“My work is now complete,” continued the ryl joyously, “and as I owe my success to your kindness I shall be glad to have you gather as many of my lilies as you can carry home.”
The boy did not hesitate to accept this generous offer, and soon he had gathered a great armful of the exquisite flowers.
“These will do, thank you,” said he.
But the ryl was not content. “Wait, wait, wait!” he cried laughingly and, plucking more and more of the flowers, he fairly loaded Bob down with them. Then, when the boy’s eyes could just see over the top of his lilies, the ryl cried out: “Now, then, hold tight! Goodby, there you go!”
“Goodby!” answered Bob, but his voice sounded strangely far away in his ears, and in the same instant he was standing in the North Fields, his arms tilled with great bunches of Easter lilies, which filled the air with their delicate fragrance.
The little village church was gorgeously arrayed that Easter Sunday, for Bob’s lilies were on every side, and were the wonder of all who saw them. Never before had such exquisite flowers been brought to the town, and everyone inquired where they came from.
So Bob’s story was soon well known, for he had told his mother and the minister all about his adventure with the little ryl.
After the sermon was over the widow approached the minister and asked: “What do you think about it. sir? Did my boy really meet with the creature he calls a ryl?”
“Well,” answered the minister gravely, “it sounds to our ears like an improbable tale. But if it is not true where did the lilies come from?”
“They certainly never grew in the North Fields,” replied the widow. “Perhaps, sir, a miracle has come to pass!”
“Quite likely, Madam,” said the good man, “Easter is the season of miracles.”
The Strange Adventures of an Easter Egg
There are eggs and eggs,” as the old lady truthfully said many years ago. Some eggs develop into chickens and are, in due time, converted into pies or broils or hashed for salad, thus maintaining their reputation for good taste to the last, while their surviving friends, the chicken livers, cherish their memories with real tenderness and pick, cannibal-like, the bones thrown them at their evening meal. Other eggs develop until their fates become mixed, and they have no clear idea of their proper destinies; in which unsavory condition they often take to flight and attach themselves to wandering actors, ranting politicians or others who brave popular indignation. Still others cast their shells in the freshness of youth, and lend their silver and gold to the perfection of angels’ food, custards, or Charlotte de Russe; or perhaps, settle the dispute in the coffee-pot or decorate papa’s beard at the breakfast table or have stirring times with the cook in the kitchen.
So, you see, eggs are prone to many adventures in this queer world, and their lives are marvelously varied and quaint; no hen being able to guess, when she leaves her new egg in the nest, what its destiny may be.
Now, this is the story of one particular egg which, though of humble birth and insignificant prospects, had a heart of gold that led to the ultimate happiness of a very nice little girl. But the story doesn’t begin with the egg.
It begins with Jeff Grasper, who had more money than he could spend — or would spend, anyhow. “And that’s the reason I have it!” chuckled the old rogue; ‘“cause if I spent it for slick clothes and nice-tasting foods, or gave it to ev’ry beggar that asked, why, any fool ‘ud know I’d soon be a beggar myself!”
Like all misers old Jeff kept most of his money hidden away in secret places, so he could often get it out to count and gloat over; but in the pocket of his threadbare trousers he always carried a number of shining gold pieces, so that he might jingle them together as he shuffled down the street and clutch at them lovingly with his long, bony fingers.
One day, about the middle of March, as old Jeff was walking down the lane at the back of the village, he was stopped by a shivering, thin-faced girl, who exclaimed:
“Please, sir, give me something to buy bread with!”
Beggars were the bane of Jeff’s life. “No!” he snarled. “I won’t!”
“I — I’ve never asked for help before,” pleaded the child, wistfully; “but it’s a hard winter, and — and we’re so hungry at home!”
‘“Tain’t my fault,” retorted old Jeff. “I ain’t to blame if folks squander their money an’ then starve to death. Get out of my way, you imp!”
“But mother is sick,” urged little Nan, lifting her pinched face to his. “I wouldn’t beg for myself — it’s only for her, sir, only for mother!”
The man drew’ his hand from his pocket with a fierce gesture — so fierce, indeed, that a small gold piece leaped out after it and fell unheeded on the ground. And he shook his fist excitedly in the child’s face as he shouted:
“Out o’ my way, you miser’ble beggar! What do I care how sick your mother is? ‘Tain’t my fault. Out o’ my way, or I’ll call the constable!”
Then little Nan shrank away from the glare of his hard, selfish eyes, and drawing her shawl to shield her face from the wind, she walked slowly down the lane. Jeff passed the other way, muttering and growling angrily, and against the frozen earth lay the glittering, neglected gold piece.
I wish Nan had found it and bought food and medicine for her sick mother. The poor woman needed them, I’m sure, but in that case there would be no wonderful story to tell of the Easter egg, and the time came when Nan needed help more than the day she stopped old Jeff in the lane, and they both passed on and left the gold piece lying.
There were eyes in that neighborhood sharper than the angry ones of the man or the frightened ones of the child, and they belonged to Teazer, the redbreasted, bronze-hackled old rooster.
Teazer came clucking across the lane a few moments after Nan and old Jeff parted, and as he walked he turned his head this way and that so his bright eyes might miss no scrap of food that lay about. And so he spied the gold piece.
Attracted by the sparkling metal, Teazer stopped and uttered a succession of shrill cries. Afterwards he pecked at the gold with his bill, and decided it was not good to eat. He was for leaving it, then, and actually walked several steps before he thought better of it, and returned to view the bright yellow coin again.
Teazer was no thoughtless, empty-headed young cockerel; he had attained to years of discretion, and knew very well that gold piece did not belong in that mud-frozen lane. Therefore, it was a prize, and worth showing to his intimate friend, old Speckles.
He seized it carefully in his bill and trotted across the road to the old barn beyond. The doors were shut and barred, but Teazer knew his way through a gap in the stone foundations to the big haymow. There, in a small valley of hay very near the peaked roof, old Speckles sat upon her nest, dreaming away the time required to lay her daily egg.
As Teazer approached, announcing himself by a series of deep clucks in his throat, Speckles opened her eyes and asked:
“What brings you here, good friend?”
Before making reply, Teazer laid the gold upon the hay in front of the old hen and eyed it thoughtfully. The sun came in through a crack of the roof and made the round bit of metal glitter brightly.
“It’s a present for you, my dear,” said the rooster, courteously. “I found it in the lane and thought you might like to have it.”
“What use has it?” asked Speckles, curiously. “I cannot tell; but I’ve discovered it is not good to eat,” he answered. “Still, it is bright and pretty, I think.”
“Yes; it is pretty,” returned Speckles, looking upon the gleaming coin. “I thank you very much for your kindness, friend Teazer.”
Then the rooster strutted proudly away, thinking he had done a gracious and kindly act; and the speckled hen, who was more pleased than she let Teazer discover, sat upon her nest and feasted her eyes with long looks at the pretty treasure. When another hen came near the nest, Speckles slid the bit of gold under her wing where it was safely hidden. She did not care to let [t
he] gossip into the secret of her new possession.
When at length she left the nest there were three white eggs in the little hollow, and underneath them was tucked the gold piece. Speckles had no pockets in her feathered gown and could not carry it with her as old Jeff loved to do.
For several days the rich hen kept her treasure hidden in her nest bringing it forth at times to watch the sunbeams waken its glittering surface into life. But she soon grew thoughtful over the responsibility of her precious charge, and wondered gravely what she would better do with it.
“Any day now,” she reflected, “the children may come searching for hidden nests of eggs, and then they will find my beautiful treasure and carry it away. Or that horrid game rooster, who fights so desperately with my friend Teazer, may catch me looking at my prize and steal it. Or the other hens, who are selfish, may rob the nest when I am gone. I may have enjoyed my wealth for several happy days, so now I believe it will be wise to put it where no prying eyes will ever discover it.”
So when she fashioned her next egg to lay in her nest she put the shiny gold coin inside it, where it was concealed from sight by the thick white shell.
It is the story of this egg I have undertaken to tell, and now you know how it happened that within a large, pretty egg found in old Speckles’ nest was so remarkable a thing as a five-dollar gold piece.
Jimmie knew nothing of it, of course, when he climbed the haymow and discovered seven eggs in the nest. Old Speckles fluttered nearby, scolding indignantly the dreadful robber, but Jimmie paid no attention to her protests. Me pocketed all seven of the eggs and carried them gleefully to his mother, who placed them in a yellow bowl on the kitchen shelf.
Now, although this particular egg containing the gold piece had at last started upon its adventures, who could guess what its fate was destined to be? As it lay in the yellow bowl it looked for all the world like any one of its fellows, and before long it was covered with many eggs brought from other nests in the big barn.
Surely some kindly fate was hovering over that yellow bowl. Eggs were boiled for breakfast the next morning, but the woman’s fingers failed to grasp that particular egg to put in the kettle. Mrs. Smithers came from the village to buy a dozen eggs for her custard pies; but when they were counted into her pail the egg with the golden treasure was not among them. Eggs were brought in and eggs were taken away, until Jimmie’s mother happened to think: “Those eggs at the bottom of the dish must be getting stale. I’ll color them up for Easter, for the children keep such pretty colored eggs instead of eating them, and it won’t matter whether they are fresh or not.”
So, as Easter Sunday was very near, the woman emptied the yellow dish and boiled all the eggs in a big kettle. The egg containing the treasure was among them, but the boiling only served to wedge the piece of gold more firmly between the white and the yolk.
Then Jimmie’s mother got her Easter dyes ready to color the eggs, and the first one she picked up to try chanced to be the treasure-egg. But she had made her dyeing liquids too thick and too dark; so, instead of turning the egg a dainty lavender color, as she had intended to, the egg took a dirty brown hue that was not at all pretty to look at. Therefore, the woman thinned her dyes and colored the remaining eggs most beautifully; but that first dark brown one was provokingly ugly, and not fit to be displayed with the others.
Jimmie’s mother was a frugal woman and shrewd withal; so she said: “I will give this dirty-colored egg to Jeff Grasper, for he holds a mortgage on our land, and the present may lead him to be easy with us when we are not ready with the interest money.”
So Jimmie was sent to carry the egg to old Jeff with his mother’s compliments and Easter greetings.
Old Jeff took it, of course, for he never refused to take anything he could get. But he stuck up his nose at its dismal coloring.
“What an ugly Easter egg!” he snarled. “I’ll pay that woman back for sending me such a gift. But I mean to peel it and eat it in spite of its color; for since I carelessly lost that gold piece I must economize until I make up for it. As I’m not especially hungry today, the egg will do for my supper.”
But just as he was about to crack the shell (and find, of course, his gold piece inside it) a suspicious thought came to him.
“S’pose it’s poisoned!” he muttered, nervously. “She might want to make away with me because she owes me money. It’s a queer color for an Easter egg, that’s sure, an’ I’d better be careful. Guess I’ll send it to the minister’s children, an’ that’ll make ‘em think I’m a good Christian!”
Congratulating himself on this bright idea, he sent the egg on Easter morning to the parsonage, where the minister’s children, having many gaily colored eggs of their own, would pay no attention to it.
“It’s as dark and ugly as old Jeff himself,” declared one of little ones; so the minister gave it to the sexton to carry home to his wife after service.
“These little thoughtful kindnesses, that cost nothing, do a great deal of good in the world,” said the minister to himself, and the egg might have wondered if that was the reason it was being passed around so cheerfully.
The sexton’s wife was old and didn’t care for Easter eggs herself, and her eyesight was poor and prevented her from discovering how ugly in color the egg was. But she had a kind heart, and remembered that in a neighboring cottage lived a little girl so poor that she would have no eggs or flowers or gifts of any kind to mark the glorious festival of Easter.
So she wrapped the egg in a paper and wrote “For Nan” on the outside and tottered over to the cottage, where she placed the gift upon a shelf without being seen by any one. That wasn’t Jimmie’s mother’s way, nor the minister’s way, but it was her way, nevertheless.
Nan was in the little bedroom with her sick, half-starved mother when the sexton’s wife made her stealthy visit, for the worst of their days of privation were full upon them. But presently she came out into the living room, and her eyes were wet with tears.
“Oh, if only I had money to buy things for mamma!” sobbed the child. “I should be so happy then — oh, so happy! Perhaps if I ask again the good God to help me, He will find a way.”
So she knelt down by a stool and prayed with all her anxious heart for a way to comfort and nourish her dear mamma, and as she rose and wiped the tears from her eyes she saw the parcel lying upon the shelf with “For Nan” written upon it in awkward letters.
“Oh, Mamma!” she cried, running into the little bed room, “I’ve found a present!”
The invalid’s trembling fingers undid the parcel.
“It’s an Easter egg,” said the mother, a trace of disappointment in her voice, although she told herself she had no reason to expect a better gift for her child.
“It is not very pretty to look at, Nan, but it is worth much to us, for it can be eaten. Take it, dear. It will give you both nourishment and strength.”
“Then you must eat it yourself, Mamma,” exclaimed the child, brightening to think here was food for her dear one. “You need it much more than I do.” And she broke the shell and began peeling it from the smooth, white meat of the egg Then she ran for a plate and a knife to slice the egg with, and at the second slice the knife struck something hard.
Oh yes, my story is now told. You know all about the piece Nan found and can guess it was no brighter than the girl’s face as she held the treasure before the eyes of her mother and realized all the good things so much money would buy.
Indeed, it enabled the poor woman to regain her health, so that she was afterward competent to earn a living for herself and her child. Few who are not poor and helpless can understand what a little money does at the right time; and it came at the right time to Nan and her mother. I almost think Jeff, had he known all, would not have bemoaned the loss of the gold piece on that day when he shook his fist in a hungry child’s face.
Last summer a friend of mine heard old Speckles talking to her brood of chicks, and this is what she said:
“Once, my darlings, I owned a beautiful treasure, given me by that same friend Teazer, who was made into a pot pie by Jimmie’s mother last Sunday. It was a brilliant, glittery thing, and very pretty to look upon when the sunbeams struck it. But I very foolishly hid it inside one of my eggs, and Jimmie robbed me of my treasure and my egg at the same time. Boys are very cruel my darlings!”
But Nan often said, with hearty emphasis: “God bless whoever put that gold-piece into the Easter egg!” And perhaps Speckles was blessed, after all, in the love and obedience of her twelve fluffy chickens.
The Tramp and the Baby
It was a hot day and the road was dusty. It was not even a good road, being full of bumps and ruts; but it was a pretty road and wound in and out of the woods and up and down the numerous hills.
A man was trudging along with a slow and dragging step. His feet shuffled through thick dust as if the white, snufflike atoms floating in the mist about him were preferable to the exertion of raising his ponderous boots, in the tips of which his ragged trousers were carelessly tucked. The traveler’s appearance, as he scuffed along, was not especially prepossessing. He had an unwashed skin and noisome clothing. A heavy, unkempt beard covered the lower part of his face and a slouched hat the upper. His hands were in his pockets, and beneath his left arm he carried a small bundle tied in a red handkerchief.
At the top of an ascent he paused, raised his stooping shoulders, took off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. While thus engaged he made a cursory examination of the scene before him. The country was peaceful and pleasant enough to view on any side. At the right a sweep of broad pasture extended far into the distance and lost itself in a row of hills at the horizon. The range was broken now and then by a stately oak or a clump of straggling beeches, while at the bottom of the little valley a tiny stream wound in and out like a silver ribbon on a green gown.
There must have been an innate love of the beautiful in the nature of the man who could stand so long regarding this bit of landscape, executed by the one brush that never errs; but presently he turned to the left, where a gentle slope led down to a high and thick evergreen hedge. Beyond this was an enticing grove of young apple trees, while still farther along his eye discovered a garden and an emerald lawn surrounding a handsome and substantial brick mansion.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 866