King Oberon's Forest

by Hilda van Stockum

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Boissevain Books

  ISBN 978-0-7414-6693-8 Paperback

  ISBN 978-0-7414-9492-4 eBook

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published May 2012

  First published in 1957 by The Viking Press, Inc., and the Macmillan Company of Canada Limited.

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  Also written and illustrated by Hilda van Stockum:

  Andries

  The Angels’ Alphabet

  The Borrowed House

  Canadian Summer

  The Cottage at Bantry Bay

  A Day on Skates

  Francie on the Run

  Friendly Gables

  Gerrit and the Organ

  Kersti and Saint Nicholas

  Little Old Bear

  The Mitchells

  Mugo’s Flute

  Patsy and the Pup

  Pegeen

  Penengro

  Rufus Round and Round

  The Winged Watchman

  This edition of King Oberon’s Forest

  published by Boissevain Books

  www.boissevainbooks.com

  To

  Martin and Moira Beausang

  Message from the Estate of Hilda van Stockum

  The late Hilda van Stockum (1908–2006) is greatly missed by her family and friends. Her books live on. Since 1934, more then twenty of these cherished titles have been published, beginning with A Day on Skates from Harper & Brothers. Subsequently, Hilda van Stockum titles were published by The Viking Press; Farrar, Straus & Giroux; Constable; and then more recently by Bethlehem Books. Boissevain Books is now making more out-of-print Hilda van Stockum titles available, including King Oberon’s Forest, which was written by Ms. van Stockum but illustrated by her daughter Brigid Marlin. To learn more about the real-life origins of Hilda van Stockum books and keep abreast of new developments with HvS books and her family, visit www.boissevainbooks.com.

  John Tepper Marlin

  Executor, Estate of Hilda van Stockum

  Letter from Eleanor Roosevelt *

  (March 26, 1958)

  * Copyright ©2011. Reprinted with permission of Nancy R. Ireland, Trustee.

  Preface

  King Oberon’s Forest is the only fairy tale written by Hilda van Stockum. It is the story of three brother dwarfs, renowned for their bad temper and unfriendliness, whose lives become completely changed after finding and taking in a foundling child. The book has a magical quality and reveals a different side of Ms. van Stockum. First published in 1957, King Oberon’s Forest is wise, witty and full of adventure.

  As Hilda van Stockum’s daughter, I had the privilege of doing the drawings for this exciting book. Not only did it win a prize, but to our great delight our King Oberon’s Forest was commended by no less a person than First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt, who described the book as “charmingly written” and “beautifully illustrated.” The full letter is reproduced on the opposite page.

  It was a fairy tale ending to a fairy tale book!

  Brigid Marlin

  Contents

  1. The Trick

  2. Troubles

  3. Growth

  4. The King’s Message

  5. Sickness and Sorrow

  6. The Nectar Party

  7. Felix Returns

  1. The Trick

  It was King Oberon’s favorite forest—everyone said so, especially the forest people. True, he spent much time abroad: there were battles to fight, dragons to conquer, feats to perform. But when he wanted to relax, he always went to this forest. There he had his palace, hidden in the center, and there he stayed whenever he could. Not that his people saw much of him; that was not to be expected. But it was comforting to know he was there.

  He was a good king. To help an unfortunate subject he would not stop short of magic. There were few who did not praise him (nobody minded the old witch who lived in the elderberry tree; she grumbled at everything; not even the king was good enough for her).

  The king loved the forest because it was a good forest. There was very little black magic in it. On the whole the animals and spirits got along well, though there were exceptions—there always are. And perhaps these exceptions worried the king. Who can tell?

  The king also loved the forest because it was a beautiful forest. Nowhere else grew such a variety of trees, such thick moss, such picturesque shrubs. And it was, of course, at its best in the fall.

  It was the last day of October, and Mr. Red Squirrel was taking his regular walk. He was at the age when one has to guard against getting fat. All around him the leaves were dropping gently, blending with moss and toadstools into a multicolored carpet. The summer birds had packed and left. Their empty nests hung like blots among the ever barer branches, and the woods were songless. Strong smells rose up from the earth—smells of leaves and fungi and ripening nuts, smells that set the other animals hurrying and scurrying to secure their winter provisions, smells that sent them digging and scratching, searching and stealing, burying and hiding, pulling and prying—but Mr. Red Squirrel merely sniffed the air and strolled about, admiring the scenery.

  This is the finest autumn I’ve beheld yet, he thought. Aren’t those bridal birches exquisite against the dark uniforms of the evergreens? Was there ever anything like the purple of that beech tree or the scarlet of that maple? But does anyone stop to admire it? No. Food, that’s all the forest folk can think of. Food. No culture, no artistic sensibilities, anywhere.

  Mr. Squirrel stroked his whiskers. He looked very handsome himself in a shaft of sunshine, which showed up the rich russet of his coat. Then he winced. He caught sight of a big oak tree, standing in an open space in the middle of the forest. This tree had the effect on him of an aching tooth. It belonged to three grumpy little dwarfs, and there was a long-standing feud between the dwarfs and the Squirrel family.

  Not that Mr. Squirrel approved of feuds; he was against them entirely. As far as he was concerned, one person was as good as another, and the more the merrier. But tell that to the dwarfs! Stuffy little creatures. They owned their tree, and no one was to touch it. Wouldn’t even let a fellow build a nest in it, though the air and location were much better there than in other parts of the forest. Called him a social climber, when he dared to mention it. Well, where would he be, without climbing? And social—of course he was social; but the dwarfs weren’t, not they! Insulting, that’s what they were. “Carrot tail,” they had called him, though all his friends knew that his tail was auburn. And the references to the rest of his family had been so uncomplimentary that Mr. Squirrel had retired in dignified silence. At least, he hoped i
t had been dignified.

  “Hey, Papa—”

  Mr. Squirrel turned around. He saw his son, Ross, in an argument with a chipmunk.

  “These are our nuts,” Ross was saying. “I buried them here only yesterday.”

  “Finders, keepers,” twittered the chipmunk, making off with as many as he could.

  “Papa,” cried Ross again, “please help me carry these nuts away! The chipmunks have discovered them. I know a place where we can hide them safely.”

  “Where?” asked Mr. Squirrel.

  “Up in the dwarfs’ tree,” Ross told him.

  “Are you joking?” asked his father. “Don’t you know the dwarfs?”

  “Everybody else knows them too,” countered Ross with twinkling eyes.

  “Ah, I see.” Mr. Squirrel looked proudly at his son. “You think the nuts are less likely to be found there, eh?” And he thought he really must remember to tell Mamma about this. Ross was brighter than any of their other children; there was no doubt about it.

  “They’ll never give you permission, though,” he objected. “You know what they think of us Squirrels.”

  “I’m not going to ask their permission,” Ross answered cheerfully. “It won’t be hard to sneak up that tree when they’re not looking; they are usually in their little house, anyway, poking about. We’ll hide our nuts in a hole I found in the top of the tree, and no one will come near it.”

  “You’re right,” said Mr. Squirrel. “Why didn’t I think of it before!”

  “You’re too scared of those dwarfs,” Ross told him. “They’re just bluffers. What can they do?” Thus bolstering his father’s courage, Ross led the way, with as many nuts as he could carry. His father, similarly loaded, followed.

  One of the dwarfs was outside, raking the garden in front of his little house built in the trunk of the old oak tree. The squirrels could see his short, stocky figure dressed in blue overalls, a pointed black fur cap on his curly gray hair. His face was wrinkled like a walnut and ended in a short beard.

  His task was difficult, as the leaves were not much smaller than himself. Frequently he would disappear underneath them, and only by wielding his little rake vigorously would he emerge again.

  Mr. Squirrel, feeling rather silly, followed Ross to the back of the tree, out of sight of the dwarf, and climbed after his son to the hole at the top. They deposited their nuts and went for more. Back and forth they trotted. The hole was almost full when the dwarf discovered them.

  “Mr. Squirrel!” he shouted in his most terrifying voice. (Unfortunately for him, it did not sound much louder than the chirping of a cricket.) “I thought we had made it clear that we do not want you in our tree. We can’t have all the riffraff of the forest over our roof.”

  “Riffraff!” Mr. Squirrel snorted, deeply hurt, and dropped an acorn cup on the dwarf’s hat.

  “I’ll have the law on you,” squeaked the dwarf, waving his rake so wildly that he lost his balance and disappeared once more among the leaves. The squirrels laughed, and a passing rabbit, who had stopped to see what was going on, asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s just our usual quarrel with the dwarfs,” Mr. Squirrel explained. “They won’t have forest riffraff in their tree, they say.”

  “I like that!” cried the rabbit, who, though she had no desire to climb the oak, felt that she was included among the riffraff. “The nerve of them!”

  “I think they are making a mistake when they say they own that tree,” commented a wise old owl from a hemlock nearby. “They only had permission to build in it. It belongs to the forest. How would they like it if we owls claimed to own the trees we build our nests in?”

  “Or if we said we owned the hill our hole is in,” the rabbit added.

  “We have to share our tree with others. Who do they think they are?” chirped a robin.

  “Our father left us the tree in a deed!” cried the dwarf, whose head had emerged like a black truffle from under the gold and crimson of the leaves. “My brother has it locked up in a trunk. It’s got red seals on it.”

  “Yes, locking up, that’s what you’re good at—locking up and sealing,” chittered a few chipmunks. “Who else in the forest has keys and padlocks?”

  Boos and whistles came from all directions, for a crowd was forming.

  “Let them watch out tonight,” cheeped a little mouse. “Yes, tonight, tonight,” echoed the other animals.

  “Oh, misers, oh, hoarders, oh, grumblers,

  Beware,

  Tonight there’s a magic, a spell in the

  Air

  “It’s a feast for the gay and a farce

  For the mean,

  Beware all ye hoarders, tonight’s

  Halloween.”

  The dwarf looked comically dismayed when he heard this song. He thrust out his lower lip. “Don’t you dare bother us tonight; don’t you dare!” And he stamped his little foot on the ground with such fury that it actually made a noise.

  “Come on, why don’t you join us? We have lots of fun,” chirped the robin.

  “He wouldn’t know what to do,” Mr. Squirrel chided. “He can’t play; he was born old.”

  “Three little brothers in a tree,” sang the robin, “I don’t like them and they don’t like me.”

  “He-he-he,” chorused the other animals.

  “You are all very rude,” the dwarf told them, drawing himself up to his full height, which was not particularly impressive. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  “Hoot, mon, you are our business. You’re a blot on our landscape,” the owl observed humorously.

  “You’re the bad spot in our tree,” squeaked Ross.

  The dwarf struggled with his indignation, which flashed in his eyes and bristled in his beard. “Wait till I tell my brothers on you,” he threatened, throwing down his rake. Then he ran into his house, slamming the door so hard that all the branches of the oak tree quivered and acorns spattered around.

  “Goodness, gracious, Brother Botolph,” came a plaintive voice from the kitchen, where another dwarf was mopping the floor. “Please spare my nerves. You know how I suffer from headaches. Look what you did—all my pots and pans fell. And do you have to bring in all that trash?”

  Brother Botolph looked down and saw that bits of moss and leaves still clung to his overalls. Some had spilled on the newly scrubbed floor. “Brother Alban,” he cried, still full of his grievance, “come on out and tell those dreadful squirrels that this is our tree and that they’ve no business here. They are terribly rude; I can’t get on with my work.”

  “That’s your problem,” Brother Alban answered. “I’ve my own. Look, you’ve made dirty footmarks too. As I feared, you got your feet wet again. Take these shoes off right away. Now you’ll catch cold, of course, and keep us all awake with your coughing. I do think you might show some consideration for me. Brother Ubald, will you please get out of the way; I have to mop under your chair.”

  But Brother Ubald, the third dwarf, didn’t budge. He sat hunched up on a chair with his nose in a book. He was very learned, and his thoughts were half a world away. Even shouting did not bring them back. So Brother Alban and Brother Botolph lifted him up, chair and all, and put him down somewhere else. He never even noticed it.

  The three brothers had lived all their lives in the little house inside the oak tree. They kept very much to themselves, and were proud of it. They called it “minding their own business.” They never visited, they never gossiped, they never borrowed, and they never lent. They each had their own work and went their own way.

  Brother Ubald was the oldest, and he had the longest beard. It almost reached to the tips of his pointed slippers. He had inherited his father’s library, and as long as he could read undisturbed, he wished for nothing better.

  Brother Botolph was the youngest and took care of the garden. It would have been pleasant work if it had not led to so many quarrels with the neighbors.

  As for Brother Alban, he looked after the h
ouse, and his life was a misery to him. Whereas the others could each withdraw into their own, private sphere—Brother Botolph to the garden, and Brother Ubald to the library (which was built below the kitchen, between the roots of the tree, and could be reached by a winding staircase)—poor Brother Alban’s domain was the kitchen, which also served as a living room. He therefore had to endure endless interruptions, and frequently declared that he could get nothing done.

  His brothers tried not to annoy him, for he had a nasty temper. They did not smoke, because Brother Alban disapproved of ashes. They washed their hands often, because Brother Alban feared fingermarks. They went to bed early, because Brother Alban disliked candle grease. Even so, Brother Alban bemoaned their untidiness. And as for spiders, cockroaches, mosquitoes, ants, and the like, Brother Alban felt that hanging was too good for them.

  At the present moment he was sulking because Brother Botolph had slammed the door. Brother Alban always suspected people of doing things on purpose. He was sure, now, that Brother Botolph had wanted to get even with him for accidentally stepping on his eggshell collection earlier in the day. Brother Botolph was very careless about his treasures. He left them lying about where a person couldn’t see them. The eggshells weren’t all broken, anyway. Such stupid things to collect, too—as if you could expect to keep eggshells forever! He couldn’t understand why Brother Botolph had carried on so. Brother Alban kept defending himself in his own mind while he picked up the pots and pans and replaced them on their hooks.

  There was a knock at the door, and with a sigh of a martyr Brother Alban opened it a few inches. “No!” he shouted. “I told you we don’t give at the door. No, positively not!” And he shut it again quickly. “Those moths,” he grumbled. “They think I have nothing else to do than to hunt up old socks for them to eat. Disgusting habit, anyway. Let them get their wool from the sheep—they’ve got plenty—instead of plaguing the life out of me.”