Transcriber’s note

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected; hyphenation has been regularised. Close quotes have not been added at the end of paragraphs followed by more dialogue.

TOP

OF-THE-

WORLD

STORIES

FOR BOYS AND GIRLS

TRANSLATED FROM THE SCANDINAVIAN LANGUAGES

by

EMILIE POULSSON

and

LAURA E POULSSON

Illustrated by

FLORENCE LILEY YOUNG

LORTHROP LEE & SHEPARD CO.

BOSTON

Published, August, 1916
Copyright, 1916,
By Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
All Rights Reserved
Top-of-the-World Stories
Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
Norwood, Mass.
U. S. A.

IT WAS A LIFE AND DEATH RACE.

In memory of ten happy years,

this little book is dedicated to the

children of John, William, Anna, Martha, and George.

PREFACE

Not for my dear usual public of little children have I gathered these stories from Scandinavian authors, but for boys and girls who have reached a stage which warrants a rather free range in Story Land. For here are to be encountered creatures and events, deeds and ideas, unsuited to youngest readers, but which have legitimate attraction for boys and girls from nine to fourteen years old—the age varying according to the child's maturity and previous reading.

Five of these stories were written by the noted Finnish author, Zachris Topelius, who wrote them, and much else, for the children of Finland and Sweden more than fifty years ago. His loving sympathy for children, and his earnest desire to write only what was wholesome and good for them, shine through all his literary work for the young. His "Läsning för Barn" (Reading for Children) in several volumes, contains stories, true and imaginative, poems, songs, hymns, and many charming plays for children to act. Although a Finn, Topelius wrote in the Swedish language.

By the kind permission of Miss Margaret Böcher I have made use of her excellent rendering of Sampo Lappelil.

Of the other stories presented here, two (The Forest Witch and The Testing of the Two Knights) were translated from the Danish, and one (Anton's Errand, or The Boy Who Made Friends by the Way) from the Norwegian.

The translations are not strictly literal, neither are they, I am sure, unjustifiably free. The liberty exercised consists chiefly of omission. For example, in Knut Spelevink, extra incidents were omitted which dragged the story to a tedious length or marred it by the inartistic, outworn device of explaining Knut's adventures as a dream; in The Princess Lindagull, some details of the wild-beast fight were left out; in A Legend of Mercy, a hampering husk was stripped off from the good seed of the quaint little story. Most of the minor changes were made for the sake of smoothness and clarity.

In general, wherever I, as translator or editor, have varied from the original, I have done so to make the stories as directly appealing, as delightful, and as profitable as possible, for our boys and girls.

Emilie Poulsson.

Boston, Ma

TOP-OF-THE-WORLD STORIES

[KNUT SPELEVINK][1]

Knut was a poor orphan boy who lived with his grandmother at Perlebank in a little hut on the shore.

He had a shirt, a jacket, a pair of trousers and a cap; and what more does one need in summer? In winter he had woolen stockings and birch-bark shoes. That wasn't so little, after all. He was cheerful,—always happy indeed, though always hungry. It is a great art to know how to be happy and hungry at the same time!

His good grandmother was so poor that she seldom had enough food for the boy to eat all he wanted. She spun woolen yarn and sent Knut with it to Mr. Peterman's grand estate, The Ridge, several miles away, where he could always sell the yarn. When Knut returned with the money, Grandmother would buy flour and bake bread. She made it in big flat cakes with a hole in the middle, strung these cakes on a stick and hung the stick high up in the hut where the cakes would dry and harden, and could be kept for a long time. If the yarn brought a good price, she might even buy some sour milk, too. Potatoes they got from a tiny fenced-in field, no larger than the floor of a small room. Then, too, Grandmother owned a fish-net, so they had fresh fish sometimes,—when Fisher Jonas's boy could help Knut to put out the net.

It was indeed seldom, however, that Knut and his grandmother were well supplied with food, and the boy's little stomach often called for more; but even then he was as cheerful as ever.

One morning he sat on the beach, picking up yellowish stones that looked a little like soft, warm, boiled potatoes. Poor Knut! They would not do to eat, and he laughingly threw them away, but as he did so, he happened to see something that lay among the stones. Picking it up, he found that it was a little whistle or pipe made of reed, such as children often make for themselves when playing on the shore. There was nothing at all remarkable about it, but Knut thought he would see if it gave any sound. Good! It really did. You could play three tones upon it,—pā, pȳ, and pū. When Knut discovered that, he just for fun stuffed the whistle into his jacket pocket.

To-day happened to be a hungry day; Knut had had no breakfast. "Suppose I were sitting now in Mr. Peterman's kitchen at The Ridge," thought Knut; and at once he imagined he could smell herring being fried!

Well, he must do something; so he seated himself on a big rock near the water and began to fish, but the fish would not bite. There had been a storm the day before, but to-day the sea shone like a mirror under the bright sun, and its slow heaving waves swung clear as glass against the shore.

"I do wonder what Grandmother has for dinner," thought Knut to himself.

Just then a wave rolled up so high that it wet Knut's bare foot, and he heard a voice murmur from the wave, "Knut, have you found the magic pipe that belongs to the sea-princess? She left it on the shore and wishes she could find it. You can blow three tones on it, pā, pȳ, pū; and they all work magic,—pā makes the hearers sleep, pȳ makes the hearers weep, but pū sets them to laughing."

"What?" exclaimed Knut. "Is it a magic pipe? Well, you may go your way, big wave. I found the pipe and I think I shall keep it for a while."

The wave murmured something,—no one knows what,—rolled slowly away and did not come back again.

Knut took the pipe from his pocket and looked closely at it. "So you are a magic pipe, are you? And can charm, can you? Well, charm a fish on to my hook, if you please." And with that he blew pā, pā.

He had not blown very long before a perch, then a pike, then a white fish floated up to the surface of the water, lying on their sides as if they were asleep.

"Here are fresh fish to be had," thought Knut; and he continued to blow. In a short time the whole surface of the water near the shore was covered with floating fish, more white fish, several kinds of perches, sticklebacks, bream, carp, pike, and salmon,—all the lively finny throng that live in the sea.

"This will be a great catch!" thought Knut, and he sprang up to the house to get a hand-net.

When he came back, the shore was crowded with water-birds. The sea-gulls were the greediest and shrieked "Grab! Grab! Grab!" so that they could be heard a mile away! But there were many others keeping them company,—ducks and wild geese, together with swans. All these ravenous visitors were hard at work devouring the floating fish; and in the midst of the throng was a great sea-eagle that had swooped down and seized a large salmon in his talons.

"Go away, you thieves!" called Knut, picking up stones from the beach and throwing them at the birds. Some were hit in the leg, others in the wing, but none seemed to think of dropping his prey.

Just then a shot sounded, then another and another, from a near-lying bay. Some of the birds fell to the water and floated, lying on their sides like the fish. The firing continued until all the birds had been either shot down or sent screaming away, scattering in every direction.

A boat containing three hunters now approached the beach. The men were Mr. Peterman and two friends of his, and it was they who had shot the birds. They stepped ashore in good humor to gather up their booty.

"Why, there is Knut!" said Mr. Peterman. "How in the world did you get so many birds together here at Perlebank?"

"I was playing on my pipe for the fish and the birds came to the party," answered Knut, jokingly.

"Then you must certainly be a wonderfully clever player," said Mr. Peterman. "And hereafter, your name shall be Knut Spelevink."[2]

"All right," said Knut. He had had no surname before and thought he might as well have Spelevink as Anderson, Söderlund or Mattsson.

"But listen, Knut Spelevink; why do you look so poorly to-day? You are as thin as a rail," said Mr. Peterman.

"Why shouldn't I look poorly, who see all this food and have not eaten anything since yesterday noon?" replied Knut, in his cheerful fashion.

"H'm," said Mr. Peterman. "Well, come to The Ridge to dinner to-day, since you have provided us with such a good catch. But don't come until four o'clock because the birds won't be plucked and roasted before that."

"Thank you most humbly," answered Knut; but he thought to himself that four o'clock was rather late for any one who had eaten nothing since yesterday!

Mr. Peterman and his friends rowed away and Knut went home to his grandmother.

"Well, Knut, have you seen any fish to-day?"

"Oh, yes! I've seen plenty; but the birds ate the fish and Mr. Peterman shot the birds."

"Too bad, Knut. We have nothing for dinner but two herring, four little potatoes and a half-slice of bread."

"No matter, Grandmother; you eat that. I am invited to The Ridge for dinner and I shall bring you a bit of cheese in my pocket if I can."

"Don't take the short cut through Kiikkala Forest, Knut; there are elves there, and three troll-kings,—the Mountain King, the Snow King and the Forest King. Go, rather, along the shore,—that way is safer; only there you must look out for the mermaids."

"But it is a long way around by the shore, Grandmother, and I haven't had anything to eat since yesterday."

"Well, go whichever way you will then, but don't think about food. That leads one into temptation."

"No, Grandmother. I shall think about the next Catechism examination, and study hard as I go along."

Knut started on his way, thinking about the Catechism, but when he came to the beginning of the short cut, he thought: "Surely I should be a goose if I, with such an empty stomach, should walk seven miles instead of half that."

And so he turned off into the short cut through Kiikkala Forest and determined to hear himself say the Catechism while he was going through the woods.

He had not gone far before he saw a thin little old man, dragging a cart loaded with twelve iron bars.

"Good-day, Knut Spelevink," said the old man. "Why do you look so poorly to-day?"

"Why shouldn't I look poorly, when I have eaten nothing but Catechism since yesterday noon? But how did you know my new name?"

"I know all names," answered the old man, who was really a troll.

"Sha'n't I help you?" asked good-natured Knut. "You are all out of breath with that heavy load."

"Push away if you like, Spelevink." So Knut pushed, and the old man pulled and they soon came to a big mountain in the forest.

"This is where I live," said the old man. "Step in and I will give you something good to eat, because you helped me with my load." So saying, he entered the mountain. Knut's stomach said follow him, and Knut followed.

Soon they were in a great underground palace where everything glittered with gold, silver and precious stones.

"Do you live here?" asked Knut.

"I should say I did," replied the old man. "I am the King of the Mountain. To-morrow I give the marriage feast for my daughter; and my servants are so driven with work that I myself had to bring my food from the forge where these bars are made."

"Wasn't that iron in the cart?" asked Knut.

"Bar iron, my lad, bar iron of the best sort. That is something far finer than simple iron ore. Bar iron is my favorite food, especially when it is at white heat. Have you ever eaten bar iron?"

"Not that I can remember," said Knut.

"Then you shall be allowed to taste something extra fine for once. See, I lay two bars in the hot furnace fire. In three minutes they will be at white heat, and you shall creep into the furnace and eat of them hot,—fresh cooked!"

"Thank you very much," said Knut. "But give me rather a bit of bread and a bowl of sour milk."

"Oh, come now! You don't know what is good! Get into the furnace there. Be quick! The iron is red hot already."

"I believe you!" said Knut. "It is almost too hot for me."

"What nonsense!" growled the old troll. And he tried with all his might to thrust Knut into the furnace.

But the one who took to his heels at that instant was Knut. He ran for dear life, was lucky enough to find the outside door and was soon again on the forest path.

"Grandmother was right," thought Knut. "I really must hear myself the Catechism and keep my mind on it."

While Knut was thinking of one of the long explanations following the oft-recurring question, "What does that mean?" he suddenly felt very cold. The cause was soon evident, for behold! although it was summer, there, at a turn in the path, stood a snow mountain!

"This is remarkable," thought Knut. "How does any one here ever get warm food?"

With these words he climbed up on the snow, Catechism forgotten and thoughts of food uppermost in his mind; and at once he tumbled down into a deep hole, and found himself in a magnificent palace of glittering ice. Starlight and moonlight illuminated it. All the great rooms were ornamented with shining ice-mirrors, all the floors were strewn with diamonds of hoar frost. Clumsy snow men rolled about on their stomachs over the floor. Presently one stood upright. He was a long-bodied stiff creature, with icicles in his hair, icicles in his beard, a robe of thin sheet-ice, and shoes of frozen berry-juice.

"Good-day, Knut Spelevink," said the Snow King. "Why do you look so poorly to-day?"

"Why shouldn't I look poorly when I have had nothing but Catechism and bar iron to eat since yesterday noon?" said Knut with chattering teeth.

"You are too hot, young man, you are too hot,—that is what is the matter with you. I am the Snow King and I bring up all my subjects to be ice-clad—turn them into regular lumps of ice,—and I will do the same for you. Chief Officer of the Snow Knights, dip this boy seven times in ice-cold water, hang him on a hook and let him freeze."

"No,—thank you,—wait a little," suggested Knut. "Give me instead a mug of hot posset. I am already a lump of ice!"

"Chief Officer of the Snow Knights, give him a bit of frozen quicksilver, and a mug of chipped ice before you dip him," ordered the Snow King.

Knut wanted to run away but it was already too late. The Chief Officer had grabbed him by the collar, and it would have been all over with Knut if he had not chanced to get hold of his magic pipe. Knowing that there was not another thing he could do to try to save himself but to blow on his pipe, blow he did, right lustily; and this time the sound was pū, pū.

Instantly the long-bodied troll's features were distorted by a grin that should have represented merriment, but he was far from merry. He was boiling with rage over the resistless desire to laugh that unexpectedly took possession of him. He laughed and laughed; yes, he laughed so hard that the icicles fell from his hair and chin, his knees doubled under him, and at last his very head burst into bits! All the snow men laughed so violently that they, too, fell to pieces; the Chief Officer sank to the floor, becoming only a pool of mushy, dirty water. The ice-mirrors broke into small fragments and the whole palace changed into a wild whirl of snow!

"GOOD-DAY, KNUT SPELEVINK," SAID THE SNOW KING.

Knut himself was so overcome by laughter that it was only by the strongest effort he could hold his lips together on the pipe and keep on blowing.

While the snow still whirled about him, he suddenly noticed that he was again upon the forest path. And lo! the next instant the air cleared, the last of the snow disappeared in swift-running streams, and summer, high summer, ruled once more.

"Now I will look out for myself," thought Knut as he tramped steadily forward; and he began again to pick out from his memory an answer to the question, "What does that mean?"

He had not walked far before he found himself beside the most beautiful little wooded hill, where strawberries gleamed red all through the grass. It could not be dangerous to pick a few strawberries to eat, when one was not to have dinner until four o'clock in the afternoon, thought hungry Knut; and he climbed a little way up the hill.

No sooner was he there than he saw that what he had taken for strawberries was nothing else than many thousand charming little elves in red clothing. They were no taller than a strawberry stem, and were dancing merrily around a green hillock upon which sat their queen who was about three inches tall.

"Good-day, Knut Spelevink," said the elf-queen. "Why do you look so poorly to-day?"

"Why shouldn't I look poorly when I have had nothing to eat since yesterday noon except Catechism and bar iron and frozen quicksilver? I thought that you people were strawberries."

"Poor thing, he is hungry," said the queen to her lady-in-waiting. "Give him a dewdrop and the leg of a gnat so that he may for once eat until he is really satisfied."

"Thank you very much," answered Knut. "But might I perhaps have a dish of berries and a pail of milk instead?"

"What coarseness!" said the elf-queen, highly disgusted with such a gluttonous appetite. "Do you know, you human child, that you came into our kingdom without a pass, and that you trod to death three and thirty of our faithful subjects so that there is nothing left of them but a red stain? And you have refused our gracious offer of food and shown yourself to be disgustingly greedy, besides. Forest spinners of our court, do your duty."

Scarcely were the words spoken before a legion of long-legged spiders swung down from the trees and began to spin around Knut a network of countless fine threads. Knut did not relish this, and thought it a very poor joke. He beat away the webspinners, and tried to return to the forest path, but could not stir from the spot. His feet were tangled in an all too strong net, his arms were glued to his sides, his eyes even were plastered shut, and at last down he fell in the grass.

He could see nothing but he could hear how the whole hill rang with laughter; the elves formed a ring around him, danced over him, nipped him on the cheeks like gnats, and were beside themselves with joy over their comical trick.

"Lie there and starve until you can be satisfied with a dewdrop and a gnat leg," said the elves.

Knut fell to pleading with them. "Listen now, little elves," said he. "I shall be content if I may bite on a small piece of reed I have in my jacket pocket. Will not some of you be so good as to stick it into my mouth?"

The elves thought it would be inexpressibly amusing to see this greedy human child eat a piece of reed; so four of them climbed into his jacket pocket and with their united strength drew forth the magic pipe, which, with great effort, they succeeded in putting into his mouth. Thereupon they danced more merrily than ever around and over him, and the hill resounded with their delicate laughter. It was like the humming of a million swarms of gnats.

Knut no sooner felt the pipe between his lips than he began to blow; and this time the tone was pȳ, pȳ. At once the merry laughter came to an end, and sobbing was heard from every direction,—a sound as of a hundred thousand sobbing together, not unlike what one hears in summer when the beating rain lashes the hill.

Knut could not see, but he knew that the elves were crying and he felt that it was a sin, no matter what they had done, to make such merry creatures sob so grievously.

"Set me free and you shall laugh again," said Knut to the weeping elves.

Now it is the elves' greatest joy to laugh. Indeed, they laugh away their short lives in the summer evenings knowing nothing of sorrow.

At Knut's words, hundreds of elves began immediately to chase away the spiders, and to set free the prisoner, loosening his arms and his legs, and unplastering his eyelids. Knut could now see his tiny enemies and his anger rose again, so that he blew pȳ once more. Oh, how the poor little creatures grimaced and trembled! They wished so much to laugh and yet they must weep because of that frightful pȳ!

Knut had not the heart to tease them any longer. He changed the note to pū and the elves became almost crazy with joy. They leaped so high in the air that they nearly overtook the larks, and as they came down, some of them alighted upon Knut and he had to shake them off. He did not notice that one elf had fallen into his pocket and remained there.

"Good-bye, little elves," said Knut as he hastily set off again on his way through the forest.

"I must watch out well for that other troll, the Forest King," thought Knut. "He is said to be the worst of all. Where was I in the Catechism? Oh, yes. 'What does that mean?'"

After a while Knut came to a swamp at the roadside where cloudberries grew in profusion.

"It can't be wrong to pick a few of these berries as I pass by, since I sha'n't have any food until four o'clock this afternoon," thought Knut. To reach the swamp he had to climb over a huge fallen pine-tree, which lay in the way. Scarcely did he find himself clambering across its gnarly trunk and thick close branches than the pine-tree, to Knut's great fright, raised itself high in air, and roared with a gruff voice:

"Good-day, Knut Spelevink. Why do you look so poorly to-day?"

Knut, hanging over the road in the pine-tree's top, still found courage to answer:

"Why shouldn't I look poorly when I have had nothing to eat since yesterday noon except Catechism, and bar iron, and frozen quicksilver and a gnat's leg?"

"Well, why did you interrupt my midday nap?" asked the pine-tree. "Don't you know that I am the King of the Forest and rule over all the trees and swamps for seven times seven miles around! Here you see my palace. Haven't I a fine place to live in?"

Knut saw nothing but a bleak wilderness, so did not answer the question but ventured to inquire most humbly if he might not get down and pick some cloudberries to eat.

"What is that? Cloudberries?" roared the Forest King. "Take a fir-tree for a ladle and ladle into yourself seven cartloads of swamp mud. That is what I call a regular meal. It is my favorite food."

"Perhaps you would give me one load of apple marmalade, and a moderately big ditch full of wild honey instead!" suggested merry Knut.

"Apple marmalade? Humph! I shall make marmalade of you for disturbing me in my nap. My Lord Eagle, I give the boy to you. You can tear him into Scotch collops for your young ones."

THE PINE-TREE RAISED ITSELF HIGH IN AIR.

Knut now became aware of an enormous eagle sitting in the top of the tree and staring at him with ravenous eyes. He could not jump down, for the pine-tree held him fast by his arms and legs. He should soon be torn into Scotch collops.

Knut Spelevink had never eaten collops, but however much he liked food, it seemed unbearable that he himself should become food for eagles.

The situation was indeed dangerous, but at this critical moment Knut felt something light as a flower creeping up his arm, up to his jacket collar, then to his chin and finally to his mouth. It was the little elf that had hidden in Knut's pocket, and was now creeping along and, with incredible difficulty, dragging after him the magic pipe which was seven times as long as himself.

"Blow!" said the elf.

Knut felt the pipe in his mouth and began to blow with a will. This time the tone was again pā.

The Forest King yawned, stretched out his branches, and mumbled something about having been disturbed in his midday nap. Then he threw himself down at full length beside the swamp, and in his fall crushed beneath his huge trunk the big ravenous eagle which the magic pipe had made too drowsy to fly away.

As Knut crept from among the branches, he heard a snoring through the forest as loud as if a hundred bears were growling their best for a wager; and he again took to his heels as nimbly as he could.

"I must certainly look out," thought Knut. "It is indeed dangerous here in the forest."

Without stopping for cloudberries or anything else, he continued to run and run while he could, but it was not easy, and by and by he had to walk slowly for the path was almost overgrown. The bramble-bushes seemed to have a spite against his trousers, tree branches caught hold of his jacket, and clung fast to it; the heather and the twigs of the blueberry-bushes pricked his bare feet But to The Ridge he meant to get and to The Ridge he did get without further adventure, arriving,—tired, hungry and blowsy,—at precisely four o'clock in the afternoon.

"Welcome, Knut Spelevink," said Mr. Peterman. "You look right cheerful this afternoon!"

"Why shouldn't I look cheerful when I have been offered feasts of hot bar iron, frozen quicksilver, a dewdrop and a gnat's leg, and seven cartloads of mud?" laughed Knut.

"Why, that is a good many courses for one day," said Mr. Peterman. "One ought not to think much about food. When any one constantly thinks of what he can get to eat, he is in danger of encountering trolls and such like, who only fool him. But perhaps you are hungry, my boy?"

Knut blinked in embarrassment, squeezed his cap between his hands and said that he was not yet exactly starved to death.

"Now that rejoices me!" exclaimed Mr. Peterman. "I ate a late breakfast and the servants have not yet had time to pluck all the birds. You just wait until eight o'clock and then you shall have some supper."

This was worse than hot bar iron and seven cartloads of mud, Knut thought; but he bit his nails and answered that he could wait, of course, adding to himself, however, "I had better say the Catechism over again to pass the time."

Now this Mr. Peterman was a great joker and was only teasing Knut. He had himself been a poor boy and knew well enough what it meant, when famished, to wait four hours more for food.

"Knut Spelevink," said he, "I perceive that you can do more than think about things to eat. Do you realize that conquering one's self and being able to give up, even to the very necessities of life, what one craves here in this world is a kind of heroism? You can conquer yourself like a hero and keep your merry humor through everything. I like you, my boy, and I am sure you will make a fine man if you have enough to eat and go to school as I mean you shall; for I am going to look after you from this time on.

"But what does that mean?" continued Mr. Peterman, sniffing. "It seems to me I smell roast bird! Walk in, my boy. You shall sit with me, at my own table, and for once in your life eat all you want."

When Mr. Peterman said "What does that mean?" Knut thought it sounded as if catechising were going to begin; but the door to the dining-room was thrown open at that moment, and there stood a dinner-table laden with smoking-hot savory food awaiting the hungry guests.

Mr. Peterman led Knut in by the hand and Knut sat at the table like a lord; and there he might have been sitting yet if he had not long since carried home the promised piece of cheese to his grandmother, and been sent to school.

As for the magic pipe, he had used that three times and once more, and it had served him well in Kiikkala Forest; but try as he might he could never again get the magic tones from it, and one day he lost it. The Catechism, however, stayed in his mind, and Knut could recite it from end to end any time he was asked.

—Z. Topelius.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Pronounced K'nūt Spā-lě-veenk.

[2] "Spelevink" may be translated "Merrymouth."

[THE PRINCESS LINDAGULL][3]

Come, boys and girls, let us fly on the wings of the wind to the land of a thousand tales, to the home of roses and tulips! to the land where beautiful fairies build their castles in the red sunrise, and black gnomes flit around in the darkness of midnight; where the sun shines like fire over the blue mountains in Afghanistan, and the quiet water-lilies are reflected in the deep lakes; where tigers' eyes gleam between the reeds by the shore, and where sun-browned, dark-eyed people glow with hate and burn with love. Let us fly to Persia!

CHAPTER I

The Palace of Shah Nadir

There was once a Persian king whose name was Shah Nadir, and who was exceedingly rich. Large and beautiful countries with many millions of people were under his sway. Great rooms in his palace were filled with gold and precious stones; and his ships, laden with the riches of India, sailed over every sea. When he appeared in his capital city, Ispahan, he was surrounded by a life guard of a thousand men dressed in silver armor which glistened in the sun; and fifty thousand knights on most beautiful horses, with golden saddles and harnesses glittering with jewels, stood ready to speed away and conquer the world at his bidding.

But the mighty Shah Nadir was old and had no longer any desire for war and conquest. He had won many battles; many hostile cities had perished in ashes before his wrath; and many, many a knight had been pierced through by his sword in the days when his arm was young and none could withstand him.

But now he was old and weary, and liked best to recline on the luxurious purple divans of his gorgeous palace. Occasionally, however, when golden-edged clouds shielded the burning Persian sun, and a delightful breeze blew down from Mt. Zagrosch, the old Shah would seat himself in his richly ornamented palanquin borne by eight black slaves clad in silver tissue, and allow himself to be carried out that he might review his troops or watch the wild animals fighting in the arena.

Shah Nadir had many sons, because he had also many wives, as is the custom in eastern lands; but his sons brought him little joy. They were thankless and full of selfish ambition, thinking that their father lived too long, and plotting against his life and his throne. Therefore the king drove them all away from his court to distant provinces which they ruled over as viceroys. But he kept at home with himself his dear and only daughter, the Princess Lindagull, because he loved her more than all else on earth,—yes, more than all his treasures and all his riches.

Now it is well known that such a name as "Lindagull" had never before been heard in Persia, nor could it indeed be rightly pronounced by the Persians. The mother of the princess had come from the far North, no one knew exactly whence. She had been captured in her youth by African pirates, and after many adventures had been sold to the king of Persia, who, on account of her extreme beauty, took her in wedlock and loved her more than all his other wives.

This beautiful sultana, who was now dead, had called her only daughter "Lindagull," signifying that the princess was as lovely and pure as the gold of the sun, shimmering through the lindens of the North.

And it is true that a more beautiful or purer being could not be found if you searched the wide world over than the Princess Lindagull. She had the royal bearing of her father; but in form and disposition she was like her mother. With a complexion as dazzling as Scandinavian snow and eyes as soft as August stars on a moonless night, she had also a heart noble, tender and good; and so there was no one in Shah Nadir's whole kingdom who did not love the Princess Lindagull; for the fame of her beauty and goodness had spread through all Persia. This the old king knew full well, and his proud heart melted like wax every time he looked upon his lovely child. She was the delight of his eyes;—his comfort by day, his dream by night. One word of hers could quell his highest rage. He could not refuse her any request, even to the freedom of a slave.

When Shah Nadir thought upon his sons with their evil hearts, and of the trouble which they had made in the kingdom, he decided that none of them was fit for succession to his throne; and he made up his mind to choose for his daughter some good and noble man as a husband, and to leave to her and her descendants the inheritance of his riches and his kingdom.

The fatherly affection of Shah Nadir for the Princess Lindagull was right and beautiful; but he fell into the great error of allowing it to displace other loves and to lead him away from his duties to his subjects. So a heavy punishment came upon him.

No one could live in a more magnificent and delightful manner than did the Princess Lindagull. In a cool grove, under the shadow of high palm-trees, amid the music of rippling fountains and surrounded by the fragrance of a thousand flowers, stood the princess's lovely castle. In its lofty apartments the sunbeams broke through windows of limpid rock-crystal. The princess rested on the most elegant couch at night; and when morning came she was led by her attendant ladies to bathe in a grand basin of mother-of-pearl into which a fountain poured forth its waters and made a deep pool, the water playfully rippling around her delicate figure as she bathed.

In the daytime she wrought exquisite embroideries with her maidens, or listened to the songs of the birds or the music of the zither, or wandered in the grove, playing like a child with the yellow butterflies and dark red roses.

The Princess Lindagull was not more than twelve years old; but in the Eastern countries twelve years makes one appear as old as sixteen in Northern countries.

It is not a good thing to live constantly in luxury, and to see one's wishes fulfilled "at the least wink" as were those of Princess Lindagull. Many persons become proud and wilful under these circumstances; but this little princess did not. She merely became low-spirited. She did not know why it was, but the playing of the butterflies, the fragrance of the flowers, the rippling of the waters, and the zither's sweet sounds pleased her no more. She realized that her heart was often empty, and noticed with surprise that she often had a desire to weep. She could not understand it at all, and still less could her ladies. She did not know, this little Lindagull, that as a dark frame enhances many a picture, so trial and sorrow give one's happy days an added luster. With pleasures and naught but pleasures in her life, happiness was slipping from her. She must experience sorrow before she could know true joy.

Nevertheless, the princess believed that she had discovered the reason of her longings. It must be because she had always lived in the seclusion of her palace. She determined to go out, at least for once, into the rush and whirl of human life; and so, when her father next came to visit her, she asked that she might be allowed to see the great exhibition of wild beasts soon to be held at Ispahan in honor of the king's sixtieth birthday. Since Shah Nadir could refuse her nothing, he granted her request; realizing, however, that it was the first time he had ever done so with absolute unwillingness.

Such a conqueror as Shah Nadir, to whom half Asia paid tribute, could not fail to have many enemies. This, however, troubled him but little, because he had long held them in complete subjection.

One of these enemies had fallen under the personal dislike of the king; and in addition to the usual ceremonies of submission Shah Nadir had required the captive foe to suffer one of the greatest indignities of the East,—that is, the shaving of his beard. Having thus contributed to the king's vindictive amusement, the captive was set free.

SINCE SHAH NADIR COULD REFUSE HER NOTHING, HE GRANTED HER REQUEST.

This man was king of the giants in Turan (that vast, wild region of rock and desert north of Persia) and his name was Bom Bali. Once, when warring in the far, far North, Bom Bali had captured a wizard named Hirmu who could change himself into any animal whatever, and afterward resume his own natural shape.

Now when Bom Bali learned through his spies that a grand exhibition of wild beasts was to be held in Ispahan, he summoned Hirmu into his presence and said to him:

"Dog, dost thou wish to live?"

Hirmu answered, "My lord, may thy beard never grow less! Thou knowest that thy dog desires greatly to live."

Bom Bali said, "The first day of the month Moharrem there is to be an exhibition of wild beasts in Ispahan. Shah Nadir has sent his hunters into every mountain, even to mountains in our kingdom, to ensnare fierce creatures for the contests. Take upon thyself the form of a tiger. Be thou captured by the hunters. Steal and bring back to me the Princess Lindagull who is the pride of Shah Nadir and of all Asia."

"Thy hound shall fulfil all thy commands," said the Lappish wizard.

Soon after this conversation, the Persian hunters came to Turan, captured alive all the wild beasts they could from its mountains and deserts, and carried them in strong cages back to Ispahan.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Pronounced Lin'dah-gōōl.

CHAPTER II

The Arena

The first day of the month Moharrem had now arrived and the arrangements had all been completed in the capital city. Many of the most dangerous and terrible wild animals from India, Arabia, Turan, and even from the Desert of Sahara, were held in readiness in the side rooms or stalls of the immense semi-circular arena which had been especially built for this occasion. More than sixty thousand spectators were seated on the numerous tiers of seats stretching all around the arena. For the safety of these a strong iron railing had been erected between the benches and the fighting-ground.

Early in the morning the whole town was in excitement. Princess Lindagull was as happy as a child. She was going to be allowed to fly as a bird out of its cage! She was going to see a play wherein the actors were real lions, real tigers;—not like those represented by men dressed in skins which they took off after they had finished the play.

The spectators were assembled and all things awaited the arrival of the king. At last he came, followed by his shining guard; and not he alone, but with him his daughter, the wondrously beautiful Princess Lindagull. According to the custom in Eastern lands she was veiled. The people could only admire her charming manners and royal carriage as she, followed by her attendants, rode in upon a little zebra which caprioled with pride at bearing such a burden.

Although no one could see her countenance every one knew by hearsay the loveliness of the young princess. All knew, too, that she by her intercession had saved the life of many an unhappy captive, and that she each day sent out her maidens with medicine and bread for the poor in Ispahan. Therefore, when she now for the first time showed herself before the populace, there broke forth such a shout of joy from thousands of voices that its like had not been heard since the day when Shah Nadir celebrated his Day of Triumph after his grand conquest, with twenty captive kings in his train.

It is probable that the princess blushed; but no one saw it. She seated herself beside her father on the richly embroidered purple robe which was spread over the royal bench. And then began the exercises of the day.

A strange strife between a wildcat and a pelican came first. One of the pelican's wings had been clipped so that it could not fly away, and though it fought fiercely, thrusting its beak into the cat's side, the wildcat scratched and bit the big bird so savagely that the end soon came and the cat was declared the winner in the fight. Almost every one thought this contest very entertaining, but the Princess Lindagull did not like it at all.

After this, two monstrous crocodiles were brought forth in long tanks of water, and a dead pig was thrown out in front of them. The crocodiles had not had meat for a whole month and were very hungry. Nevertheless, so sleepy were they that they continued to lie still in the tanks, warming themselves in the sun. Then a boy sprang boldly forward and tickled one of the crocodiles on the nose with a switch. The crocodile thrust up his ugly mouth and began to clamber clumsily out of the tank to devour the boy. But the boy saved himself by jumping hastily aside, the crocodile not being able to turn quickly enough to catch him. When the boy had thoroughly roused this crocodile he awoke the one in the other tank; and then, swift as a gazelle, escaped through a little gate in the fence. Soon the crocodiles caught sight of the dead pig and both started forward to seize it. Falling into a rage at the idea of sharing it, they fell upon each other in a frightful contest. Each tried to force his sharp teeth through the scaly skin of the other, but without success. At last, however, one fell on its back, and the conqueror mounted its breast and got the pig.

Next followed a strife between six large Arabian dogs and an equal number of jackals from the deserts of Turan. These two animals both belong to the wolf family and though the jackal is a cowardly creature, he is formidable when once engaged in a fray. This conflict was fierce indeed. Five dogs lay prone upon the ground and only one jackal had fallen when a whistling was heard from the bench where sat the brave young Arab prince Abderraman. He whistled to incite his favorite hound, Valledivau, to further effort. The dog heard his master's voice and tackled again. The jackals fell, one after another, before his prowess, and soon Valledivau was greeted with a loud cheer as conqueror.

Then came a fight between hyenas and wolves; another between an Indian elephant and a tiger; and then a leopard and a panther were led to opposite sides of the arena. A piece of fresh meat was thrown down before them, and immediately both rushed toward it and fought for its possession. But the panther, which was stronger and more agile, came off victor, having covered his adversary with deadly wounds.

This contest being finished, a royal tiger of unusual strength and beauty was brought forth. He was called Ahriman, after the Prince of Darkness. The tiger's adversary was an immense lion, called Ormuz, after the Prince of Light. A living lamb was cast down before the two, but this was more than Lindagull could endure. She gave a sign and the trembling little creature was snatched away; and in its stead one of the dead dogs was cast before the wild animals.

The lion was hungry and immediately rushed upon the prey. The tiger, jealous by nature, also darted forward furiously, eager to deprive the lion and to get the prey for himself.

This was the most terrible contest of all. The air echoed the dreadful roaring of the angry beasts, the sand was thrown up by their paws and colored red with their blood.

They fell over each other, they separated, they rushed against each other again. All the spectators trembled, entranced. Long was the strife undecided, but the tiger Ahriman finally succumbed and Ormuz was led from the arena in triumph.

And now the performances were about to close with a grand strife en masse, every wild animal taking part. But the heat of the sun being intense, there was a cessation in the sports, so that the spectators might refresh themselves with cooling drinks. Many then went down upon the arena to look at the dead animals which had been left there.

Even the Princess Lindagull became curious to view the animals at a nearer point. She, who until now had seen only blossoms and singing birds, had no idea of the aspect of these dead creatures. So down she went, followed by her ladies and the guard, into the arena; and slaves spread gold-embroidered mats before her feet, so that her dainty sandals should not be soiled by the blood-stained sands.

What could she fear? All the living animals were shut up in safe cages. The most dangerous of all, the great tiger Ahriman, lay dead upon the arena. The princess went toward him, admiring his beauty and marveling at his splendid striped skin which she determined to ask her father for, that she might use it as a rug in the marble castle.

Suddenly the tiger rose up, gave a leap, sprang upon the princess, seized her in his terrible jaws, and rushed away! Shrieks of horror flew from tier to tier among the spectators, but no one had the courage to try to snatch his booty from the tiger.

No one? Ah, one there was! The valiant Prince Abderraman dashed with the speed of the wind into the tiger's path, grasped the monster's gory breast and struggled with him for his precious booty.

Alas, unhappy prince! His right arm was in an instant bitten almost off by the tiger, and he was thrown bleeding and helpless upon the sand; and before any one could come to the aid of the vanquished hero, the tiger had leaped over the high iron railing and escaped with the Princess Lindagull in his mighty jaws!

The anguish of poor old Shah Nadir was great; and great was the grief of all Ispahan,—indeed, of all Persia. The king's guard and the fifty thousand knights with gold saddles rode immediately away to seek the princess. They searched through every bush and cleft in Turan where a tiger's lair might be. Hundreds of tigers and other wild beasts fell before their spears, but fruitlessly. After looking through all Turan and half of Asia, the guard returned sorrowing. No trace of the Princess or her strange captor was to be found.

Shah Nadir tore his gray hair and cursed his sixtieth birthday. He had lost what he held dearest on earth,—his Lindagull. He ordered his people to array themselves in mourning as if a sultana had died. He also commanded that prayers should be offered in all the mosques for the Princess Lindagull's return. And the proclamation was made that whoever restored his daughter to him, living, should receive the hand of the princess and inherit the Persian crown; whoever brought her back dead should receive as a reward sixty asses laden with gold and costly treasure. The hope of so rich a reward led many princes and noblemen to undertake the search for the lost daughter of the king. But sooner or later all came back without having found her. All except one; and that was Prince Abderraman. He had made a solemn vow to seek for the princess fifteen years; to find and rescue her, or die.

If the princess had been carried away by a real tiger, our tale would have ended with that; because nothing is sacred to a royal tiger, not even the noblest princess in the world. But this was not the case. The wizard, Hirmu, had availed himself of the exhibition of wild beasts in order that, transformed into a tiger, he might carry out his master's commands for his own advantage. He had exchanged hearts with the tiger; and so long as the heart was not destroyed or eaten up, Hirmu could not be killed. But such a treasure as a princess he preferred to keep for himself; so, instead of taking his captive to old King Bom Bali in Turan, he carried her away, with flying leaps, to his own far-away home in Lapland.

CHAPTER III

The Captivity

It was now autumn, and dark in Lapland.

The Lapp woman, Pimpedora, sat and cooked porridge over a blazing fire in the tent, while her son Pimpepanturi sat waiting for the porridge and looking idly at his reindeer shoes. Pimpepanturi was a good-natured boy; but he was stupid, and not a little lazy besides. His father, Hirmu, had wished very much to bring him up as a wizard, but it was of no use. Pimpepanturi thought more about eating and drinking than of learning anything,—whether sorcery or what not.

The Lapp woman turned toward the boy, and said, "Don't you hear something?"

"I hear the fire crackle and the porridge bubble in the pot," answered Pimpepanturi with a long yawn.

"Don't you hear something like a roar out in the autumn night?" asked the Lapp woman again.

"Yes," said Pimpepanturi; "that is a wolf taking some of our reindeer."

"No," said the Lapp woman; "that is Father coming back. He has now been away four winters, but I hear him growling like a wild animal. He must have hurried to have reached home so soon again!"

At that moment Hirmu entered in the semblance of a tiger with the Princess Lindagull hanging from his mouth. Placing her on a heap of moss in the corner of the tent, he quickly regained his own body (replacing his own heart in it now), at the same time calling out, "Mother, what food have you? I have run a long way."

The tiger fell dead upon the moss in the tent. The Lapp woman had nearly fallen into the porridge-pot from fright; but she recognized her husband and promised him a good supper, if he would tell her where he had been these four winters, and what kind of a grand doll he had brought home with him.

"That is too long a story to tell," grumbled the husband. "Take care of our grand doll and give her warm reindeer milk to restore her to life. She is a fine young lady from Persia. She will bring us good fortune."

Princess Lindagull was not dead,—not even wounded. She had only fainted from fright. When she awoke she lay (in her rich clothing of pearls and silver tissue) on a reindeer skin spread over moss, in the Lapp tent. It was dark and cold. The firelight shone on the close walls of the tent and on the Lapp woman, who gave her reindeer milk to drink. Lindagull believed herself to be in death's domain under the earth; and cried because she, so young, should be snatched away from Persia's sun and Ispahan's lovely rose gardens.

IN THE LAPP TENT.

The wizard, in the meantime, hit upon a happy plan for winning Persian treasure, and said to Lindagull:

"Weep not, beautiful princess. Thou art not dead. Thou hast only been stolen away by a horrid tiger and my son, the brave Knight Morus Pandorus von Pikkuluk'ulikuck'ulu, has saved thee at the greatest risk of his own precious life. We will be thy slaves and serve thee with the utmost zeal until it becomes possible to conduct thee back to Persia."

"What lie is that, old man?" said the honest Lapp woman in her own language to the wizard.

The wizard continued: "My wife says that if thou wilt take our son, the surpassingly beautiful and brave knight, Morus Pandorus von Pikkuluk'ulikuck'ulu, for thy bridegroom, we will immediately conduct thee back to Persia."

Pimpepanturi did not understand Persian; so he made great eyes when his father pushed him forward toward the princess and pressed his stiff back down with both hands that it might appear as if Pimpepanturi were bowing.

Lindagull would not have been a princess and the daughter of proud Shah Nadir if she had not felt herself insulted by such an indignity. She gazed scornfully at the wizard, and at his clumsy lout of a son,—with such eyes! Nay! it was not a gaze; for her eyes flashed lightning! (And Persian eyes can flash lightning!) Father and son both flushed dark red.

"No, that won't do," said the wizard. "She must first be tamed."

Then the wizard made a partition in the tent, three yards long and two yards wide. There he imprisoned Lindagull, and gave her half a reindeer cheese and a dipper of melted snow-water every day for food.

Thus day and night passed by in darkness, for winter came quickly; and the Northern Lights shone in through the cracks of the tent.

Poor, innocent little Lindagull! Her eyes had flashed lightning once; but as in thunder-storms it is not long between lightning gleams and showers of rain, so the tears of Princess Lindagull soon began to fall. Yes, she cried as one only can cry when one is twelve years old and has been a princess in Persia and lived in rose-gardens and marble castles, guarded by the friendliest attendants, and then suddenly finds herself hungry and freezing, alone, in a dark Lapland winter. Yes, she wept as one weeps over lost youth, health and beauty;—over a lost life; as the dew weeps over a beautiful extinguished day in Ispahan's pleasure garden.

When she had done weeping she slept. But lo! while she slept, there stood by her side the friendly old fellow whom the Finns call Nukku Matti, whom the Swedes call Jon Blund, and whom the Danes and Norwegians call Ole Luköje,[4]—(I don't know what they call him in Persia;) and he took her in his arms, bore her to Feather Islands and laid her on a bed of fragrant roses in a lovely grotto. There all was peaceful and good. The soft moon shone over date-palms and myrtle forests, just as in Persia's fairest springtime. Small airy Dreams danced forth to her with silken shoes over velvet rugs, and led her back to her home; to her father the old Shah Nadir, to her friendly attendants and to all the places dear to her from birth. And so passed the long winter nights.

And so passed weeks and months in the Kingdom of Dreams; because it was now night altogether. But Lindagull was patient and wept no more. The Dreams had said to her, "Wait; thy deliverer will come——"

Who would deliver her? Who should discover a path where no path lay, far away in the snow?

The Lapp woman would willingly have set her free, but dared not on account of her husband. And Pimpepanturi also had thoughts of it, but was too lazy.

At length the winter was ended. The sun dared to shine, the snow melted and the gnats danced about. Then the wizard thought, "Now she is tamed!" Whereupon he went to Lindagull and asked if she wished to travel back to Persia. If so, she need only to accept the grandly courageous and highly admired knight, Morus Pandorus von Pikkuluk'ulikuck'ulu for her bridegroom, and the reindeer would immediately stand harnessed at the door ready to travel southward.

Lindagull did not shoot glances of lightning this time. But she thought of the young Prince Abderraman who had once bled for her on Ispahan's sand; and remembering his face she could not possibly accept Pimpepanturi. She answered nothing.

At this the wizard became very angry. He shut the Princess Lindagull in a deep, dark grotto on a mountainside, and said to her (dropping the grandiloquent style he had heretofore used): "Soon the cloudberries will be ripe. You shall keep account of the days as they pass, in this way. The first day you shall have thirty cloudberries to eat and thirty dewdrops to drink; the next day twenty-nine cloudberries to eat and twenty-nine dewdrops to drink; and so on, for each day one berry and one drop less. On the last day you shall tell me what you have decided."

So Lindagull stayed there confined in the grotto. The time of year had now come when barren Lapland shone with light both day and night; but the grotto was dark. The cloudberries and dewdrops steadily lessened in number, but Lindagull's cheeks became no paler and her quiet patience continued the same as before. What she had to forego by day Nukku Matti and the Dreams made up to her every night. They lifted off the rocky roof by their magic power so that she could see the glowing midnight sun and hear the roar of the waterfall as it hurled itself over the edge of the rock. Drippings from this waterfall fell into the grotto in the form of a delicious honey-dew, which served the starving one as refreshing meat and drink.

The thoughts of Princess Lindagull dwelt often upon Prince Abderraman. She sang ballads of the Eastern lands, and it pleased her to hear a hundred clear-voiced echoes answer back from the mountain walls. On the thirtieth day, the wizard brought her the last berry and the last dewdrop laid upon a leaf of Lapland dwarf-birch.

"Well now," he asked, "have you decided?"

Lindagull covered her fair face and answered nothing.

"There is still one day's time for thought," said the wizard, "and you shall have some company to help hasten your decision." As he said this he opened the door of the grotto, and immediately something like a great cloud streamed in. It was a swarm of Lapland's starved-out gnats. There were thousands and thousands and thousands of them, and they filled the grotto like a thick cloud of smoke.

"I wish you much joy in your new acquaintances!" said the ugly wizard, shutting the door quickly as he went out.

Lindagull did not understand his meaning. She did not know the sting of the Lapland gnat. She had never been annoyed by the Persian firefly even, for a slave had always stood at her side night and day with a long waving peacock feather to protect her from all hurtful insects. The knowledge of such suffering as the horde of stinging gnats would have inflicted was kept from her now by the kindly Dreams; who, the instant the door was shut, threw around her a close-woven veil of finest texture, from the loom of the fairies. Through this veil the gnats could not make their way. Not a drop of royal blood did they taste, day or night. They bit with all their little power at the hard granite rocks; but finding these too juiceless, the disappointed insects settled themselves like a gray web about all the cracks and corners of the grotto.

At midnight the door of the grotto was noiselessly opened and in walked the Lapp woman, Pimpedora, with a jar in her hand, followed by Pimpepanturi carrying a burning torch and some smoked reindeer meat.

"Poor child," said the good-hearted Lapp woman, "it is a sin to keep you here; but I dare not let you out, for if I did my husband would change me to a mountain rat. See, I have brought you some pitch-oil in my jar. Spread it all over your body; that will keep you from being stung to death by the gnats."

"And see here, I have brought you a smoked shoulder of reindeer so that you shall not starve to death," said Pimpepanturi, good-naturedly. "It is somewhat nibbled, because I grew so very hungry on the way; but there is still a little meat on the bone. And I stole the key of the grotto while Father slept, but I dare not let you out, for if I did Father would change me into a wolverine. But you need not trouble yourself about taking me for your husband. I'll wager that you cannot even cook a black pudding properly."

"No, I know I cannot, truly," answered Princess Lindagull, and she thanked them both for their good-will, but explained to them that she was neither hungry nor gnat-stung.

"Well! Keep the pitch-oil for safety's sake," said the Lapp woman.

"Yes, keep the shoulder of reindeer, too," said Pimpepanturi.

"A thousand thanks," replied Lindagull.

Then the door was closed and she was again alone.

The next morning the wizard came, expecting that now he should surely find his captive half stung to death by gnats and completely subdued. But when he saw Lindagull as blooming as before, and saw her again look thoughtfully into his face without speaking, his wrath knew no bounds.

"Come out!" he shouted.

Lindagull stepped forth in the clear day, as delicate and bright as a fairy in moonlight. When she threw back her veil to look about, the sun shone before her, warm and radiant as on a spring morning in the blue mountains of Afghanistan.

Then said the wizard: "I have a great mind to take you to old King Bom Bali in Turan. He would load six asses with gold to get hold of you for a single day! But no; I will not give up yet. Listen to what I have decided upon. You shall be turned into a heather blossom on a Lappish moor and live only as long as a heather blossom lives, unless you will yield to my wishes. Notice the sun: it now stands low in the sky. In two weeks and a day comes the first polar frost. Then the heather blossoms die. Just before the frost comes, I shall question you for the last time."

LINDAGULL STEPPED FORTH IN THE CLEAR DAY.

Glaring at her, he waited, as if expecting the desired answer at once; but as Lindagull again only gazed thoughtfully up at him in silence, the wizard cried out in a voice trembling with anger:

"Adáma donai Marrabataësan!"

which meant, "Human life! sink into the likeness of a flower!"

The wizard had learned these magic words one autumn evening from the South Wind when it came from the African desert and laid itself to rest on a Lapland mountain. The wind understands all languages, for all words are spoken in its hearing.

As the magician uttered this frightful command, it seemed to Lindagull as if all the flower-stalks on the heath grew to trees and overshadowed her; but it was she herself who sank down to the earth. The next moment a stranger's eye could no longer distinguish her from the thousands and thousands of pale purple-pink heather blossoms on the Lappish waste. "In one day and two weeks!" mumbled the wizard, casting a malignant glance behind him as he turned back to his tent.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] Ole Shut-Eye. (The Sandman.)