Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  But the girl did not move, so Gurd suddenly grasped her in his strong arms and carried her inside the shop, closing the door behind them that she might not escape.

  “When I have killed the goat it will be your turn!” he cried, and with a flourish of his knife he sprang upon the bleating animal and with one blow stabbed it to the heart.

  The poor goat fell down in a pool of its own blood, and behold! its form gradually changed to that of King Gruph, who with one deep groan expired at the butcher’s feet.

  Gurd gave one look at his victim and then uttered a terrible shriek of anguish. His burly form began to shrink and dwindle away, and in less than a minute he stood before Mary-Marie a feeble palsied old man, with scarcely enough strength to stagger to a bench.

  “I am ruined — ruined!” he wailed, beginning to sob like a child. “For I have slain the king, and it was fated that if I ever drew but one drop of his royal blood my magic powers would depart from me for ever! I am ruined — and by a girl!”

  Then he raised his head and asked feebly: “Who are you?”

  “My name is Mary-Marie, and I am a good witch,” she answered.

  “Who sent you on this errand?” he inquired, moaning.

  “An old woman with a fair, fresh face and white hair, whose name I do not know, but who taught me my witch-craft,” replied Mary-Marie.

  The wretched man paused to pass his withered hand over his forehead.

  “I know who you mean,” he said with another sob; “but you will find her an old woman no longer. Go back, and say you have avenged the wrong I have done. In an hour I shall be dead, and men will fear me no longer!”

  He sank to the floor in a heap, and Mary-Marie walked out of the butcher’s shop and passed through the gate of the city. Then, finding herself alone upon the mountain path, she drew a purple handkerchief from her bosom and spread it upon the ground. It was just large enough for her to stand upon, and when her feet rested upon the cloth she spoke a magic word she had learned from her teacher.

  A sudden breeze ruffled her hair an instant, and then she found herself standing in the road before the white cottage of the witch.

  Mary-Marie sprang forward and knocked on the door. As it flew open she cried:

  “Your tasks are done, mistress!”

  But then she paused in astonishment, for instead of the old witch a handsome young man stood within the room, clothed in princely raiment and smiling happily at the surprised look on the maiden’s face.

  “Come in, little witch!” he called in a gay voice; “come in and receive thanks for setting me free and restoring me to my kingdom!”

  “Who are you?” gasped Mary-Marie.

  “I am Prince Melra, who was supposed to be dead, bound by a powerful enchantment of the wicked magician Gurd, and I have been kept in the form of an old woman at the command of my uncle, King Gruph, that he might occupy the throne belonging by right to me. For five years I have suffered this enchantment; but I discovered that if ever the magician drew a drop of the king’s blood he would lose all his powers, and I would regain my freedom. So I studied the arts of witchcraft, only to find that my every movement was watched by the magician, and that I must find some one else to accomplish my purpose.”

  “But how came you to select me?” asked the girl.

  “I saw you one day gathering nuts in the forest, and loved you for your beauty and sweetness. So I took upon myself the form of an old man and passed your hut, stopping long enough to advise you to come to the old witch for lessons. Then I returned here by another path, and was in time to greet you. And while I taught you witchcraft I learned to love you more than before; so that now, being free and restored to my proper form and to my kingdom, I long to make you my queen.”

  “I think I’m too young to marry,” said Mary-Marie, blushing.

  “Then I must find another mate,” said the handsome prince, pretending to turn away.

  “But girls often marry when they are too young,” exclaimed Mary-Marie quickly; “so, if you don’t object to my age — ”

  “Oh, not at all!” cried the prince; “the younger we are the more years we shall have to be happy in.”

  “That is true,” said the girl thoughtfully. “But if I’m to be married so young it’s a pity you ever taught me witch-craft.”

  “Nonsense!” said the prince, kissing her sweet lips fondly; “you were bewitching, Mary-Marie, long before I became your teacher!”

  The Ryl of the Lillies

  Friday evening little Bob said to his mother: “Sunday next is Easter.”

  “Yes, I know,” said she.

  “Teacher asked us to bring flowers tomorrow to trim the church with,” he continued. “And all the boys and girls are going to bring all the flowers they can get to the church, and teacher will let us help with the trimming.”

  The widow raised her head from her ironing and looked at her boy rather sadly. ‘You know, dear, I’m too busy to plant and tend flowers,” she said, “and so we have no flower garden. I need all the room in our little backyard to dry my clothes, too, so we could not grow flowers if we had the time to devote to them.”

  Bob nodded his head.

  “I know that, mother, but all the others will have flowers, so I could not help wishing I, too, could carry some to the church for Easter.”

  The woman ironed silently for a time. Then she said:

  “There ought to be buttercups and daisies blooming in the North Fields by this time. Why don’t you gather those? It isn’t far to go, and there are no more beautiful flowers in the world. Since we have no others, I’m sure those would be acceptable as an Easter offering.”

  Bob was delighted with the idea.

  “I’ll get some early tomorrow morning!” he exclaimed.

  “They are flowers, anyway, even if they do grow wild in the fields. But teacher said lilies were the nicest flowers for Easter,” he added thoughtfully.

  “So they are,” said his mother, “but lilies are rare flowers in the country, and I doubt if there are any in all the village. So, as there will probably be no lilies among the offerings of your companions, I am sure your buttercups and daisies will be as pretty as anything in the church.”

  The next morning Bob was up even before the sun, and having hastily eaten his simple breakfast, he caught up his cap and ran through the village to visit the North Fields in search of buttercups and daisies.

  It was a long walk for a small boy, but Bob did not mind it, and when he reached the fields he lost no time in beginning his search for the coveted flowers. Yet after an hour’s groping about he was unable to discover anything more than a few half opened buds of buttercups that would not be worth gathering.

  Gradually the boy began to realize that his quest was a failure, and so great was his disappointment that at last he threw himself on his back amongst the new grass and burst into a great fit of sobbing.

  However, grief with a healthy boy soon wears itself out, and when the sobs had subsided he gave a long tremulous sigh and wiped his eyes.

  Another low sigh echoed his own, and looking up he saw, seated upon the edge of a stump beside him, a tiny and curious creature. It had the form of a man, and was fantastically dressed in garments of many bright colors, but as Bob sat up and regarded it with wide open eyes, he saw that his queer neighbor could not be more than six inches tall when he stood upon his tiptoes.

  The little man wiped his eyes carefully with a purple silk handkerchief and then said, in quite a cheerful tone:

  “I feel better, don’t you?”

  “Have you been crying, too?” asked Bob.

  “Indeed I have,” was the answer. “I’m in great trouble, you must know, and my heart was so heavy that it tired me to carry it around. But I happened to pass by as you were indulging in your hearty and sensible fit of crying, and it struck me as just the thing to make my heart lighter. So I sat on the edge of this stump and wept and wailed gloriously. There’s nothing like a good cry to cheer one up. I really feel m
uch better, and I am greatly obliged to you for the suggestion.”

  With this he stood up and smoothed out the creases in his green and yellow striped trousers, and brushed his red silk hat with his coat sleeve, and arranged the bow of his lavender necktie.

  “I fear I must be going,” said he, “for I am due in Brazil at ten o’clock.”

  “Please wait a little while, just a minute,” cried Bob earnestly. “I, I want to talk with you, and ask you some questions.”

  “Go ahead, then,” said the little man, resuming his seat. “I’ve got an hour or so to spare, for the time in Brazil is slower than here.”

  “Thank you,” said Bob, and continued to stare at the tiny creature.

  “Well, well? Aren’t you going to talk?” said the little man impatiently. “Where are those questions?”

  “Are, are you a fairy?” asked the boy with hesitation.

  The little fellow sighed again in a tired sort of way, and brushed a speck of dust from his white satin vest.

  “Do you see any wings growing out of my body?” he asked in a reproachful tone. “Do you see any golden hair flowing over my shoulders, or any gauzy cobweb skirts floating about my form in graceful folds?”

  “No,” said Bob.

  “Then I’m not a fairy,” declared the little man positively.

  “Perhaps you’re a brownie,” ventured Bob.

  “A brownie!” exclaimed the other with scornful emphasis. “Really now, do I look like one of those impossible, crawly, mischievous elves? Is my body ten times bigger than it should be? Do my legs look like toothpicks and my eyes like saucers?”

  “No,” said Bob, “they don’t.”

  “Then I’m not a brownie,” replied the man, crossing his legs and nodding his head at the boy in a funny way.

  “I, I really don’t know what to make of you,” remarked the boy frankly. “Will you please tell me what you are?”

  “Certainly,” answered his companion, with a bow. “I am a ryl.”

  “Oh!” said the boy.

  “Do you know what a ryl is?” asked the other a bit sternly.

  “No, not exactly,” acknowledged Bob.

  “I thought not. The old nurses prefer to talk about those stupid fairies and hobgoblins, and never mention ryls to the children. And the people who write fairy tales and goose books and brownie stories and such rubbish sit down at writing tables and invent all sorts of impossible and unbelievable things. Why don’t they seek out the ryls, who are servants of nature, and learn from them the wonderful truths that would instruct as well as amuse the young folks? The ryls have been sadly neglected, that’s a fact. And who’s to blame for it?” inquired the little man fiercely.

  “I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Bob. I He was sitting on the grass, clasping his knees, and looking intently at his strange companion who, as he squatted on the stump, was nearly on a level with the boy’s eyes.

  The ryl laughed merrily as he noted Bob’s puzzled expression.

  “I don’t know who’s to blame, myself,” he said. “But since we have met under such tearful circumstances, and have enjoyed our griefs together, I’ll be glad to tell you something about the ryls. We are servants of nature, as I said. All the things that grow have to be fed, just as people do. You boys can’t grow big and fat unless you’re fed, nor can a flower grow and blossom unless it has proper food.”

  “What do flowers eat?” asked Bob.

  “They don’t eat anything with mouths, for they haven’t any. But they absorb their food from the earth, sucking it up with their roots so that it reaches the body of the plant and makes it grow, and bud, and blossom. And the ryls place the food in the earth for the roots to pick up.”

  “Oh,” said Bob, “I see.”

  “Each ryl has a separate kind of plant to look after,” continued the little man. “Now, I, for example, am obliged to look after the Easter lilies.”

  “Are you really?” cried Bob, springing to his feet in his eagerness and then sitting down again to be nearer the little man.

  “Why are you so excited?” inquired the ryl.

  “Because if you tend the Easter lilies I thought perhaps you could tell me where to find some. Do you know where they grow?”

  “If you stop to think,” remarked the ryl, “you will see how foolish that question is. Of course, I know where they grow. But that reminds me of the great trouble I am in. I certainly must start for Brazil at once, for I have an immense field of Easter lilies growing there, and they will need to be cared for.”

  “What is your great trouble?” asked Bob.

  “Well, I’ll tell you. I have had no difficulty in getting most of the food required by my lilies this spring, yet there is one necessary thing that I’ve hunted for high and low and cannot find. It is the only plant food in the world that will dye the tips of the stamens of my lilies that rich yellow color which is so greatly admired and which offers such a beautiful contrast to the pure white of the leaves. There are hosts of lilies to be supplied with this coloring. A month or so ago I found enough of the food in Senegambia to color all my lilies except that one big field in Brazil, but I fear those must now remain pure white, since no more color food is to be had.”

  “It’s too bad,” said Bob sympathetically. “I wish I could help you.”

  The ryl clapped his hands with delight. “Perhaps you can,” he said with a sly wink at the boy. “Why do you suppose I have been stopping here with you and chattering nonsense unless I had a purpose? Ryls are not allowed to ask favors of human beings, but since you have offered of your own free will to help me, there is no reason why I should not accept the kindness.”

  “What can I do?” asked the boy wonderingly.

  “Your grandfather once had a bottle of the plant food I am in search of,” replied the ryl. “I don’t know where he got it or what he used it for, but he kept it in a tall blue bottle in the cupboard over the chimney.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bob. “I’ve seen the bottle often.”

  “Do you know where it is now?” asked the ryl.

  “It is still in the cupboard over the chimney. Mother has never touched it since grandpa died, for she didn’t know what it was.”

  The little man rose to his feet and leaned over the edge of the stump as he said, in a voice that trembled with anxiety:

  ‘If I had that bottle I should be happy!”

  “Then I’ll get it for you,” replied Bob. “But if you wanted it so badly, why didn’t you go and take it?”

  “That would be stealing,” answered the ryl. “But if you make me a present of your grandfather’s bottle you will save my beautiful field of Brazilian lilies.”

  “I’ll run for it now,” cried the boy. “Wait here until I come back.”

  He sprang up and darted away toward the village. When he reached it he tore down the main street at full speed and reached his home almost out of breath. His mother happened to be out at the time, but the door was unlatched, and Bob soon pushed a chair to the chimney and began searching in the high cupboard for the blue bottle.

  It stood in the exact spot his grandfather had left it and, seizing it in his hand, the boy climbed down and began his return journey without loss of time.

  When he reached the North Fields there was the ryl, sitting on the stump and waiting patiently.

  Bob placed the bottle on the stump beside the little fellow, and noticed, with surprise, that the cork reached far above the ryl’s head.

  “He’ll never be able to open it,” thought the boy, but the ryl did not seem a bit worried. He placed his hand over his heart and bowed gravely to Bob, saying:

  “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for this favor. You have removed all my troubles by means of this gift. Now, in return, tell me why you were crying when I found you here.”

  “I had hoped to gather some wild flowers for Easter,” said Bob, “but when I got here I found they had not yet blossomed. We are too poor to keep a flower garden, you know, so when I found there wer
e no wild flowers it made me sorry.”

  The ryl leaned against the blue bottle, thrust his hands deep in his trousers pockets, and whistled a tune thoughtfully. The boy watched him with much anxiety, for he had begun to hope the ryl would help him. By and by the little man said:

  “Well, you must come with me to Brazil. That is the only way to help you. When you are there I will give you enough lilies to make you the wonder and admiration of the whole village.”

  “O, I can’t go so far from home!” cried the boy, “Mother would be dreadfully worried about me.”

  The ryl laughed. “It’s a far journey,” he said, “but not a long one. Here, take this bottle in your left hand.”

  Bob obeyed, although he was somewhat afraid.

  “Now give me the little finger of your other hand,” continued the ryl. Bob held it out, and the man closed his tiny fingers about the boy’s bigger one in a firm clasp.

  “Here we go!” remarked the ryl calmly, and Bob gave a great start of surprise and amazement.

  For the North Fields, the stump, and the familiar landscape had entirely disappeared, and the boy found himself standing beside the ryl in the midst of a vast field of pure white lilies, which nodded their heads in the tropical breeze, as if welcoming him among them.

  “If I don’t enlarge myself I may get stepped on. Watch me grow!” said the ryl.

  Bob looked down and saw the top of the little man’s head growing gradually bigger, and rising higher and higher until the ryl had become fully as tall as the boy.

  “Now I feel safer,” he said, “and if you will please hand me the bottle I’ll get to work and feed my flowers.”

  Bob gave him the blue bottle and, removing the cork, the ryl began to sprinkle its contents on the earth at the roots of the lilies. He worked quickly and carefully, and the color food lasted until the farthest part of the field had been fed. Then, the bottle being empty, the ryl returned to where Bob was standing and said:

  “See how quickly my lilies have gained their yellow tipped stamens.”

  Sure enough, when Bob peeped among the leaves he saw little caps of brilliant yellow swaying over the slender stems.