STORIES

TOLD BY THE MILLER

BY VIOLET JACOB

AUTHOR OF “IRRESOLUTE CATHERINE,” ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

1909

TO

MY BOY HARRY

STORIES TOLD BY THE MILLER

Janet and little Peter lived in an old white-washed cottage that stood in a field by the border of the mill-pool. It was a tiny, weather-stained cot, to which a narrow path led through a gap in the low wall of the highroad. Across the road stood the mill itself, grey, windowless, and solid, with stone steps leading up to a door, through which, on a grinding day, you could hear the noise of the machinery and see the dusty atmosphere within. Peter and Janet thought the mill-field over the road a charming place; and so it was, for at one end the overflow from the tree-hidden dam poured down its paved slide in a white waterfall, to wander, a zigzagging stream, through the field and out, under the road, to the pool near their cottage. From the farther side of the dam the mill-lead ran evenly below the gnarled roots of the trees shadowing its course, and was lost in that dark hole in the wall behind which the flashing wheel turned. The water came racing out to join the overflow and dive with it through the causeway, coming up in the pool beyond. From there it meandered over the country into the river, which carried it to the sea. On wild days in winter you might hear the roaring sound of the North Sea beating against the coast.

Janet and her brother were orphans, and their lives were very hard; for their grandmother, with whom they had been lately sent to live, was a cruel old woman who beat poor little Peter when she was out of temper. Janet came in for rough words, and blows, too, sometimes, although she was almost seventeen, and old enough to take care of herself. Many a time she longed to run away, but in her heart she knew that she would never do so because she could not leave her brother alone. She was a good girl, and a pretty one besides, for her hair was like the corn and she was as slender as a bulrush. The neighbours whose boys and girls passed on their way from school would not let their children have anything to do with little Peter, for many thought that his wicked old grandmother was a witch. The children had made a rhyme that they used to sing. It was like this:

“Peter, Peter, the witch’s brat,

Lives in the house with a green-eyed cat!

Peter, Peter, we jump for joy,

Throwing stones at the witch’s boy!”

And then sometimes they would throw them, but not when Janet was by, for she would catch them and shake them.

“You are the green-eyed cat!” they would shout, as they saw her angry face. But they took care to run as they said it.

In spite of their troubles, the brother and sister were not always unhappy, for there were many things they liked. One was the crooked old cherry-tree that grew between their cottage and the pool, and when the leaves turned fiery rose-colour in the autumn Peter would pick them up as they dropped and make them stand in rows against the wood-pile, pretending they were armies of red soldiers. The brightest and reddest ones were the generals, the paler ones the privates. And the wild cherries tasted delicious.

One day Peter was crying bitterly. The old woman had beaten him and he was very sad.

“Come away,” said Janet. “We will go to the mill, for I can hear the grinding going on. No one will notice if we slip into the field, and we can look right in and see the wheel itself.”

Peter forgot all about his trouble and stopped crying, for she had never allowed him to go so near the wheel before. They set off and went round the back of the mill buildings. Oh, how charmed he was! Janet lifted him up and he looked through the big hole. Round and round went the great spokes of the wheel, and the water, clear as crystal in the darkness, dripped from it and fell in showers into the brown swirl below. The sides of the walls were green with slime and little clumps of fern, and the long mosses streamed down like tresses of emerald-coloured hair. At last he drew back and she sat him on the ground. Then they turned round to go home, and nearly jumped out of their skins, for there was the miller looking at them. He was a tall young man, with a brown face and clothes covered with white dust; even the leather leggings he wore were white, and his hat, which he had pushed back, was white too.

“Well, my man,” said he to Peter, “and what do you think of the wheel?”

Peter did not know what to say, he was so much taken aback.

“When I was a little boy,” said the miller, “I was just like you, and couldn’t keep away from a mill-wheel if there was one within twenty miles. ‘When I’m a man,’ said I, ‘it’s a miller I’ll be.’ And a miller I am.”

But little Peter was still too much startled to understand friendliness. He pointed to the cottage over the road.

“You won’t tell grandmother we came here?” he asked, his eyes filling with tears.

“Not I,” said the miller.

“She would beat him if you did,” remarked Janet.

“That’s bad,” observed the miller, pushing his hat farther back. “I had a grandmother, too, when I was a little lad; she had a great cap and horn spectacles.”

“And did she beat you?” said Peter, gaining courage.

“Not she!” exclaimed the miller. “But she used to comfort me if anyone else did. Such fine tales she used to tell me, too—some out of a book and some out of her head! I’ve got the book in the house now.”

Little Peter loved stories more than anything in the world, and every moment he was growing less afraid of the miller.

“Oh, tell me one!” he cried. “Please tell me one!”

“Sit down, then,” he said, “and you, too, my pretty lass. The first I can mind her telling me was about this very mill. Would you like to hear about that?”

“Yes, yes!” cried little Peter.

And so they sat down by the mill-lead, and the miller began his story.

THE STORY OF THE WATER-NIX

My grandmother was a wonderful woman (said he): there was nothing she heard that she ever forgot and she had a good education at her back, too. Not a thing happened but she could make a story out of it, and on the days when she went to market she used to take me with her in the cart; she would drive and I sat up beside her, and it was then I heard from her what I am going to tell you now.

Long ago there lived in the deep water round the wheel a Water-Nix. She was the most beautiful lady ever seen, though it was not many had the luck to catch sight of her, for she seldom came out of her hiding-place near the walls. A body might live here a year and never see her. But sometimes, on light nights, she would dive under the door and swim out, and even sit up on the bank, with her thin white smock trailing in the water. Once—so grandmother said—the miller’s man saw her perched upon the wall by the road, just where the stream runs under it. The drops were falling off her white feet on to the grass—so he told grandmother—and though there was only a little crescent like a sickle in the sky that night, he could see the water-lilies twisted in her hair. She was laughing and holding up her arms at the moon.

“ONCE . . . THE MILLER’S MAN SAW HER.”

And have you ever seen her? inquired little Peter, his eyes round.

Never, said the miller. Well, to go on: Sometimes she would get through the causeway and go and lie in the pool over yonder near your cottage, floating and sending the ripples widening in great circles round her.

Now, it happened one day that the Nix was in her place, hidden behind the door near the wheel, when a pedlar passed by on the road. He had a pack on his back, gold rings in his ears and a staff in his hand; for he was a lusty fellow, landed off a ship that had come in from the Baltic, and was travelling inland to sell what wares he could carry. He was singing as he went, and the Nix came out and swam close under the walls to hear him. He sang of the sea, and there was something in his voice that reminded you of the wind droning in the rigging. (How grandmother knew that I don’t know, for she wasn’t there to hear him; but she had once been in a ship off the coast of Jutland, so I suppose she guessed it.)

“Out and home and out again,

As the tide rolls heavily,

With the ship to steer and the fog to fear,

By the grey banks near the sea.

“Hand to the helm and heart to the blast,

And face to the driving rain,

And the sea runs high to the glowering sky

As we sail for the North again.

“Hark to the mermaids off the shore,

As they sing so bonnilie

Through the rocks and caves to the sounding waves

In the grey lands out at sea,

In the caves across the sea.”

She had never heard such words or such a tune in her life, and she rose, head and shoulders, out of the water, crying to the pedlar to sing it again. But when he saw the yellow hearts of the water-lilies round her head, he took them for gold, and he leaned over the little wall and made a snatch at them. The Nix dived under again and went back like a flash to the darkness by the wheel.

But all day long she sat there, singing to herself all she could remember of the song of the pedlar; she was like one possessed:

“By the grey banks near the sea,”

she sang, rocking herself about,

“In the caves across the sea.”

Now, as time went on her longing grew stronger and stronger: all the day she thought of the sea and the grey caves of the coast, and all night she sat on the wall, looking out eastwards and listening for any sound of water that might come inland. (It was at this time that the miller’s man saw her.) Why this happened to her I can’t tell, for I don’t know. Perhaps her relations were those sea-kelpies that haunt the Baltic.

Be that as it may, one night she crept out of the pool and followed the banks of the wet ditch by which it escapes, making for the river. It must have been a queer sight to see her as she went, with her wet garments clinging round her, running down the fields; I always used to fancy when I was a boy how she would look from side to side, afraid of being seen, and how she would stop here and there to listen for the sea. She reached the marshes and ran out till she felt the incoming tide about her feet. The steeple of the town and its lights were strange to her, but long before she got near them, the water was deep, and she swam under the bridge and out through the shipping in the harbour till she heard the surf and saw the white line over the bar.

Outside the sea was thundering and booming, and the salt spray flew in her face, for a rough night was setting in. Farther and farther she swam, and soon she felt the current running strong with her towards the cliffs that stand miles out and look towards Denmark. The gulls came swooping over her, but she did not care; she had seen them at times screaming behind the plough in the fields round the mill. But, as the wind rose and the waves lifted her up and tossed her, she grew frightened; for all she knew of waters was the stillness of the pool.

The storm was louder as night went on, and by morning she was so much buffeted about that she lay floating among the seaweed. She had no strength left to go one way or another, and at last she was cast up on a bit of sandy shore and sat under the cliffs wondering what to do, for the place was strange and she was afraid of all the world. A track wound upwards, so she followed it till it brought her out high above the sands. The size of the sea bewildered her and she gazed about for some place in which to hide.

Close by was a little circle of tumble-down wall; she looked over it into a tangle of weeds, and saw what seemed to her the strangest thing of all, for she did not know it was a deserted graveyard. If she had she would have been no wiser. The crosses leaned sideways out of the rank thistles and hemlock. Some of the stones lay flat, with only their carved corners sticking out and some had the shape of tables; some were no more than broken pieces. But one of the graves had once been a very grand place, with a little building over it to shelter the stone; its roof was battered in, but it had a helmet and strange words cut above the doorway. The Nix made her way to it through the hemlock; in she went and crouched against its farthest corner. It was the quietest spot she had seen. She was so weary that she did not know what to do, and the sun dazzled her, for it was growing strong and she was accustomed to dark places.

She had lain there some time when she heard steps not far off. Someone was coming along the ridge of the cliffs. In another minute a brown goat had jumped into a gap in the circle, and stood staring in as though it were counting the tombstones, moving its upper lip from side to side. Goats seldom passed the mill, and she was half scared at its beard and wagging ears and the horns above its solemn face. As she looked a boy appeared behind it—a rough-looking boy, with a shock of yellow hair and a switch in his hand to drive the beast with. When he saw her he set up a loud cry of terror, for he did not expect to find anyone in such a place, and he had never seen a Water-Nix in his life. Then he took to his heels, and the goat galloped after him, baaing as it went. The Nix lay quite still; she could not think why anyone should run away like that.

She curled herself closer into her refuge.

Presently she heard a noise like the beating of pots and pans and voices coming nearer. She crept to the wall and looked over. A whole crowd of boys was coming with sticks in their hands, shouting, and as they caught sight of her, they cried louder, brandishing them. Some even had the handles of old brooms and the goat-boy was at their head, beating a tin kettle. “There she is!” he cried.

Then the poor Nix understood that they had come out after her, and she climbed out of the graveyard on the side nearest the sea and began to run for her life. She rushed down a narrow path winding among great boulders, and, when she was exhausted, she crept behind one of them and lay there till the voices had died away and she thought her pursuers had given up the chase. When all was still she rose and went on, not knowing where to go for peace. Great tears stood in her eyes as she thought of the mill and the trees by the dam.

In time she came to a huge crag standing out into the waves and joined to the land by only a neck of rock no wider than the top of a wall. She had no fear of growing giddy, for she knew nothing of the uncomfortable things that happen to human beings, so she crossed it. The place looked so lonely that she was sure there could be nobody there. When she was over she turned the corner of a rock and found herself at the foot of a high wall, pierced by little shot windows and broken by a heavy iron door. In her astonishment she sprang back, for in front of it stood a tall man with a fierce face and eyes like a hawk. The Water-Nix turned and fled. Poor thing! she did not get far, for he bounded after her and caught her by the wrist. She struggled and fought, but it was no good; he seized her in his strong arms, and carried her in through the door.

Now, inside the door was the court of a great tower, which was hidden on the landward side by the top of the crag, and the man with the fierce face was a robber who had made his home in it. The people who lived in the country round were terrified of him, for he would come out at night and harry their villages, robbing both rich and poor. No one could catch him, because the narrow crossing over which the Nix had come was the only way of getting at the tower, and he and his men would shoot from behind the loopholes, killing all who approached. They could not get at him from the sea, for the rock ran straight down into it like a wall and nobody could climb it.

The robber dragged the Nix into his tower, not because he wanted to kill her, but because he had no wife to be mistress of it, and he thought that so beautiful a lady would be the very person. He was not at all cruel to her, and he brought her all the finest things in his treasure-house. He offered her jewels he had plundered, necklaces of pearls and diamonds stolen from the merchant ships he had attacked; for he was a pirate too and his galleys were anchored in the deep water of the caves below his rock. But she scarcely looked at them; the only ornament she cared for was her wreath of water-lilies that she used to pluck from the mill-pool.

But at last the time came when he got angry. “To-night I am going out,” he said. “The only thing I have not stolen is a wedding-ring, and now I want one. I shall land at the first village up the coast, for I know that the fishermen are at sea, and at the first house I go to I will seize the wife’s wedding-ring. To-morrow we will be married with it.”

Among the robber’s captives was a priest he had taken prisoner, so he told him that he must be ready to marry them as soon as he could get back with the ring. The priest was sorry for the Water-Nix and did not want to do it.

“You will have to,” said the robber, “or you shall be thrown into the sea.”

Then the poor Water-Nix wrung her hands and cried and sobbed so piteously that the priest’s heart smote him, and he cudgelled his brains to think of some plan to save her. At last he found one. As soon as the robber’s back was turned he said: “Bring me the diamond necklace that he gave you and I will see what we can do.”

When he had got it he went to one of the robber’s men.

“Look at this,” said he. “If you will open the great door to-night when your chief is gone, and let us all three out, you shall have it the moment we reach the mainland. It is so valuable that, if you sell it, the price will enable you to live honestly for the rest of your days.”

“But I don’t care for honesty,” said the robber’s man.

“Well, never mind about being honest,” said the priest. “You can be rich without that.”

“That is a grand idea,” replied the other. “The robber is a cruel master, so I will do as you say. But if you don’t give me the necklace the moment we get out of sight of the tower, I will kill you and the Water-Nix too.”

So when it was dark, and the robber’s galley had rowed away, the priest took the necklace, hiding it under his clothes, and he and the Nix stole out to the door. Everyone was asleep or drinking but the man who waited for them with the key he had contrived to get.

They let themselves out so noiselessly that no one heard them, for the robber’s man had oiled the lock, and when they reached the mainland the priest gave him the necklace.

“Well, I’m off. Good luck to you!” he said, as he snatched it. Then he took to his heels and ran off with his treasure.

“And now I think that is all I can do for you,” said the priest. And he left the Water-Nix standing where she was, without so much as giving her his blessing. The sooner he could put a few miles between himself and the robber’s tower the better, he thought.

The Nix looked round and round about her. Below lay the sea, moaning and washing the shore, and not far off was the outline of the little graveyard in the faint starlight. She ran on along the cliffs, for far away a few lights of the town by the river’s mouth could be seen twinkling in a row, and she knew that up that river lay the mill. As morning dawned she found herself in a thick wood. She was glad, for what she had seen of people made her wish to get as far from them as possible, and she determined to hide all day in the wood, and travel on all night. She ran far in among the trees, and threw herself down on a bank and fell asleep, for she was almost worn out and her feet ached from the rough ground.

She had slept a long time when she woke and saw, to her dismay, that someone else was sitting on the bank, quite near. He was a long, thin, pale young man, with lank, untidy hair and shabby clothes, and he was reading aloud to himself out of a book on his knees. As she moved he turned and saw her over the fallen trunk behind which she lay. He shut his book, taking care to keep a finger between the leaves to mark the place, and looked calmly at her. He was the first person she had met who did not seem surprised to see her. All the same, she prepared to run away.

“You needn’t be afraid,” said the student—for that is what he was. “I notice that you are a Water-Nix, and, that being so, you are the very person I should wish to see. This is a poetry-book that I am reading; the writing is fine enough, but there is nothing in it as fine as what I am going to write. I am going to make a poem. Three days, I assure you, have I wandered in this wood trying to think of a subject for it, and now I have it. It shall be no less than my meeting with yourself.”

And he said a long sentence in Latin, which the Nix could not understand; but, then, neither could she understand much of anything else he had said, so it didn’t matter.

“Ah, yes, you are a Water-Nix,” he continued—“Nixiana Aquatica.”

And he took a pencil out of his pocket and scribbled down a note on the margin of his book.

It was some time before he left off saying learned things, and began to consider how his companion had come to a place so far from the river, where not even a stream ran through the trees. He listened to the tale she told him with astonishment, and at last he put aside his book and promised to help her to find the way to the mill. He was very sorry for her, though now and then he would forget her presence as he pulled out his pencil to write down the beginning of the poem he meant to make.

When night came the student and the Nix started off. He walked in front, and she went after him, like a dog following its master. In the morning they hid in an overgrown quarry, for she was much too frightened to go abroad in the daylight; and thus they travelled till, after midnight on the second day, they found themselves close to the highroad which ran towards the mill-pool. They sat down to rest. All was so still that you could hear sounds ever so far off, and they soon made out that someone was coming to meet them. Then a man passed on the road; they could not see him, but he was singing to himself. And what he sang was this:

“Out and home and out again,

As the tide rolls heavily;

With the ship to steer and the fog to fear,

By the grey banks near the sea,

In the caves across the sea.”

The Nix held her breath as the pedlar—for it was he—went by, and when he began the second verse the thought of everything that had happened went from her. All she could hear or remember was the beating of the grey sea, calling her with its compelling voice.

Without a word she got up and followed the pedlar and left the student sitting by himself in the dark. He sat open-mouthed.

Back to him from the distance came the sound of footsteps and the floating refrain.

“Bless me!” he exclaimed. “Bless me! Nixiana Maritima!”

But it was too dark to write that down on the margin of his book.

The pedlar walked on singing, and she kept a little way behind him, treading softly. On they went till the first streak of daylight broke in the sky, for he was on his way to the town; he had sold all his wares and meant to go to sea again in the first ship he could find leaving the harbour. When they entered the streets all the world was asleep, and they passed through the town unnoticed. Beside the quay a forest of masts stood dark against the sky, and here the pedlar halted, looking about him. Then he turned and saw the Nix.

“Hullo!” he cried roughly. “What’s this?”

But before he could get nearer she dived into the water. The pedlar began to shout. In a minute the place was awake, for at the sound of his voice men sleeping in their boats at the quay’s edge leaped ashore to see what was the matter, windows were opened in the houses, and everyone was calling out to know what had happened.

The Nix looked back and saw the crowd collecting. She swam for the harbour’s mouth with all her strength, and she was so afraid that they might put to sea and follow her that by the time the sun rose she was miles out in the clear waters. All was blue around her, sky and wave, and the land lay behind, a faint line in the sunshine. The great ocean was as calm as her own pool by the mill and her heart sang as she went out farther and farther. It seemed to her that the voice’s of the mermaids the pedlar had sung about were resounding from all the caves on these haunted shores. She had never been so happy.

She went on and on. Time and space and distance were as nothing; everything was falling from her but the sense of a great joy.

Far in the distance something was steering fast to meet her, making white splashes on the blue expanse, and soon she could see a face and brown arms rising above the surface. A great sea-kelpie was coming towards her, the seaweed trailing from his hair and his shoulders breasting the water. As they met he held out his hand.

She put hers into it. Then they swam out till the coast was no more, and the remembrance of the world of men was no more, and disappeared together into the mists of the North.

The miller ceased, and little Peter sat spellbound for a while, for he had forgotten everything but the adventures of the Water-Nix.

“And what happened to her?” he said at last.

“I can’t tell you any more,” replied the miller; “and how grandmother knew as much as that I don’t know, though, to be sure, she understood more than most people about everything.”

“The kelpie would take care that she came to no harm,” said Janet.

“You’re right there,” said the miller. “I make no doubt but they’re living happily among the sea-caves hundreds of miles away.”

“But the man with the untidy hair—you haven’t told what happened to him,” said the little boy.

“Ah yes, there’s more to be said about him,” answered the miller. “He wrote his poem, and it made him rich. There was so much Latin in it that people thought it wonderful. That brought him in a heap of money. He married and had a large family, and one of his daughters was my grandmother. She was a fine girl, and it seemed to him a bad come-down in life when she married the miller and came to live here. But they were very happy, for all that, and it was from the miller’s man she heard the story of the Water-Nix.”

“Is it because your great-grandfather was a poet that you can tell stories so well?” asked Janet, with some awe.

“Well, it might be,” said the miller. “Anyhow, it’s a fine notion. I never thought of it before.”

THE KING OF GROWGLAND’S CROWN

It was almost a week before the brother and sister saw the miller again, but one evening as Janet was coming down the road he jumped over the wall from the mill-field.

“Where’s the little boy?” he asked. “I hope your grandmother has not been bad to him again.”

“No,” said Janet, “she’s very cross, but she hasn’t beaten him for more than a week.”

“You go and fetch him,” said he. “I have been looking for the book I told you about—grandmother’s story-book. I’m not busy to-night, and we can sit in the field, and I’ll read him a story.”

“How lovely!” cried Janet. “I’ll run and bring him at once.”

“Yes, and mind you come back, too,” called the miller after her.

In a few minutes she returned, with Peter jumping and clapping his hands beside her, and when they had found a nice place, they sat down to read.

They sat on the roots of a tree by the mill-lead, with the water babbling at their feet. The book was old and tattered, and, unfortunately, there were no pictures in it, but they did not mind that. They could see just as good pictures for themselves, in their own minds’ eyes.

“I will read you a story about three brothers,” said the miller to Peter; “and there’s a magpie in it, too, and a pretty young woman like your sister.”

And he opened his book and began:

There was once upon a time a widow who had three sons; they were fine, strong young men, and the two elder thought themselves more than commonly clever. The youngest did not think much about anything but his business, which was to keep the sheep, look after the horses, and supply the pot with the game he brought home. He was a hard worker, and when he lay down at night, he was glad enough to sleep, though the others would usually sit up scheming how they might grow rich. He thought them rather grand fellows, all the same, and quite expected they would do something wonderful.

One day the widow called them all and told them it was high time they saw something of the world. “To-morrow morning you shall all be off round it,” she said to the eldest. “You must start facing east, your next brother facing west, and when you meet in the middle at the other side you can compare all you have learned. As for you,” she went on, turning to the youngest, “you shall start southward, and no doubt will be in time to fall in with them and profit by their knowledge.” She also had a great opinion of her elder sons.

So off they went, and when they had gone half round the world, the two elder brothers came face to face at the other side in a sandy hollow. They sat down and began to talk.

“Well, brother, and what have you done?” asked the second.

“Done!” exclaimed the first brother; “what do you mean? I haven’t made a penny or seen anybody I think as well of as myself. There is nothing to be got by giving oneself all this trouble. The world is an overrated place, I can tell you. What have you got out of it?”

“Nothing,” said the second; “and I agree heartily with every word you have said.”

At this moment they looked up and saw the third brother coming over a hillock. He did not look much more prosperous than themselves.

“We won’t tell him,” they said; “we will pretend we have done wonders and made our mark, and then we’ll get a pretext to be rid of him before he finds out the truth. It would never do for him to lose his respect for us.”

“Hi!” cried the youngest brother, “this is luck indeed!” And when he had greeted them he sat down beside them in the sand.

“Hullo! how are you?” said the eldest.

“Oh, well enough,” replied he.

“And how have you got on, and how much money have you made?”

“Oh, no money,” replied the young man, “but I think I have picked up a little experience.”

“Pooh!” cried the others in a breath. “That’s all very well, but it isn’t good enough for us.”

“Are you rich, then?” asked the youngest.

“Rich?” cried the eldest, “did you say rich? I am rolling in gold. I have a great shop in which the merchandise of four kingdoms changes hands, and my counting-house is so fine that two Emperors drove up last Sunday and asked if they might be allowed to go over it. I said yes, of course. There was a Bishop in the carriage, too.”

The youngest brother’s eyes grew round. “Well, that’s grand indeed,” he said.

“And I,” broke in the middle brother—“I have no taste for buying and selling; in fact, I think it rather low. But a lady fell in love with me, so I married her. She inherited money from a Duke, who is her uncle, and she asks nothing better than I should spend it.”

“Well, well, well!” exclaimed the youngest.

Then he looked curiously at his companions. “And how is it,” said he, “that such great people as you have come here on foot? I should have imagined you would have arrived on horseback or in carriages.”

“Oh, we live so close by that it was not worth while disturbing the servants,” they replied quickly.

“Then you live in the nearest town and in the same house?” continued he.

“Yes, yes,” answered the second. “My wife cherishes me so that she insisted upon my brother living with us, for fear I should feel homesick. It was very good of her, but what an idea to be homesick for such a hole as our mother’s farm, when I live in the finest house in the market-square!”

“Indeed, brothers,” said the youngest, “I think all this is capital, and so much so that I shall certainly go back with you at once. I will start for home early to-morrow, but you shall give me a lodging for the night, and I promise you that I shall rejoice at the sight of your prosperity. I have slept under the stars every night since I began journeying, and a good soft bed will be a treat to me. Besides which, I shall see my sister-in-law and be able to tell mother all about her.”

At this the elder men’s faces fell, but there was nothing for it but to go back by the way they had come to the nearest town. However, their brother walked behind as they went, so they had time to invent a way out of their difficulties. When they reached their destination, they paused at the town gate, telling him to stay where he was while they went to prepare for his coming.

“All right, then,” said he, “but in five minutes I shall follow.”

They could not help smiling at his innocence, for they intended to escape as quickly as they could.

“How are you going to find the way?” they inquired.

“Why, haven’t you been telling me that you live in the finest house in the market-square? I shall soon find that.”

This was rather a blow to the others, for they knew that he was swift of foot and that they would not get far in five minutes.

“It doesn’t matter,” whispered the middle brother; “I know a fine trick. We will have dinner and a night’s lodging at his expense, and in the morning we will be off before he is awake, and leave him to pay the reckoning. Come, look sharp, or he will be after us.”

With that they ran to a large, handsome inn which stood in the middle of the market-square. It had a tower on it, and an entrance good enough for an Alderman’s family.

“Landlord,” said the middle brother, “I am a gentleman from a distance, and in a most unexpected dilemma. Help me out of it, and I can assure you you shall profit. A great lord, finding that I am in the town, has sent me a message. You must know that he is under heavy obligations to me, and has sworn that on the day I am married he will give me a thousand crowns as a wedding gift. Now, I am not married at all; but if he arrives and can be made to believe I have a wife, he will immediately redeem his word. My plan is simply this: I shall entertain him well at your inn, and, if you have a daughter—or even a decent-looking serving-maid—who will sit at the head of the table during dinner and act as though she were mistress of the house, I will divide the sum with you the moment I receive it. Should he go back from his word, there will be no harm done, and I will pay you liberally for your hospitality. I will give the girl a new gown, too, as a remembrance of her assistance.”

Now, the landlord was the first rogue in the kingdom, and the scheme so pleased him that he nearly died of laughter.

“You are a sharp one!” he exclaimed. “Why, I have a daughter clever enough to act any part in the world, and she shall do her best, you may be sure. Come, I will get ready a good dinner and take down the signboard, so that the place shall appear as a private house.”

By the time he had done this and acquainted the girl with the plan, a loud thumping was heard at the door, and the third brother stood outside.

Now, the landlord’s girl was goddaughter to a witch, and very beautiful; she had also learned some useful things from her godmother, who had brought her up till she was sixteen and obliged to return and help her father with his inn. So, when the plot was explained, she said: “I hope no harm will come of it,” and before getting ready to preside at the table, she took a good look at the two men.

“They have rascals’ faces,” she said to herself.

She then ran to a top window, and looked out to see what sort of a person the great lord who was coming to dinner might be.

It chanced that, as she leaned out, the third brother glanced up.

“If that is my brother’s wife,” said he, “she is indeed a beauty!” And he sighed, wishing that such luck had come his way.

When the girl saw his face, she thought:

“That is no great lord, but he is a handsome fellow, for all that. I will see, at least, that he gets the best of everything in the house.”

So when the table was spread, and before the three brothers came into the dining-room, the girl said to the magpie that hung in a cage behind the window-curtain:

“Take notice of every word that is said to-night, and repeat it to me, or I will wring your neck!”

The magpie promised, and she went forward to receive the guest.

“Here,” said the second brother, “is madam, my wife.”

With that the youngest brother kissed his sister-in-law heartily.

“I knew he was no fool,” said the girl to herself.

As dinner progressed she made herself so pleasant that the room rang with joy and merriment, and she pressed all the most delicate dishes on the youngest brother; nor did she fail to notice that whenever he addressed either of his companions as ‘brother,’ which he did frequently, the two exchanged covert glances of annoyance.

“All is not right here,” she exclaimed under her breath, “for, were he the great lord they say, there are no two men alive who would more willingly call him a relation!” And she smiled rather slyly.

“Why do you smile, wife?” asked the second brother.

“My love,” replied she, “at finding so great a personage a member of your family.”

No one knew what to say, for the youngest brother feared she was laughing at them all, and the two elder were sure of it.

However, time flew, the wine sparkled, the hot roast dishes smoked, and it was hard to say which of the four was in the best humour.

When the feast was done the girl got up, and, taking a silver candlestick from the table, said:

“Husband, I see that our guest is weary with travelling and his eyes heavy with sleep. I myself will show him the guest-chamber, and assure myself that the servants have made his bed well.”

So saying, she led the youngest brother to the room prepared for him, walking before him with the lights. As he went he could not cease admiring the fine plaits of dark hair which hung down her back and regretting that the evening was over and he would be so soon deprived of her company.

When they got to the bedchamber, she made every pretext to remain away from the dining-room as long as possible, smoothing the pillows and drawing the window-curtains close, that the starlight might not disturb his sleep. When she had bidden him good-night, she went downstairs as slowly as she could.

“THEN THE BIRD TOLD HER THE WHOLE PLOT.”

“I had no notion it was so late!” she exclaimed as she entered. “Now that my part is done, I may tell you two gentlemen that the longer you sit here burning our oil and occupying our best room, the more you will be charged for it. Now, tell me if you are satisfied with my performance, and then take my advice and go to bed for the sake of your pockets. There is a good room ready for you upstairs.”

The brothers congratulated her on the way she had played her part, and went off. Nothing could have suited them better, for they meant to slip out of the house and be gone long before dawn broke.

When the girl had showed them the way, she ran downstairs to the magpie’s cage.

“Quick, quick!” she cried, “tell me everything those knaves said to each other while I was taking the stranger to the guest-chamber.”

“Oh, mistress,” exclaimed he, “we have indeed dined in evil company!”

“You have not dined at all,” she said, “and never shall if I hear not every word of their talk.”

Then the bird told her the whole plot, for the brothers had discussed it openly in her absence. “Besides all this,” he concluded, “they mean to run away in the night and leave the young man to pay the reckoning.”

At this the girl ran straight upstairs and locked the two brothers in; she took off her shoes and turned the key so softly that they heard nothing. Afterwards she slipped out into the yard, and, taking a harrow which lay in the outhouse, drew it under their window and turned it with the spikes uppermost, to deter them from jumping out. She then knocked at the door of the guest-chamber.

“Come out!” she cried through the keyhole; “there is knavery afoot!”

When the youngest brother opened the door she told him all, and when he had hurried on a few clothes he came down to the dining-room to hear what the magpie had discovered.

“I shall be out of this as quick as I can,” he remarked when the bird had finished. “My only grief is that I shall never see you again. I am really very glad you are not my brother’s wife, for I had much rather you were mine.”

“So had I,” said the girl.

So they determined to depart together.

“You are never going to leave me behind!” exclaimed the magpie.

“Well, then, come along,” said the young man, opening the cage door. “When you are tired of flying you can have a lift on my shoulder; I am not going to let my wife trouble herself with your cage.”

“I am not your wife yet,” said the girl, tossing her head.

“That’s easily mended,” replied the youngest brother.

So they crept softly out of the inn and took the road long before the sky showed signs of morning. But at last the east grew grey in the darkness and bars of rose-colour hung over the sea of primrose and gold from which the sun was about to rise. They sat down beside a stream to rest, for they had come a good long distance.

“Fly into the nearest tree,” said the youngest brother to the magpie, “and wait till the risen sun shows you the nearest steeple. Where there is a church there will be a priest, so, when you have directed us to it, you can go there yourself and rouse him. We will follow and wait in the church porch till you bring him to marry us.”

As soon as it was fully light the bird obeyed, and having lit on a church steeple, he called to a man in the road below to direct him to the priest’s house.

The priest was just getting out of bed, but he ordered the magpie to be admitted. When he had heard his request he promised to set out with his prayer-book as soon as he had eaten his breakfast, and the bird, after thanking him courteously, flew off again to the church. “I forgot to ask who you are,” called the priest after him, with his mouth full.

“I am a near relation of the bride’s,” said the magpie as he sailed away.

By the time the engaged couple reached the porch they found the holy man awaiting them, and were immediately married. The magpie gave the bride away and offered some advice upon the married state, for he was a widower and knew what he was talking about. “Now go,” he said, “and I will return to the steeple, where I shall find snug enough quarters. Three is an ill number for a honeymoon.”

So the husband and wife went to the village and found a suitable lodging; they meant to stay there for the next few days, till they should decide where they should live.

As the sun set that evening the magpie sat on the steeple meditating on life. The bright glow struck through the ivy-leaves, and he was much astonished at seeing something glittering so brightly in the light that he was almost dazzled. The shine came from behind a great tangle of foliage which clothed the tower. He hopped down and thrust his beak in among the ivy. There, in a hole scooped carefully among the stones, was a heap of jewels such as he had never seen in all his days. There were ropes of pearls, chains of diamonds and rubies, and emeralds in heaps. It was with difficulty that he could resist screaming aloud, so great was his astonishment, and he was all the more shocked when he reflected that this cunningly-made storehouse of wealth must be the handiwork of robbers.

“I fear that the world is a terribly wicked place,” he observed; “I must look into this. I will remain here till night and see what roguery is going on.”

So when night was come he concealed himself with great caution in a niche. When midnight had struck and the moon—now at her full—blackened the shadows, he heard a rustling below and saw the head of a man appearing above the belfry stair. He was a wicked-looking ruffian and was followed by another who held something hidden under his cloak. The magpie poked his head round the corner of his niche. The two thieves went straight to the hole behind the ivy, and, having looked in at their stolen wealth, sat down on the church roof.

“And now,” said the one who had come up first, “what is this great treasure that you have taken?”

“You may well ask,” replied the other, “for it is no less than the King of Growgland’s crown. Here—you may try it on if you like.”

And he pulled out a bundle wrapped in cloth. His companion snatched it, and, when he had untied the knots, there came out such a blaze in the moonlight that the magpie was almost blinded.

The crown glowed and shone. It had spikes of gold with knobs of rubies on the top, and pearls as big as marrowfat peas were studded round the circlet. In front was a fan-shaped ornament half a foot high and one mass of emeralds and diamonds. The thief set it on his own knavish head and turned round and round that his friend might admire his appearance.

“There now, stop that,” said the other at last; “I have had enough of your masquerading. Not even a crown can make you like a gentleman.” And he whipped it off and thrust it into the hole. Then he drew the ivy across it, and, after a few more rough words, the robbers disappeared as they had come.

When morning dawned the magpie flew to the house where the youngest brother was lodging with his bride. He pecked the window with his beak and cried to the young man, “Here is great news! Follow my advice, and you will find your fortune made. Now tell your wife to go to the town and buy a piece of fine silk to make a bag. While she is doing this you must procure a hammer, a piece of pointed iron and a yard of string; you can get a pickaxe and shovel from the shed where the sexton keeps his tools. All these you must hide in a bush which I shall show you in the churchyard. Ask no questions; and, when evening falls, meet me with the bag and all these things behind the church.”

So saying, he flew away.

Now, the girl knew very well that the magpie was no ordinary bird, and she obeyed him carefully; she rose and went into the town and bought a piece of red silk. Having made the bag, she gave it to her husband, and, at the time appointed, he met the magpie behind the church with all the implements he had got together.

The bird directed him to leave the pickaxe and shovel in the porch, and they went up to the roof by the belfry stair. When the youngest brother saw the treasure he was speechless, but the magpie gave him no time to examine the jewels.

“Listen to me,” he said, “and we are rich for ever. (I say ‘we’ because I feel you will not forget my poor services.) Do you see an iron bar that sticks out into space on the side of that flying buttress? It is placed there to hold a swinging lamp, and there are five steps by which the sexton approaches it to hang up the light. As you see, they also stand out into space. Tie this piece of string round my leg, and, when I have flown up and alighted on the iron bar, twist the other end round it, so that I may seem to be fastened to it as to a perch; but do not knot it, or make it really secure. To do this you must reach the bar by these steps.”

When the young man heard this, his flesh crept, for he was not accustomed to high places and, the steps being on the outer wall, the least giddiness might plunge him headlong into the churchyard, fifty feet below; but, being a manful fellow, he climbed up and twisted the string so neatly round the bar that no one could have supposed the magpie to be anything but a prisoner.

“Now,” said the bird, “take your hammer and the piece of iron and loosen the three top steps till they will not bear more than a child’s weight.”

When the youngest brother had done this, the magpie told him to hide himself in a ditch in the churchyard, and not to come out till he was called by name.

After midnight the robbers came to look at their treasures, and did not notice the magpie sitting on the bar. Indeed, had they done so, they would have paid little heed, supposing him to be some ignorant bird who had no interests beyond his own food. They sat down on the roof as they had done before, and, taking out the jewels, began to count them. They made a large heap and placed the crown on the top. All at once the magpie flew up in the air as far as the string would permit, and cried in a loud and dreadful voice, “Help! help! The King of Growgland’s crown is stolen!”

At this the thieves were so much horrified that they dropped their booty, and ran wildly to and fro on the roof searching for some hidden person, and, when they came close to the place where the iron bar was, the magpie flew up again, crying the same words more terribly than before.

“We’ll soon choke his noise,” exclaimed the robbers; and with one accord they began to climb the steps. But the youngest brother had done his work well: the stones were loose, and in another moment they had fallen headlong through the air, and were lying with their necks broken in the churchyard.

The magpie then called his friend, who brought the pickaxe and shovel, and when they had buried the two robbers they went up again to the roof, and put the King of Growgland’s crown into the red silk bag.

“We know who this belongs to, and we will certainly restore it,” said the magpie; “the rest we will keep as some slight remuneration for our trouble.”

There were enough jewels to make fifty people rich for life. It was a haul! The youngest brother praised the magpie, and, taking off his shirt, knotted the tails together and filled it up to the neck with precious stones. It was almost light before he got back to his wife and showed her what the magpie’s good sense had accomplished.

In a few days the magpie set out for the kingdom of Growgland, scarcely more than a hundred miles away, and demanded to see the King. He found the whole city in a ferment and everyone distracted. The King had grown quite thin, and the head of the police had been sent to prison for being unable to find the thieves.

“If your Majesty will start the day after to-morrow,” said the magpie, “and go a day’s journey from the city, you will meet a young man and a girl on horseback carrying a red silk bag. Your Majesty may wring my neck if it does not contain the crown of Growgland.”

At this everyone was electrified, and the King, with a great retinue, started and encamped a day’s march off, that the crown of Growgland might be received with all due ceremony. As evening came on the magpie grew a little nervous, for the King had placed a guard over him to do him honour (at least, that was what he said); but the bird knew very well that it was done so that he should not escape if the crown failed to appear. But at last he saw his friends approaching. Being now rich, they rode fine horses and were dressed as befitted great personages. The King sat on the royal throne (which was a folding one, and so had been brought with him), and the youngest brother, having related his story, gave the red silk bag into his hands. Before parting with him His Majesty presented him with a sum of money that, even had he not been rolling in wealth already, would have made him independent for life.

After this, the magpie and his friends set out for the town in which they had left the two elder brothers and a few days later dismounted before the inn. The harrow was still in its place, prongs uppermost, and at the window, far above it, two forlorn-looking faces were to be seen.

The landlord came out, transported with surprise at the fine appearance of his daughter and the youngest brother.

“There,” he said, pointing to the upper window, “are the two knaves who have deceived me, and whom I have kept locked up ever since you left.”

At this the imprisoned pair perceived who it was that had arrived.

“Here,” they shouted, “here is the great lord come to pay our debts! Did we not assure you that he would come?”

And they rained abuse upon the landlord.

“Let them out and I will make it good to you,” said the youngest brother.

So the two miscreants were freed, and a sorry sight they were; for, as the price of each day of their detainment the landlord had demanded a garment, and their clothes were almost at an end. One had only a shirt left; and the other one garter and a piece of an old tablecloth in which he had wrapped himself for decency. The inn servants shouted with laughter as they came running out. The youngest brother and his wife laughed too; and as for the magpie, he was so delighted that he nearly choked, and had to be restored with strong waters.

“I still prefer my experience to your money,” remarked the youngest brother to his relations.

THE STORY OF MASTER BOGEY

“This time it will have to be a tale I remember hearing grandmother tell,” said the miller one evening, “for I’ve left my book in the town. The cover was so battered that it had to be mended.”

They were sitting on the steps of the mill. Every week now, and sometimes twice between Sunday and Sunday, they spent a delightful time with their friend. Little Peter thought he was the finest man in the world; and Janet, though she said little, was quite sure there was no one like him. And, indeed, they were not far wrong, for he was the most splendid miller that anybody ever saw; he was like a big boy at heart, though he was a grown-up man with a mill of his own and a horse and cart in the stable.

There was once a square house (he began) that stood in a garden. Outside the garden were great trees which had been there for more than a hundred years, and when the wind blew high and the gales raged in the autumn, they swayed about and creaked so that anyone might think they must fall and crush everything near them; but they never did. Up in the top story of the house was a row of windows belonging to the rooms where the children lived, and, as the blinds were often left up, you might see the lights inside and the shadows of the nurse and the little girls moving about.

Now, high up in the highest tree visible from the nursery lived a family of Bogeys. They were very nice people. There was Father Bogey and Madam Bogey and young Master Bogey, their son.

The children had no idea that they lived there, for they never showed themselves, but lurked hidden in the dark shadows of the boughs. When the wind blew they swayed hither and thither with the branches, and when the nursery blinds were up and the firelight shone behind them, Master Bogey, who was inquisitive, would sit staring and trying to make out what was going on in the room.

“How I should love to get in and see what it is like!” he would say to his parents.

And Madam Bogey would answer: “Nonsense! Your father and I have lived here for ages, and have never tried to get in. We know very well what is our business and what is not. You can see the little girls every morning as they come down the avenue with their nurse, and you know that their names are Josephine, Julia and Jane. What more can you want?”

And Master Bogey would say no more. But that did not prevent him from being as inquisitive as ever.

Every day as the little girls came out for their walk he would peer down on them, unseen. Each had her doll in her arms, and the two elder ones would talk to theirs and carry them as carefully as though they were babies. But Jane was always scolding hers; once, even, she threw the poor thing roughly on the ground. She did not suspect for a moment that Master Bogey was looking down at her, horrified.

At last, one night in winter, his curiosity grew more than he could bear; for he had not heard the front door bolted nor the key turned, and he knew that he might never have such a chance of getting into the house again. The snow lay deep, and his parents were snoring in the fork of the branches in which the family spent the winter months. Overhead, the stars were clear and trembling in the frost and the nursery firelight shone red through the curtains. He slid down, ran across the white ground and up the front-door steps. Yes, the handle went round in his grasp, and in another moment he was standing in the hall.

It was easy to see that the servants had been careless that night; not only was the door unlocked, but the lamps were left burning too. As Master Bogey paused at the foot of the wooden staircase, it was all he could do not to turn and run, for the wall beside it was hung with family portraits of fierce gentlemen and bedizened ladies who stared at him dreadfully. But he was a sensible fellow, and, as most of them were half-length pictures, he decided that people who had no legs couldn’t run after him. He ventured to touch one, and, finding it wasn’t a living thing at all, he grew as bold as brass and began to look about him. Christmas was not long over; the yew and the holly were still wreathed above the frames, making him wonder how these little pieces of trees could have got inside the house. There were swords and spears and old fire-arms too, whose use he could not understand. Up he went softly, nearly jumping out of his skin when a step creaked under his foot, and he found himself at last on the nursery threshold. The door was ajar and the firelight bright in the empty room, so in he went.

But suddenly he gave a most terrible start, for the room was not empty at all; three dolls were sitting on three chairs, watching him intently, and two of them were looking very severe.

“May I ask, sir, who you are?” demanded the one nearest to the hearth.

Master Bogey was speechless. He turned to run away.

“Stop, sir!” cried the doll again, “and be good enough to answer me, or I will alarm the house. Who are you? I insist upon knowing.”

“I am Master Bogey,” he stammered.

“La! what a name!” exclaimed the doll upon the next chair. And she held up her fine satin muff and giggled behind it.

“Yes, and what a shock of hair!” said the other. She held up her muff and giggled too.

Poor Master Bogey was ready to cry.

The two dolls who had spoken were almost exactly alike: they had round pink faces and round blue eyes; on either side of their cheeks hung beautiful golden curls—no wonder they laughed at the black mop on his dusky head. They really were the most elegant ladies. They wore frilled silk pelisses, with handsome ruffles at the neck; large silk hats, tied under their chins with bows, and enormous sashes. On their feet were openwork socks and bronze shoes with rosettes; their muffs we know all about. The only difference between them was that one was dressed in blue and the other in pink. Their mouths were like rosy buttons; to look at them, who could guess that such rude words had ever come out of them? (My grandmother always used to make that remark, for she had a good bringing-up and knew manners.)

The third doll was not nearly so fine as her companions. To begin with, she had no muff, and her sash was tied round her waist, and not halfway down her skirt, which showed at once she was out of the fashions in the doll world. Her frock was plain and torn and she had lost one shoe; all the same, she had a dear little face. When she saw poor Master Bogey’s downcast looks, she got off her chair and went to him.

“Don’t mind what they say,” she said. “They have just got new dresses and it makes them proud. They mean no harm. Your hair is very nice, and it is a great blessing to have so much.”

You may fancy how grateful Master Bogey was!

She held out her hand, and he took it.

“Come,” she said, “let us go and sit at the other end of the room. You are a stranger, and I have heard nurse say that one should always be polite to strangers.”

“SHE HELD OUT HER HAND, AND HE TOOK IT.”

So they went, and the ladies in blue and pink cried out “Pooh!” very loud and both at the same time.

“Take no notice,” whispered the doll.

It was not long before she persuaded Master Bogey to confess his curiosity about the house and the people in it, and he began to enjoy himself immensely. He heard all about the pictures that had astonished him so much, and how the holly and yew branches had managed to get on to the frames, and about the Christmas party which was just over. He saw the rocking-horse, and even had a ride on it; the cupboard where nurse kept the jams for tea, and the door which led to the attics overhead. But the most delightful part of all was when he led his companion to the window and showed her the tree in which he lived standing black in the whiteness and the starlight.

“You can’t see my parents, for they are asleep,” he remarked; “but I think that round sort of bump where the branches fork is the back of my mother’s head. I wish you could see all of it.”

“Does she know where you are?” asked the doll.

“Well, no,” replied he, “she doesn’t; she had gone to bed when I left, and I really couldn’t wake her. But I’ll tell her everything in the morning, and all about you, and how charming you are.”

“I’m afraid she’ll punish you,” said the doll, sighing. “I only hope she won’t throw you out of the tree.”

“Gracious!” cried Master Bogey, “what an idea! Why, my mother is the best mother in the world! I know what put that into your head, all the same. I saw one of the little girls throw her doll on the ground once, when I was looking down from the branches. It wasn’t you, I trust?”

“Indeed it was,” said she; “that was Miss Jane, and I am her doll. I am very unhappy, for she is dreadfully cruel to me. Sometimes she bangs me on the floor and puts me in the corner for hours. And look at my clothes! The others are lucky—they belong to Josephine and Julia. They have each got a new dress, but this ragged one is all I have, and only one shoe.”

The tears ran down her face, poor little thing!

“Show me Miss Jane, and I will go and kill her!” cried Master Bogey, in a rage.

“Oh no, no!” begged the doll. “If you did that, I might be thrown away. No one would care to keep a shabby thing like me. I might be flung into the ashpit.”