nothing been heard of the child?”

“The Indians positively declare that she is living somewhere in the mountains, and that she is well cared for, but refuse to tell anything more.”

“Well, I must have the child, if she is to be found on— Why, what is this?” he exclaimed, as his foot struck against the soft little body of Snow-flower. She shivered and moaned.

“What in this world! a little white girl, dressed like a little Indian!” cried the superintendent.

“Let me see the child. She looks as my sister Mary did at that age. What if this is her child, the little one I am searching for? Here, let me carry her into the car; she is mine; I am sure of it,” said the gentleman.

And so little Snow-flower awoke from her swoon to a new and wonderful life. It almost seemed in later years, as she looked back to that time, that she had entered another world; for she found love, riches, education, all awaiting her.

Once or twice since, in lonely walks, she has found the Ghost flower; and always then appears the vague, misty outline of her Indian mother.

A few days ago, her little son (for she is a woman and a mother now) came into the house crying, “Mother, I saw a white blackbird. It was with a great flock of black ones; it was just like them, only it was white.”

She hurried out of the house hoping to find the spirit-bird; but it had visited her, found her happy, and hastened back to the spirit land.

II.
THE LITTLE YELLOW MOCCASINS.

A clear river goes winding down, past green and shaded banks, through the beautiful state of Iowa. It is named the Cedar, although the Oak, or the Maple, or a dozen other names would be more appropriate, for the Cedar is seldom found among the abundant trees that grow beside it.

Years ago, the Indians dwelt on its banks. They led an idyllic life: the men fished in the blue waters, or hunted and trapped in the woods; the women planted the small clearings with corn. These corn-fields may still be seen, covered with little hillocks resembling in size and shape those seen in a prairie-dog village; the corn was planted in these mounds, instead of in rows, as with us.

Here the women worked and gossiped,—the babies in their cradles, strapped to their mothers’ backs, or propped up against the trunks of trees, and staring with round black eyes at the new and strange scenes around them.

Among the women was one pretty young mother, who watched, as she worked, her little son in his cradle. She talked or sang to him as she passed him by. She named him “Little Bravo,” “Little Hunter.” She told him that she was growing very old now; that he must step out of his cradle and take care of her. Then she would laugh, showing her white teeth, and the baby would wag his head from side to side, and laugh in sympathy, revealing two cunning little teeth also. All the fond talk that a white mother lavishes on her baby was told over by this Indian mother; for mothers are alike in their love, whatever their color may be.

The years passed merrily along, for happy hearts make the hardest life a merry one. The Little Bravo was a large boy now. Ten summers and winters had passed since he came to his proud father and mother. He had learned to row a canoe on the river, to fish, to set traps, and with bow and arrow to bring down the wild duck and the prairie chicken. Soon he would be a man, a—young brave indeed,—and go with his father to hunt the bison, or on the warpath.

How many daydreams his mother enjoyed over his future! She saw him in fancy a great chief, leading the tribe in war and in peace; she saw him returning from war with many scalps of the enemy; saw him in the home with wife and children, while his father and herself, grown old and gray, sat in the warmest corner of the tepee and told his children stories of their father’s brave deeds.

As she dreamed her daydreams, she busily worked on the fine clothing with which she adorned him and his father; for it was her delight that they outshone the rest of the men of the tribe in the splendor of their raiment,—hunting shirts and leggings of the finest tanned skins, adorned with fringes and gorgeous with crude embroidery, and moccasins of the yellow buckskin, trimmed with beads and porcupine quills.

The boy was a noble little fellow; brave, warm-hearted, and merry. But the Great Spirit saw that the doating love of father and mother was ruining the gift He had placed in their hands.

Little Bravo.

One summer night the heat hung heavy over the land. It seemed an effort to breathe. Black clouds hung sullen in the sky, and in the west the lightning was flashing and the thunder was rumbling. “There will be much wind and rain to-night. Where is our son?” said the father.

“Down on the river’s bank asleep,” answered his mother. “I sat long beside him, and brushed away the stinging insects that annoyed him. He has taken off his moccasins, the heat is so great, and his little feet are bare. He is very beautiful as he sleeps. I will lift him without waking him, and bear him into the storm cave.”

She hastened quickly down to the river, for the storm was rapidly approaching. Just as her hands reached down to clasp her boy, there came a vivid flash of lightning, and two strong hands (the hands of the spirit who lives in the water) reached up, and grasping the boy firmly, drew him down under the water.

Where, but a moment before, the rosy, dreaming boy was lying, was only the print of his body in the grass, and the two little yellow moccasins, shining like gold.

The mother gave a scream; the father came bounding to the spot; together they sprang into the water, and dived again and again, striving to find their son. The storm broke over the river in great fury, tearing off great limbs of trees, and dashing their tepee to the ground; but neither knew that it stormed. Finally, half dead, and heart-broken, they sought the bank. The mother sat down and gathered the little moccasins to her heart. “My son, my son! O spirit of the river, give him back to us!” she moaned.

The father arose and straightened himself, and, looking into the dark sky, he said: “It is the will of the Great Spirit. He gave him to us. He has taken him away again.” Turning, he walked away into the forest.

But the mother sat there beside the river many days, moaning, “My son, my son.” No food passed her lips, no sleep came to her eyes; and always she kissed and clasped to her heart the little moccasins.

One night, when the stars were flashing in splendor, she raised her eyes to the sky, and beheld that pathway made of star-dust, that leads to the spirit land. And while she gazed, longing to follow it, she felt the pressure of a small hand on her shoulder. She turned, to meet the loving, smiling gaze of her son.

“O Great Spirit, I thank thee! The dead is alive again! O my son, I grieved for thee! Why didst thou stay away so long?”

And the boy said, “Come, dear mother; we are to follow yonder path to-night,” pointing upward. “I have come for thee, because thy weeping grieves the happy ones.”

Then gladly the mother placed her hand in that small clasp; but first she said: “Stay, dear child; here are thy moccasins. Thou wilt need them; the way may be rough.”

The boy, laughing, held up to her gaze one of his feet, on which flashed and glowed a moccasin of shining yellow, like the color of a star, and he said, “Lay down the moccasins, dear, and thou shalt see how a mother’s love shall be remembered.”

She placed them on the ground, and at once a plant sprang up beneath them. It grew rapidly, and on its highest branches the moccasins were fastened. They shrank in size, and changed into flowers, keeping, however, their original shape and color. And the boy said, “These flowers shall bloom on forever beside this shining river; long after the red man is gone, they shall bloom.”

Then, wondering and happy, the mother followed her son along the star-strewn path to the spirit land; and not many moons later, the father, from the midst of battle, went to them.

Long ago, the Indians left the banks of the beautiful river, but the yellow flowers bloom on beside its clear waters; and the white children call them the “Orchid,” or “Lady’s Slipper,” or give them their real name, the “Indian Moccasins.”

III.
THE LITTLE GHOST WHO LAUGHED.

Dolores sat beside Aunt Polly, in the door of the cabin. The setting sun shone on her yellow curls, changing her into a veritable “Goldilocks,” peeped into her blue eyes, until she was obliged to shut them. It shone on Aunt Polly’s black face, causing it to glisten like black satin, and on her clean calico dress and white apron; for this was Sunday evening, and she was resting from her labors.

Across the fields, its light was reflected from the roof and chimneys of “The House,” as Aunt Polly called it; for there she had lived as a slave before the war, and to her it was the only house of importance in the neighborhood. Dolores watched the sun climb from the roof and chimneys to the gilded points of the lightning-rods, turning them to flashing spear points. Then it was gone; and she breathed a sigh.

Aunt Polly heard it. “What’s the mattah, honey girl?”

“I’m lonesome, Aunt Polly; won’t you tell me ’bout the little ghost girl up at the house?”

“Now, sugah, I have to be away from home all day to-morrow, and you’ll be here alone; that story will make you feel skeery.”

“I won’t be afraid. Besides, I’ll go to school, maybe.”

“Bless yo heart now, will you? Well, I’ll tell you then, ’cause yo goin’ to be so good. Well, honey, when I was a young girl, I lived up at The House; that was befo’ the wah. I was one of the house servants, sort of waitin’ maid, and table maid, too. Well, one stormy night, I was in the dinin’-room, settin’ the dinnah table. The rain and sleet was bangin’ aginst the windows, and it was growin’ mighty dark. I thought I’d go out and shut the shuttahs; I thought I’d run out the front doah, and close the pahlor shuttahs too. The lamp wasn’t lit in the hall yet, and as I went through, it seemed to me I saw somethin’ white curled up on the lower stair. I opened the front doah so that I could see bettah what it was, and then I turned and went to it, and there, cuddled all up in a heap, was a strange little girl. She had a little peaked white face and great blue eyes, and her hair was about the coloh of you-all’s. She had on a little white dress, and had somethin’ in her hands—looked like a man’s cap, and it was all torn and bloody; and there was blood on her dress.

“‘My land, honey, whar you come from?’ I says, and she huddled down closer than ever, and began to cry just like her heart was most broke. I stooped down to pick her up in my ahms”—Aunt Polly’s voice sank to a whisper—“and—she—wasn’t—there. I rubbed my eyes and looked agin, then I run to the doah and looked out; but they wasn’t nobody about. Then I got so skeered I banged the doah shut and run whoopin’ and screamin’ to the kitchen. Aunt Susan, the cook, grab me by the ahm. ‘Shut yo haid, girl, and tell me wha’s de mattah,’ she said. So I done told her all about it, and she just dropped all in a heap and she say: ‘O my Lawd, O my deah Lawd, the judgment am a comin’ agin! Tell me, gal, was dat baby laughin’ or cryin’?’ and I say, ‘Cryin’;’ and she say, ‘Ooh, my poo’ mistess;’ and I said, ‘Oh, Aunt Susan, what is it?’ She say: ‘Gal, you done see a ghost. Dat’s no baptized baby; dat’s a poo’ child dat was muhdard yeahs and yeahs ago by some wicked limb of dis fambly, fo’ to get its money. Whenever dat child comes here a weepin’ and a moanin’, dat’s de sign of a death; if it comes a laughin’, den it brings good luck to we-alls.’

“Well, I was that skeered to think I’d done seen a ghost, that I shuck all over, and couldn’t wait on the table. Well, honey, I kep’ a waitin’ for a death or somefin as bad; and ’bout a week later, my mastah’s oldest boy was out huntin’, and the gun went off too soon, and blowed the top of his haid plum off. They brought his torn and bloody cap home. I’d—seen—it—before.

“Aftah that, I was always watchin’ for that ghost-child, but I nevah seen her no more. But she came after that, fo’ my old mastah died; and there was othah troubles. Finally, aftah the wah, my old mistress moved to the city with young Mistah Tom, and left the house in the care of the overseeah of the plantation. Once a yeah Mistah Tom comes down and stays a week or so, lookin’ aftah things. He used to bring a lot of company with him, but since ole Miss died, he’s sobered down; don’t seem to cah fo’ company no more.

“And now, sugah, you come go to baid, so you can get up early, and go to school.”

“Aunt Polly, tell me first, do please tell me, where did you get me?”

Aunt Polly looked at her doubtfully.

“I dunno as you need to know. But yo ma was a lady, and yo pa a gentleman. You come of a good stock. Sometime I’ll tell you, but not now; so you go to sleep.”

The next morning Aunt Polly was up and away early. She left a dainty breakfast spread out for Dolores, and a little tin pail packed with a lunch for her school dinner. Dolores wakened later and lay debating the question of school. It is needless to say that Aunt Polly, with her lax government and her fondness for the child, was spoiling her completely. Dolores was a law unto herself, and came and went as she pleased. She was looked down upon by the girls at school, because she lived with Aunt Polly. She did not tell this to her, for she knew she would resent it bitterly. So she avoided them as much as possible, and many hours when Aunt Polly supposed that she was at school, she was wandering in the woods and fields.

She thought of her half promise given the night before in exchange for the ghost story, and resolved that she would go.

“My mother was a lady, and my father a gentleman; then why need I care for those white trash? Aunt Polly is better than they are. I reckon I’d better go. And I’ll go past the house, and peek in at the hall where Aunt Polly saw the ghost.”

So she hurriedly put away her breakfast dishes, tidied up her room, locked the door, hid the key, and started on her way to school. She crossed the field and came to the old house by a path through a grove of old trees. This side of the house was never used; the shutters were closed; and the trees grew so close to the house that their great branches scraped against the walls, causing a creaking, groaning noise when the wind blew, that had frightened the timid colored people away from the neighborhood.

Dolores put down her pail and books. She sat down a moment to rest in the shade, for the sun was hot. That resting-spell was the undoing of her good resolutions; for, glancing above her, she discovered a squirrel watching her, who began to chatter, as soon as he knew that she had seen him.

“Oh, you pretty dear, come down and I’ll feed you,” she said; and then she thought, “I wonder if he has a nest up there; I’m going to find out.” And soon she was among the lower branches of the tree, steadily working her way to the top.

The squirrel turned with a jerk and a squeak, and disappeared through an open window that the branches had concealed from below. Dolores, following, found that one shutter was gone, and that the wind, during some storm, had forced in the sash, while a limb had grown in through the window. She pushed her way in past the limb, in spite of the squirrel’s remonstrance, and found herself in a large attic, which extended over the entire unused wing of the house. The squirrel scampered up the side of the window-casing, and sat scolding her from above.

The attic was filled with a rich treasure-trove for Dolores. There were old spinning-wheels, broken chairs, an empty cradle, a great old four-posted bed, and a number of trunks and boxes to rummage in. That was as far as she could see in the gloom, but no doubt beyond her range of vision were more delights. What a lovely place in which to play! The cradle for her dolls, an old clock to take to pieces, and dozens of old garments to dress up in. Several wonderfully queer old bonnets hung against the wall. She put on one (after shaking off the layer of dust with which it was coated), and glanced in a broken mirror to see the effect. Her merry laugh echoed through the attic as she beheld her face framed by the bonnet. And then she heard a sharp exclamation from the room beneath her, the scurrying of feet, and the slamming of a door.

“Oh you pretty dear.”

Crouching down behind the cradle, she waited developments; but no one came; so in a little while she grew bold again.

“I think I won’t go to school after all. I reckon it’s too late, anyway; I’ll stay here to-day. But first, I must go back and get my dinner-pail and books. I can study up here just as well as at school.”

And soon Dolores, watched by the protesting squirrel, had slid down the tree, secured her books and dinner-pail in her apron, and was back again. And then began her delightful, if naughty, day. She wound up the clock, polished up the broken mirror, pulled the lighter articles of furniture here and there, tried the spinning-wheel, and finally settled down to the delightful task of exploring the boxes and chests.

In the meantime, down below, in the kitchen of the old house, an excited group of colored people were talking. Aunt Polly was the centre of the group, and was relating, for the benefit of a new comer, her experience.

“I tell you, I done heerd that ghost-child agin. No, I didn’t see it, but I heerd it. I went ovah to the noth wing to put away that ar seed, as Mistah Jones told me to do, and while I was in that dark, lonesome bedroom above the pahlor, I heerd a child laugh, just as cleah and sweet as a bird; it sounded just right beside me. Oh, I was so skeered, I run and banged the doah after me. You don’t ketch this child goin’ in that pawt of the house no moah.”

“Aunt Polly,” asked one breathless listener, “wasn’t that the room whar the murdah was committed?”

“Yas, em; yes indeedy; the poor child was strangled in its sleep.”

Just then the voice of Mr. Jones was heard. “Here, hurry up in there; got too much to do to stand here gabbling. You know Mister Tom comes to-night; he wants this place to be shining.” Each one hurried off to her work. Aunt Polly, with a toss of her head and a sniff, proceeded leisurely to hang out the white curtains and bed-linen she was doing up against the arrival of her beloved Mistah Tom.

Dolores ate her dinner when she became hungry, gave some of it to the squirrel, and played on until the shadows in the attic indicated that evening was coming. Then she scrambled down and ran for home. She had time to brush the dust from her clothes, wash her face and hands, and lie down on the bed and fall asleep before Aunt Polly returned. By the time supper was ready and Dolores awakened, Aunt Polly had forgotten to ask about the school, in her eagerness to tell the important news that Mistah Tom was coming, and that she had heard the little ghost-girl’s laugh. And in a little while Dolores again had forgotten everything in the dreamless sleep which comes to tired children whether they are good or bad.

She awoke in the morning to find Aunt Polly already gone. Not long after, the little truant followed and, climbing her sylvan stairway, was soon in the delightful attic. She had explored all but one chest, that was pushed under the eaves. The other chests had yielded up a rich treasure, but she was curious to know what they all contained before she enjoyed the contents. So the little box was pushed close to the window, for it was growing dark in the attic. Dolores could hear the rumble of thunder, and the rain was beginning to patter on the shingles; she was not the least afraid of a storm, and proceeded leisurely with her task. The little chest was locked, but the key hung obligingly tied to one of the handles by a string. She unlocked it, and raised the lid. Who can say what loving, breaking heart looked last into that little box? For, carefully folded away, with dead roses in each dainty garment, was a little girl’s wardrobe, complete,—the finest linen undergarments, trimmed with delicate laces, little white silk clocked stockings, little heelless slippers of blue and red kid, all faded and spotted with age and mould; the loveliest little lace-trimmed dresses with short waists, puffed sleeves, and long skirts. Dolores hesitated a moment before examining them. On top of them was placed a note in a woman’s hand. She laid it aside and did not read it, until she had finished the examination. She opened it at last, and read, “This is the wardrobe of my dear little dead daughter Dolores.”

She closed the lid down gently, sprang up, and went to the window. “I must go home; I don’t like this old attic. I’ve been a wicked girl to come here. But how did that little dead girl come to have my name?”

She started to climb through the window, and saw that it was raining very hard; a steady downpour that promised to last all day. She returned to the chest, laid the note carefully aside, and again lifted out and unfolded each garment. How beautiful they were! Time had given them the delicate, mellow tint of old ivory. Dolores dearly enjoyed pretty clothes, and had possessed but few in her short life. She was charmed by their dainty quaintness.

“They look like they’d just fit me—I’m going to try on a suit—the lady would not care—I’ll be very careful of them.”

So on went the pretty underclothing, the white silk stockings, and little heelless slippers. Then over her head she slipped a little white dress, hemstitched and hand embroidered. Her hair, which Aunt Polly kept tightly braided, was loosened in soft waves around her face and neck. The broken mirror revealed a little maid of the beginning of the nineteenth century; such a charming little maid, that Dolores was delighted with the vision.

“My, but she’s sweet; Little Dolores, do you like coming back to life?”

And then her busy brain recalled the story of the little ghost-girl. “I have a great mind to go downstairs. If any one sees me, I can run back.” She looked questioningly at the little figure in the glass. “Dolores, shall I go? You tell me, for I am you to-day.” The little shadow nodded. “Very well, then, I will.”

She went to a door she had noticed, tried it, found it unlocked, and ventured out.

A flight of stairs led down into a narrow corridor, flanked on each side by closed doors, and this led into the main hall. She stole shyly out into this, and proceeded toward the great stairway; but to reach it, she had to pass an open door. Some one was moving leisurely about in the room. She peeped in, and saw a young colored man unpacking his master’s clothes. He had carefully arranged the toilet articles on the dressing-case, and was trying one of the silver-backed brushes on his curly locks, with an unlit cigar between his teeth, evidently extracted from a full box on the dressing-case.

Dolores swung the door slowly open, and the man, seeing its reflection in the mirror, turned and confronted her, in her quaint dress, standing in the soft gloom of the hall. She was pointing a threatening finger at the stolen cigar, frowning and biting her lips to keep from laughing, as she saw the horrified look on his face. Evidently, he had heard of the little ghost; the cigar fell from his lips, and his knees knocked together: he was too frightened to speak.

When Dolores could control her face no longer she turned, and ran back to the attic. The colored man fled to the kitchen, declaring that he had seen the ghost; and that if Mass Tom didn’t go back to the city, he would, for he wasn’t goin’ to stay in no old house full of ghosts.

Aunt Polly met her Mr. Tom, on his return from hunting, at the door, and told him the marvellous tale.

“Wait till I change my clothes, Aunt Polly, and then come to the little library, if there’s a fire there, for I am chilly; I’ll hear all about it then;” and he hurried upstairs.

In the meantime, naughty Dolores had tired of the attic, and, having enjoyed her first adventure, had sallied forth to meet others. Not encountering any one, she ventured down the wide stairs, peeped into numerous rooms, and opening a door into a very cosy one, small and snug, with a fire burning on the hearth, she drew a big cushioned chair in front of it, sat down to watch it, and fell asleep. About an hour later, Aunt Polly was met in the hall by Mister Tom, who looked very much surprised.

“Come into the library, quick, Auntie; I’ve found the little ghost,” he whispered. Aunt Polly followed, her knees trembling beneath her. Seeing the little figure in the chair, she started for the door, but thought better of it, and ventured nearer. Getting a good look at the ghost, she saw it was Dolores, and sank limply down by her on her knees.

“Well, well, well, I declare for it, it’s the hand of the Lord,” she whispered.

“Who is she, Aunt Polly, and where’d she come from?”

“She belongs to this fambly, Mistah Tom, and I’ll tell you by and by whar she come from; but whar she got them clothes, or how she got in here, is more than I can tell you.”

Just then Dolores stirred in her sleep, opened her eyes, and seeing them watching her, jumped to her feet.

“Is this Mr. Tom? I am the little ghost-girl, and I bring you good fortune;” and she looked up into his face and laughed.

Aunt Polly grunted, “You need a good lambastin’ fo’ skeerin’ me so,” she said wrathfully.

Not long after, Dolores and Aunt Polly went to live with Mr. Tom. A wrong was righted, and the little ghost-girl walked no more.

IV.
TITANIA’S MAID OF HONOR.

“Mammy, I wish dis yer rabbit could talk to me; ’pears like he wanted to tell me somefin’.”

“Well, Mateel, yo take him in yo arms and lay down on yo baid, and I’s a goin’ to conjur’ dat rabbit so he kin talk to yo-alls.”

The little girl took her pet in her arms and lay down, holding the soft furry ball close to her ear. The old mammy, whose duty it was to take care of the little darkies on the plantation while their mothers were at work in the field or the house, sat down by the child, and slowly, soothingly, passed her hand over the little dark head; presently the large eyes closed, and half awake, half asleep, Mateel heard her say,—

“Now, Mistah Rabbit, tell Mateel yo news.”

And to her intense surprise, the rabbit, slipping from her arms, sat back on his haunches, and, regarding her intently, commenced:—

“Mateel, have you ever heard of the fairies? And do you know where they live?”

“No, Mistah Rabbit. What is they for, and what do they look like?”

“Oh, I haven’t time to tell you; I’m due in Fairyland now. Do you want to go with me? Because if you do, you must come at once.”

And the rabbit began to hop impatiently toward the door.

Mateel joyfully slipped from her bed and followed him out of the house. The rabbit hopped ahead until they reached the thick shade of the woods that grew close to the little cabin. Here he paused, and, turning to Mateel, said briefly,—

“Give me your hand.”

Mateel stooped down and seized his paw, when, to her surprise, she felt herself grow smaller, or the world larger; the trees seemed as tall as the clouds; the grass and leaves that grew among them reached far above her head.

The rabbit now remarked,—

“We must go through a bit of rough country just here, so perhaps you had better hold tight to one of my ears.”

Mateel, in some alarm, grasped the friendly ear, and felt herself lifted along in tremendous jumps and leaps, over great gnarled roots, over rocks and briers, until her strength and patience were all but exhausted. Finally, they dived down what seemed the bed of a dead streamlet, came to a deep pool of water, which the rabbit took at one flying leap with Mateel clasped in his forepaws, and they found themselves in a wondrous world.

It was Fairyland. Where is it? and how shall we find it? Ah, that is the mystery; but of this you may be sure,—wherever children are, close to their homes lies Fairyland; and if only the small wild things of the wood could talk to you, perhaps you might visit it, as Mateel did.

She found herself in a court or pleasance, beautifully carpeted with the rarest moss. The richest, softest shades of brown, of fawn color, of old rose, and of tenderest green, mingled and blended in its coloring. Mateel sank down on her knees and gazed around. A soft green tint was over everything. It came through the leaves that closely roofed it over. These were supported by straight trunks, that arose to a great height, where they separated into two stems; and each stem bore a leaf that overlapped its neighbor; at the point where the stems separated, an immense creamy white blossom with a golden centre hung down like a bell.

Mateel sank down on her knees and gazed around.

“Why, they are May apple blossoms,” cried Mateel, clapping her hands in ecstasy, “Oh, how lovely! how lovely! May apple plants as large as trees.”

Not a ray of sunlight filtered through the large leaves; a delicious sense of peace pervaded the perfumed twilight, and Mateel, who was always tired lately, felt that she could rest here, and gave a happy sigh.

And while she rested and waited for something lovely to happen, she heard the rain falling on the leaves of trees somewhere at a great distance above her.

“It’s raining, Mateel, but you needn’t worry; the rain never reaches here,” said the rabbit.

“I am not worrying,” said Mateel, contentedly.

“The rain is almost over, the sun is setting clear. It will be starlight soon, and then will come the fairies. But now I must leave you; try to sleep and rest, and when the fairy queen comes, I shall be in her train, and will present you.”

So Mateel contentedly sank back into the soft moss, and let her tired little body rest, while the rain played her a soothing lullaby. The soft light grew more dim, and a sweet sleep came to her eyes.

When she awoke it was growing very dark in the fairies’ court. Mateel sat straight up and looked about her. From far distant depths of the wood tiny men were coming, bearing little lamps, which Mateel saw were fireflies and glowworms; these they placed in the cups of the great flowers, and swung in festoons between the trunks of the fairy trees. The little men disappeared, and she was again alone; but now the court was flooded with light soft and radiant, just the kind of light in which fairies look their best.

And while she sat enfolded in this soft light, from a distance came the sweetest music that mortal ear ever listened to. Indeed, but few mortals have heard its exquisite cadence. There was one man, who lived long ago, when people knew that there were fairies and shuddered at real ghosts and witches, who not only heard the fairy music, but heard and remembered their songs, and has written them down in a beautiful poem, and named it “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” So Mateel sat and listened, while the music grew clearer and louder; and presently a wonderful procession came into view. First came the musicians; and will you believe it?—they were crickets and cicadas. But they were playing in Fairyland, for the king and queen of the fairies; and the music they give to fairies is different from that which they give to mortals. Close after the musicians marched a regiment of fairy guards to their majesties; and then came grandly dressed noblemen, stepping backward and bowing at each step; and then, under a canopy of richest velvet made from pansy blossoms, came Oberon and Titania! The queen was all in white; her dress of lily petals was trimmed with dewdrops; back of her shoulders two gauzy white wings shimmered and glowed with each graceful motion; on her dainty head sparkled a crown of gleaming points of light; her arms were bare, and in her hand she carried a shining wand.

King Oberon was in blue armor that shone like sapphires with every motion; it was made from the shells of blue beetles. After them came a multitude of fairies; pretty ladies of the court in brilliant flower-dresses, with dainty wings at their shoulders. They reminded Mateel of a great flock of butterflies. The fairy men were, like the king, in armor.

Mateel eagerly looked for the rabbit, and saw him walking with a group of wise-looking fairies, who were undoubtedly learned judges and philosophers.

The bright procession marched once around the court, and then the queen and king seated themselves on a green bank spread with violets; a shining little herald announced that the fairy revels would begin.

But waving his hand, the king said gravely, “We will first hear the arguments, and perhaps the witnesses, in the case of the accused maid, once lady-in-waiting to our gracious queen.”

Here the queen put a lovely cobweb handkerchief to her eyes, and said:—

“They may bring all the evidence they want to, but I know that she is innocent; I am sure that Katie didn’t;” and she stamped her little foot.

Then the king said soothingly, “Well, well, dear, don’t be too positive; perhaps Katie did.”

The queen would have answered, but just then the rabbit rose and bowed, and the king, who seemed slightly nervous, cried,—

“Our wise and learned friend the rabbit may speak.”

And the rabbit, bowing again, made an eloquent speech, in which he said that although the evidence was very strong for and against the defendant, yet he would beg a postponement of a decision until the learned counsel had found the answer to an unimportant question, which was, What did Katie do?

The king answered that perhaps it might be as well; for although convinced in his own mind that Katie did, he was anxious to allow her every chance to re-establish her good character.

The queen declared that there was no use in having the trial at all, as, whatever it was she was accused of, Katie didn’t, didn’t, didn’t; and Titania was beginning to look vexed, when the rabbit, bowing again, asked if the queen had chosen any one to fill Katie’s place during her (he hoped) temporary absence.

The queen had not, for she said,—

“Katie is a changeling, and where may I find another mortal?”

The rabbit, bowing low with his paw on his heart, asked permission to tell Titania a story, and the queen sighed, and answered,—

“Yes, if it’s not very long.”

So the rabbit began:—

“There was once a boy, a mortal, who was out hunting. He had gone deep into the woods; night was coming fast; like all boys, he had a fear of the dark and lonely woods. He was walking very fast, and whistling (as mortals do to keep up their courage), when he heard a child crying; he listened, and then, thinking of wild animals, hurried on faster than ever. But the crying grew louder, and presently, right in his path under a huge linden tree, he found a little child, just able to walk alone, and to talk a little. It was unlike any child he had ever seen: brown hair, brown eyes, and brown skin. It was dressed in some strange silky material, and round its neck was a necklace of the claws of some wild animal.

“The boy picked the little one up and carried it home. It was handed over to the old colored woman who has charge of the little colored children on the plantation. The boy claimed the child as his slave, and named her Matilde, which usage has changed to Mateel.

“She has lived, but not thrived, on the coarse fare and rough usage accorded the other little ones. She was petted and noticed by the young master for a day or two, then forgotten for many more. As the years pass she will have great beauty. She has never had a friend but her young master.

“Your Majesty is generous and kind; would not the little maid take Katie’s place?”

Then the queen, springing to her feet, exclaimed:—

“No, she cannot take Katie’s place; no one can do that; but she shall have her own place in my train, close at my right hand. Where is the child; have you brought her to Fairyland?” And the rabbit said, “I have brought her, gracious queen.”

So Mateel was brought into the presence of the king and queen and their court, and the queen, touching her with her shining wand, changed her into a bonny brown fairy, with shining brown eyes, and a beautiful dress made of petals of the red rose; for she was among the maids of honor most dearly loved by Titania. But the question of Katie’s guilt or innocence is still unsettled; for on summer nights you will hear the fairy lawyers still declaring that “Katie did” and “Katie didn’t.”

V.
BRAN, THE WOLF DOG.

On a high cliff overlooking the ocean, on the western coast of Ireland, stand the ruins of an old castle. The short grass grows on the floor of the great hall, and the wind sighs and howls through its broken walls, with a sound half human, half animal.

The peasants for generations have named it “The Wolf’s Castle.” Even long years ago, when it was tenanted by kindly folk and was running over with life and happiness, it had already earned its grim name.

Max had been out hunting. He had spent the day in the woods and fields, and now as night fell, dark and lowering, he hastened his steps. The first scattering drops of rain struck his face, and the wind was rising. It moaned and howled like the distant cry of a wolf; it made Max feel strangely nervous and frightened. “Frightened!”—he laughed at the thought. “A boy of twelve frightened by the wind!”

And yet, listen! the patter of the rain (coming faster now) sounds on the leaves like the stealthy tread of some animal.

“If it is a wolf, it is the ghost of one; for there are no wolves in this country now,” thought Max. “How like a sigh from human lips the wind sounds!”

“Home at last, I am thankful to say;” and Max ran swiftly round to the back door. As he closed it, the wind gave a long-drawn wail, and he almost fancied a hand strove to draw him back into the darkness.

“I think I need my supper,” thought he. “Fasting makes a fellow light-headed.”

Entering the kitchen with exultant heart but studied indifference, he threw his game down on the table before the admiring cook, and then hastened to change his dress. Soon, over a good supper, he had forgotten the uncanny night outside, though the wind still howled and the rain beat against the window.

After supper Max went into the library. How cosy and comfortable it was, with a fire in the grate, an easy-chair drawn in front of it, and the shadows dancing over books and pictures!

“I’ll sit here in front of the fire and rest,” thought he. He sat there mentally reviewing the day’s sport. “I need a good dog,” he said. “I must have one. Why, what is that?” For there, lying in front of the fire, basking in the heat, was an immense dog, with shaggy coat and pointed ears. Max called to him:—

“Here, old fellow; here, Bran,—why, he knows his name. How did I come to know it, I wonder!” For at the first call, the dog had raised his head and beat his great tail upon the floor. At the mention of his name he sprang to his feet, and came crouching and trembling with joy to lick the hands and shoes of the lad.

“What is it then, good dog? Tell me your story, for I’m sure you have one to tell,” coaxed Max.

Did he tell it, or did Max dream? For as the dog rested his head on the boy’s knee and looked with liquid, loving eyes into his face, Max glanced round the room and saw a strange transformation: the walls widened, the ceiling rose to a greater height, and was crossed by great black beams. On the walls hung shields, spears, great swords, and numerous other articles of war and of the chase.

The polished grate had grown into an immense fireplace, and the floor was covered with what Max supposed were rushes. But the people in the room interested him most of all. On the opposite side of the fireplace, in a great carven chair, sat a lady, young and very lovely,—her dress some rich dark green material clasped at the throat and waist by heavy golden clasps, her bare arms heavy with gold armlets, her long black hair falling in shining waves around her, and her eyes,—the sea was in them,—gray or dark blue, and in moments of anger flashing greenish yellow like the eyes of some animal.

She sat with her elbow on the arm of her chair, her head resting on her hand, looking into the fire and listening to the music of an ancient harper, who sat in the background, softly striking the chords of his harp.

The firelight, dancing over the room, caused strange shadows; and Max fancied himself one of the shadows, for his chair was filled by a boy of his own age, sitting just as he had been sitting, with the great dog’s head on his knee; and notwithstanding his strange dress, Max started with a feeling almost of terror, for the boy was his double; it was like seeing himself in the glass.

A storm was raging around the castle, and above the soft music of the harp could be heard the rush of the wind, and the roar of the ocean dashing at the foot of the cliff.

The lady shivered and glanced round the room. “I wish your father were home, Patrick. How glad I shall be when peace comes again.”

“I wish I were old enough to lead the clan to battle, then father could remain with you.”

In a great carven chair sat a lady.

“What? become a dotard? Out upon you!” Her eyes flashed at the boy, and the dog, raising his head, gave a low growl. “Why do you not have that beast speared? You know I hate him,” said the lady.

“He was given to me (as you know) by the good fathers at the monastery. They told me always to cherish Bran, for he would save me from demons, as well as wolves. See the silver crosses on his collar. Nothing can harm us while Bran is here.”

The lady cast a look of fear and hatred at the boy and the dog. “Be not too sure,” she said. Springing to her feet, she walked back and forth through the room. Her step was smooth and graceful; she made no sound on the rushes as she walked.

Presently there came a lull in the storm, and from somewhere back in the hills came the howl of a wolf. The lady paused and listened, then turning to the boy she said in a hurried manner, while her eyes sought the floor: “I feel ill; I am going to my room. Let no one disturb me to-morrow; if I need help I will call.” And as she turned to leave the room, suddenly she paused. “Get you to bed, Patrick, chain up that dog, and—you are the hope and pride of your father—I lay my commands on you—do not hunt to-morrow.”

Then the lady was gone; but Bran was trembling and growling. “He heard the wolves howl,” said Patrick to the harper. The old man looked into the fire and was silent.

Presently Patrick arose, and bidding the harper good-night, went to his room, closely followed at the heels by the great dog. To his surprise, awaiting him in his room was the housekeeper, an ancient woman, who had been his father’s nurse. She rose when Patrick entered, and came toward him.

“My mind is troubled, child,” she said; “I must tell you my story.”

“What is it, nurse?”

“It is about my lady Eileen, your stepmother. May I speak?”

“Tell on,” said Patrick. “But remember, I will hear nothing against my lady;” for he well knew that the nurse bore the young stepmother no good will.

“Well, listen, child. You were not here when your father married my lady. You had not left the monastery where your father placed you for safety while he was beyond seas. I must tell you first how she came here.

“Fingal, the huntsman, told me that one day, when your father was hunting alone, he was followed all day by a wolf. It would lurk from one hillock to another, but when he turned to pursue it, it would disappear. Finally, at noon, when he sat down to rest, it came creeping and fawning to his feet. He was tempted to spear it, but did not, out of surprise. Presently it disappeared; but in the gloaming it returned, and followed him clear to the gate of the castle. This my lord told to Fingal, and greatly did he marvel. That same night,” whispered the nurse, mysteriously, “came a call for help, and when the gate was opened, there stood a beautiful woman (my lady Eileen) who told how she had lost her way and her company as she journeyed to St. Hilda’s shrine. Your father bade her enter, and she has abode here ever since; for soon he married her, and she became our lady.”

“Well, well, nurse, I knew of her coming, and I know also that she was no waif, but of a noble house and high lineage, as her coat of arms bears witness,—a wolf couchant. But why explain all this to you? Right glad am I that she came to gladden my father’s heart and brighten our home.”

“Yes, child, but listen; this only brings me to my story. My lady has strange spells of illness, and always after a wolf howls.” The boy started impatiently, but the old dame, laying her hand on his arm, compelled him to listen. “The last time it was moonlight. I was up in the turret opposite her window; her lamp was lit, and I saw a strange sight. My lady was springing with long leaps backward and forward over the floor, and wringing her hands. Presently she went to her closet, took from it a wolf’s skin, slipped it over her dress, and I do not know how she got outside the walls, but I saw her presently speeding away with long leaps toward the hills.”

“Nurse, nurse, are you crazy? It is my lady of whom you speak. Never let me hear you breathe that story again. Think of my father’s wrath, should this come to his ears.”

Still the old woman shook her head and mumbled in wrath, and speedily betook herself away; while Patrick, laughing heartily at her foolish story, went to bed. But all night above the roar of the storm could be heard the howling of wolves.

The morning broke wild and gloomy; the castle seemed lonely and dreary without the cheery presence of Lady Eileen. Patrick went once to her door and knocked, but received no answer. Presently Fingal, the huntsman, came in, armed for the chase. Bran followed close at his heels. “Will my lord hunt to-day? The wolves were among the flocks last night, the shepherds tell me.”

Patrick hesitated, remembering his lady’s commands, but he decided finally to go. Soon he was ready, and issuing from the gates, he and Fingal and the dog were lost in the mists that enveloped the hills.

Long did the household wait their return. Night was brooding: over the castle when Fingal’s horn was heard at the gate. In answer to the warder’s call his voice came sternly through the night: “Bring help, and come quickly; my lady is dead.” To the grievous outcries and questions that arose he would return no answer.

Soon an excited group were hurrying toward the hills, and presently the torches revealed a sad sight. The first to come into view was their young lord, crouching on the ground, with the dog’s head clasped in his arms; Bran’s throat had been torn and mangled, and he had been thrust through with a spear. Patrick was wounded and torn in many places; blood was flowing down his face and throat, and his tears were falling on the dog’s head. Not far away lay Lady Eileen, quite dead. Very beautiful and placid she looked, as if sleeping; but on her throat were marks of great teeth.

“Take up my lady and bear her to the castle,” said Patrick; “as for Bran, you must bury him here.”

“Nay, child, he is only a dead dog,” said the old nurse, fussily. But she was met by a stern command to be quiet.

“Do as I bid you,” he said to the servants, and then added, “The good dog went mad, and attacked my lady. I could not save her. Let my father know this, should I die;” and then the boy fell backward, fainting.

To the father it was a sad home-coming when, a few days later, he returned from war,—his beautiful young wife lying cold and dead in the chapel; his son very ill, calling always for Bran to save him from some deadly peril.

Greatly the household marvelled how their lady came to be out in the mist and the storm, alone on the hills; but Fingal, the huntsman, sought his two gossips, the nurse and the harper, and told this tale of the day’s hunt.

“We had followed the wolves all day, and several had been killed. But there was one gray wolf, who seemed the leader of the pack. This one my lord singled out, and followed from valley to valley. Bran would not pursue it, but slunk and cowered after his master, whining pitifully. All day we followed it, until, late in the gloaming, it had headed toward the castle; and we pressed it hard. It finally turned at bay, and, springing at my lord’s throat, it brought him to the ground. Bran was lagging behind, and I was urging him forward. When he heard my lord’s cries, the dog flew at the wolf. The beast then turned on the dog, and as I ran to help to spear it, I saw—” here the huntsman’s voice sank into a whisper—“I saw no wolf, but my lady, tearing and rending the dog, while Bran’s teeth were buried in her throat.

“‘Separate them! save them!’ cried my lord; and I, not knowing what else to do, watched my chance and thrust the dog through the body. He sank without a groan, relaxing his grasp on my lady’s throat. My lord gave a cry of despair, and my lady, hearing it, crept over to him and whispering, ‘Forgive; I could not help it,’ sank dead at his feet. But Lord Patrick passed her by, and threw himself down by the dog; while I, half distraught, came home for help.”

Then said the nurse, “See that you hold your tongue, man, for if this story come to the ears of my lord, your body will want a head.”

But from that time forth the Lady Eileen was spoken of as “The Wolf Lady,” and in time, the grim name of the “Wolf’s Castle” clung to her old home.

In the years that came and passed, Patrick became chief in his father’s place; and then a cairn was raised over the body of the faithful dog.

Max awoke to find the fire out; shivered, and sprang to his feet. “What a strange dream!” he said.

VI.
THE CORN FAIRY.

Little Theo sat up in bed and looked out of the window. “It’s going to be a nice day; the little girl will be in the corn. We will play all day long. I must hurry; she doesn’t like to wait.”

Presently, her breakfast eaten and her little tasks all finished, she was running as fast as her feet would carry her toward the wide fields of Indian corn. In a few moments the great blades were rustling above her head. They formed green arches, down whose long vistas the little girl eagerly peered. Soon, with a satisfied laugh, she ran with outstretched hands down the corn rows, and her voice came back chattering, laughing, asking and answering questions.

Theo’s mother had often heard her speak of the little girl, or young lady, or old lady, who played or talked with her in the cornfield; but being a very busy woman, and having little time to give the child, she did not pay much attention. If she heeded at all, she thought some neighbor or her children had met the little girl while passing through the cornfield. To-day her attention had been aroused, and she began to wonder who it was that Theo was so eager to meet.

So when Theo ran down to the cornfield, her mother followed closely. She saw her disappear in the corn, and marking the place, hurried after. She could hear the child’s voice close at hand, and another’s, that sounded sometimes like a human voice, and again like the wind sighing in the corn. After a short search, she saw at a distance her little daughter. But what was she doing? Clasping in her arms a group of cornstalks, and looking lovingly up among the green waving blades. But stay. Were they cornstalks? It surely was a beautiful young woman, dressed in trailing robes of green silk; her hair the color of corn silk, waving around her face and neck.

The little girl playfully clasped her knees, while the lady, laughing, bent over her, swaying and bending as corn does in the wind. “Am I losing my senses, or am I bewitched?” wondered the mother. She was tempted to call her child to her, and take her away from the field, but she seemed so happy.

Presently Theo sprang away from the corn, and called back, “You cannot catch me.” The wind suddenly blew the tossing corn-blades together. When it lulled again, she saw her little girl running down the row, and close in pursuit ran the young woman. No, stay. It was a child, following closely after Theo. On they ran, laughing, calling, and presently they came back, panting.

Theo flung herself down to rest in the shade of the corn, and so did the little girl. But now, it was not a little girl, but an old woman who sat there. Her face, half hidden by her hood, was wrinkled and yellow. She had a long cloak, with the hood closely drawn over her head. Her clothing was made of some material the color of cornhusks, and was coarse and stiff.

The little girl playfully clasped her knees.

Theo rested her elbow on the old woman’s knee, and looked up into her face. “I almost think I like you best this way,” she said. “You make me think of such comfortable things,—gathering nuts and apples, and of pumpkin-pie, and—and—Christmas, and going to grandpa’s on Thanksgiving.” The old woman nodded and sighed.

“Do you feel sad again?” Again she nodded.

“About the corn-husking?” A nod.

“But you know next summer will come, and you can begin all over again.”

Just here Theo’s mother thought, “I must stop this; the child is talking either to a ghost or a witch. Theo,” she called, “come to me.”

The child sprang up from her seat and came to her mother, rubbing her eyes.

“Now, mamma, you’ve frightened her away; she won’t come back again to-day. She doesn’t like folks.”

“Theo, who in the world are you talking about; and why do you race up and down the corn rows, laughing and chattering to yourself?”

“Well, I’ll tell you, mamma; but first let us go to the house; she might not like to hear me.”

Soon after, they were seated in the cool shaded parlor. The mother took the little girl on her lap. “Now, Theo, tell me,” she said. So the little child began.

“Well, mamma, it began long ago, by me being so lonesome. I haven’t any one to play with, and one day I was out in the cornfield when the corn was just as high as me. And I spoke out loud, and I said, ‘Oh, dear, what shall I do for some one to play with me? I shall go distracted’ (I have heard you say that word, mamma)! And I said, ‘I wish a little girl would grow out of those cornstalks;’ and just as I said that, the stalks parted, and out stepped the nicest little girl. She was so pretty! She had such curling brown hair, and blue eyes, and her dress was of green silk; and when she laughed, her teeth looked like little grains of white corn, and she was rubbing her eyes, as though she had just waked up. And she knew me, mamma; she said, ‘Why, Theo, did you come to play with me?’ and pretty soon we were the best friends you ever saw. And every day we played and played; only she never would tell me where she lived, and she wouldn’t ever come home with me to play. But one day, when the corn had grown way high above my head, and the roasting ears were getting ripe, she changed all at once into such a pretty young lady. At first I cried, for I didn’t want to lose my little girl; but the young lady was so lovely, mamma, and she sang to me, and we talked; and so one day last fall, when the cornstalks were turning yellow, I found my young lady had changed into an old one. And I was afraid of her at first, she was so bent over, and was queer looking. But I got real well acquainted with her, and she told me stories about gathering nuts, and about squirrels and birds, and oh, lots of things, and I just love her now!

“Well, I wanted to tell you, but you didn’t pay much ’tention when I talked to you; so, when husking time came, my poor old lady wrung her hands and cried, and told me good-bye, and I just couldn’t ’dure to see her go, and my dear cornfield torn down, and I have felt so lonesome.

“Well, this summer, the little girl came back, when the corn was tall enough for us to play in; and now we know each other so well that she changes just for fun, from a little girl to a young lady, and then to an old one; and she keeps me uneasy, mamma, for I never know just when she will change. She told me once she was an Indian woman, and that she was civilized now,—and that’s all.”

Theo ended with a sigh of relief that the story was told. The mother looked at the child long and curiously. “Well, I declare!” she said. But that night she said to Theo’s papa: “We must send Theo to school. The child’s head is filled with all sorts of nonsense; it’s time she was taught something sensible; and, if I were in your place, I would turn that cornfield into pasture-land, and invest in more cattle.”

“I have been thinking of that myself,” he answered.

By and by the mother asked, “John, was that cornfield ever used by the Indians as a burial place, or anything?”

“I don’t know,” he answered musingly. “I used to plow up arrow-heads, and pipe-bowls of red sandstone, when I first broke the prairie sod. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just because,” she answered.

VII.
AT THE WAYSIDE CROSS.

There is a border land that lies just beyond this everyday life, but not within the bounds of dreamland. We call it, for want of a better name, “The land of fancy, or of waking dreams.”

A young mother lay in her white bed, and close in her arms nestled the little soul whose life journey was just beginning. It was twilight time, and the mother lay half asleep, half awake, close on the confines of that border land.

The rain beating on the window, the fire purring in the grate, played a soft accompaniment to her thoughts.

“What will my little baby’s life be,—happy or sad?” questioned the mother. “Oh, dear All-Father, if I might know!” thus she prayed. And while she asked and wondered, a soft rustle by her bedside caused her to glance up. Above her and the sleeping baby leaned a tall bright angel, in garments soft and white like snow, with folded wings like the petals of some great white lily. “What is it,” wondered the mother; and a soft voice answered: “I am your baby’s angel. Your prayer has been heard. Look.” And the mother, following the angel’s glance, saw at the foot of the bed three gray shapes, three mysterious woman forms. There they sat, solemnly regarding the little one. In the hands of one was what the mother knew to be a distaff; from it, a fine thread passed to the baby’s hand. “Ah, that is why you clasp your hands so tightly, my darling, lest you lose the thread,” said the mother.

The next sister held a pair of shears in her hand; her eyes were sad and downcast. The last one had empty hands, but she spoke with authority, and she said: “Sisters, this new soul is bound for the city on the heights of Peace. How shall she reach it?”

Then spoke the one with the distaff: “Ah, sister, she is little and weak. She is a woman child. May she not go by the way that leads through the valley, where there is pleasant shade, and the birds sing all day long?”

The eldest answered: “Who that takes that route reaches the city? Do they not wander away into the defiles of the mountains, and the heights are lost to them? Nay, sisters, she shall go by the way of tears till she come to the wayside cross.”

Then the pitying one raised the shears to cut the tiny thread of life, but the other stayed her hand. “Let me read to you her destiny,” she said.

The angel bent low over the mother and child. “Be strong, be courageous,” he whispered; and the mother’s fears were stilled.

Then spoke the Fate: “This soul shall early be acquainted with sorrow; and the angel of pain shall walk hand in hand with her. But close beside shall walk the angel of patience. Her little feet shall be pierced with thorns and bruised with cruel rocks. But beside the stony path sweet flowers will bloom. She will hear the lark sing up in the blue, and at every turn in the path she will look backward and see that she is climbing higher. Sometimes, to strengthen her, shall be given her glimpses of the wonderful city. And always her guardian angel shall be with her to minister to her.

Glimpses of the Wonderful City shall be given to her.

“As the years go by, she will not journey alone. She will be happy, for love will lighten the way. Then suddenly shall she come to the wayside cross. There a great horror of darkness shall settle over her, her strength shall be taken from her, and she shall lie with her face in the dust.