It went on like this until the shoemaker and his wife were prosperous people. But they could not be satisfied to have so much done for them and not know to whom they should be grateful. So one night, after the shoemaker had left the pieces of leather on the bench, he and his wife hid themselves behind a curtain, and left a light in the room.
Just as the clock struck twelve the door opened softly, and two tiny elves came dancing into the room, hopped on to the bench, and began to put the pieces together. They were quite naked, but they had wee little scissors and hammers and thread. Tap! tap! went the little hammers; st.i.tch, st.i.tch, went the thread, and the little elves were hard at work. No one ever worked so fast as they. In almost no time all the shoes were st.i.tched and finished. Then the tiny elves took hold of each other"s hands and danced round the shoes on the bench, till the shoemaker and his wife had hard work not to laugh aloud. But as the clock struck two, the little creatures whisked away out of the window, and left the room all as it was before.
The shoemaker and his wife looked at each other, and said, "How can we thank the little elves who have made us happy and prosperous?"
"I should like to make them some pretty clothes," said the wife, "they are quite naked."
"I will make the shoes if you will make the coats," said her husband.
That very day they set about it. The wife cut out two tiny, tiny coats of green, two weeny, weeny waistcoats of yellow, two little pairs of trousers, of white, two bits of caps, bright red (for every one knows the elves love bright colors), and her husband made two little pairs of shoes with long, pointed toes. They made the wee clothes as dainty as could be, with nice little st.i.tches and pretty b.u.t.tons; and by Christmas time, they were finished.
On Christmas eve, the shoemaker cleaned his bench, and on it, instead of leather, he laid the two sets of gay little fairy-clothes. Then he and his wife hid away as before, to watch.
Promptly at midnight, the little naked elves came in. They hopped upon the bench; but when they saw the little clothes there, they laughed and danced for joy. Each one caught up his little coat and things and began to put them on. Then they looked at each other and made all kinds of funny motions in their delight. At last they began to dance, and when the clock struck two, they danced quite away, out of the window.
They never came back any more, but from that day they gave the shoemaker and his wife good luck, so that they never needed any more help.
WHO KILLED THE OTTER"S BABIES[1]?
[1] Adapted from the story as told in Fables and Folk Tales From an Eastern Forest, by Walter Skeat.
Once the Otter came to the Mouse-deer and said, "Friend Mouse-deer, will you please take care of my babies while I go to the river, to catch fish?"
"Certainly," said the Mouse-deer, "go along."
But when the Otter came back from the river, with a string of fish, he found his babies crushed flat.
"What does this mean, Friend Mouse-deer?" he said. "Who killed my children while you were taking care of them?"
"I am very sorry," said the Mouse-deer, "but you know I am Chief Dancer of the War-dance, and the Woodp.e.c.k.e.r came and sounded the war-gong, so I danced. I forgot your children, and trod on them."
"I shall go to King Solomon," said the Otter, "and you shall be punished."
Soon the Mouse-deer was called before King Solomon.
"Did you kill the Otter"s babies?" said the king.
"Yes, your Majesty," said the Mouse-deer, "but I did not mean to."
"How did it happen?" said the king.
"Your Majesty knows," said the Mouse-deer, "that I am Chief Dancer of the War-dance. The Woodp.e.c.k.e.r came and sounded the war-gong, and I had to dance; and as I danced I trod on the Otter"s children."
"Send for the Woodp.e.c.k.e.r," said King Solomon. And when the Woodp.e.c.k.e.r came, he said to him, "Was it you who sounded the war-gong?"
"Yes, your Majesty," said the Woodp.e.c.k.e.r, "but I had to."
"Why?" said the king.
"Your Majesty knows," said the Woodp.e.c.k.e.r, "that I am Chief Beater of the War-gong, and I sounded the gong because I saw the Great Lizard wearing his sword."
"Send for the Great Lizard," said King Solomon. When the Great Lizard came, he asked him, "Was it you who were wearing your sword?"
"Yes, your Majesty," said the Great Lizard; "but I had to."
"Why?" said the king.
"Your Majesty knows," said the Great Lizard, "that I am Chief Protector of the Sword. I wore my sword because the Tortoise came wearing his coat of mail."
So the Tortoise was sent for.
"Why did you wear your coat of mail?" said the king.
"I put it on, your Majesty," said the Tortoise, "because I saw the King-crab trailing his three-edged pike."
Then the King-crab was sent for.
"Why were you trailing your three-edged pike?" said King Solomon.
"Because, your Majesty," said the Kingerab, "I saw that the Crayfish had shouldered his lance."
Immediately the Crayfish was sent for.
"Why did you shoulder your lance?" said the king.
"Because, your Majesty," said the Crayfish, "I saw the Otter coming down to the river to kill my children."
"Oh," said King Solomon, "if that is the case, the Otter killed the Otter"s children. And the Mouse-deer cannot be held, by the law of the land!"
EARLY[1]
[1] From The singing Leaves, by Josephine Preston Peabody (Houghton, Mifflin and Co.).
I like to lie and wait to see My mother braid her hair.
It is as long as it can be, And yet she doesn"t care.
I love my mother"s hair.
And then the way her fingers go; They look so quick and white,-- In and out, and to and fro, And braiding in the light, And it is always right.
So then she winds it, shiny brown, Around her head into a crown, Just like the day before.
And then she looks and pats it down, And looks a minute more; While I stay here all still and cool.
Oh, isn"t morning beautiful?