50 Fairy Stories

by Belinda Gallagher

  Soon he reached the heap of cold ashes. Iktomi halted stiff as if he had struck an invisible cliff. His black eyes showed a ring of white about them as he stared at the empty ground. There was no pot of boiled fish! There was no muskrat in sight!

  “Oh, if only I had shared my food like a real Dakota, I would not have lost it all! Why did I not remember the muskrat would run through the water? He swims faster than I could ever run! That is what he has done. He has laughed at me for carrying a weight on my back while he shot hither like an arrow!”

  “Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed the muskrat. “Next time, say to a visiting friend, ‘Be seated beside me, my friend. Let me share with you my food.,”

  Adventures of a Brownie

  By Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

  READING TIME: 12 MINUTES

  There once was a little brownie who lived – where do you think he lived? – in a coal cellar.

  Now a coal cellar may seem a most curious place to choose to live, but then a brownie is a curious creature – a fairy, and yet not one of that sort of fairies who fly about on gossamer wings, and dance in the moonlight, and so on. He never dances, and as to wings, what use would they be to him in a coal cellar? He is a sober, stay-at-home household elf – nothing much to look at, even if you did see him, which you are not likely to do – only a little old man, about a foot high, all dressed in brown, with a brown face and hands, and a brown peaked cap, just the colour of a brown mouse. And like a mouse he hides in corners – especially kitchen corners – and only comes out after dark when nobody is about, and so sometimes people call him Mr Nobody.

  I said you were not likely to see him. I never did, and never knew anybody that did, but still, if you were to go into Devonshire, you would hear many funny stories about brownies in general, and so I may as well tell you the adventures of this particular brownie, who belonged to a family there, a family he had followed from house to house, most faithfully, for years and years.

  A good many people had heard him – or supposed they had – when there were noises about the house which must have come from a mouse or a rat – or a brownie. But nobody had ever seen him, except the children, the three boys and three girls who declared he often came to play with them when they were alone, and was the nicest companion in the world, though he was such an old man – hundreds of years old! He was full of fun and mischief and up to all sorts of tricks, but he never did anybody any harm unless they deserved it.

  Brownie was supposed to live in the darkest corner of the cellar, which was never allowed to be disturbed. Why he had chosen it nobody knew, and how he lived there, nobody knew either, nor what he lived upon. Except that, ever since the family could remember, there had always been a bowl of milk put behind the coal cellar door for the brownie’s supper. Perhaps he drank it – perhaps he didn’t. Anyhow, the bowl was always found empty next morning.

  The old cook, who had lived all her life in the family, had never once forgotten to give brownie his supper, but at last she died, and a young cook came in her stead, who was very apt to forget everything. She was also both careless and lazy, and disliked taking the trouble to put a bowl of milk in the same place every night for Mr Nobody. She didn’t believe in brownies, she said, she had never seen one, and seeing’s believing. So she laughed at the other servants, who looked very grave, and put the bowl of milk in its place as often as they could, without saying much about it.

  But once, when Brownie woke up, at his usual hour for rising – ten o’clock at night – and looked round in search of his supper, which was in fact his breakfast, he found nothing there. At first he could not imagine such neglect, and went smelling and smelling about for his bowl of milk – it was not always placed in the same corner now – but in vain.

  “This will never do,” said he, and being extremely hungry, began running about the coal cellar to see what he could find. His eyes were as useful in the dark as in the light, but there was nothing to be seen – not even a potato paring, or a dry crust, or a well-gnawed bone, such as Tiny the terrier sometimes brought into the coal cellar and left on the floor – nothing, in short, but heaps of coals and coal dust, and even a brownie cannot eat that, you know.

  “Can’t stand this, quite impossible!” said the brownie, tightening his belt to make his poor little inside feel less empty. “What’s to be done? Since nobody brings my supper, I must go and fetch it.”

  So Brownie put his head out of his coal cellar door, which, to his surprise, he found open. The old cook used to lock it every night, but the young cook had left the keys dangling in the lock.

  “Hurrah, here’s luck!” cried Brownie, tossing his cap up in the air, and bounding right through the scullery into the kitchen. It was quite empty, but there was the remains of an excellent supper spread on the table – enough for half a dozen people – left still.

  Would you like to know what there was? Devonshire cream, of course, and part of a large dish of junket, which is something like curds and whey. Lots of bread and butter and cheese, and half an apple pudding. Also a great jug of cider and another of milk, and several half-full glasses, and no end of dirty plates, knives and forks.

  “Whew!” said Brownie, “Here’s a chance! What a supper I’ll get now!”

  And he jumped on to a chair and thence to the table, but so quietly that the large black cat with four white paws, called Muff because she was so fat and soft and her fur so long, who sat dozing in front of the fire, just opened one eye and went to sleep again. She had tried to get her nose into the milk jug, but it was too small, and the junket dish was too deep for her to reach, except with one paw. Oh, what a supper he did eat! First one thing and then another, and then trying everything all over again. And oh, what a lot he drank! First milk and then cider, and then mixed the two together in a way that would have disagreed with anybody except a brownie. He must have had a most extraordinary capacity for eating and drinking, since, after he had nearly cleared the table, he was just as lively as ever, and began jumping about on the table as if he had had no supper at all.

  Now his jumping was a little awkward, for there happened to be a clean white tablecloth. As this was only Monday, it had had no time to get dirty – untidy as the cook was. And you know Brownie lived in a coal cellar, and his feet were black with running about in coal dust. So wherever he trod, he left the impression behind, until at last the whole tablecloth was covered with black marks.

  Not that he minded this. In fact, he took great pains to make the cloth as dirty as possible, and then laughing loudly – ‘Ho, ho, ho!, – leaped on to the hearth, and began teasing the cat, squeaking like a mouse, or chirping like a cricket, or buzzing like a fly.

  Well, the cook came downstairs rather earlier than usual, for she remembered she had to clear off the remains of supper, but lo and behold, there was nothing left to clear! Every bit of food was eaten up – the cheese looked as if a dozen mice had been nibbling at it, and nibbled it down to the very rind, the milk and cider were all drunk – and mice don’t care for milk and cider, you know. As for the apple pudding, it had vanished altogether, and the dish was licked as clean as if Boxer the yard-dog had been at it, in his hungriest mood.

  “And my white tablecloth – oh, my clean white tablecloth! What can have been done to it?” cried she in amazement. For it was all over little black footmarks, just the size of a baby’s foot – only babies don’t wear shoes with nails in them, and don’t run about and climb on kitchen tables after all the family have gone to bed.

  Cook was a little frightened, but her fright changed to anger when she saw the large black cat stretched comfortably on the hearth. Poor Muff had crept there for a little snooze after brownie went away.

  “You nasty cat! I see it all now, it’s you that have eaten up all the supper, it’s you that have been on my clean tablecloth with your dirty paws.”

  They were white paws, and as clean as possible, but Cook never thought of that, any more than she did of the fact that cats don’t usually drink cider or eat app
le pudding.

  “I’ll teach you to come stealing food in this way, take that – and that – and that!”

  Cook got hold of a broom and beat poor Pussy till the creature ran mewing away. Next night, Cook thought she would make all safe and sure, so, instead of letting the cat sleep by the fire, she shut her up in the chilly coal cellar, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and went off to bed, leaving the supper as before.

  When Brownie woke up and looked out of his hole, there was as usual no supper for him, and the cellar door was shut. He peered about, to try and find some cranny under the door to creep out at, but there was none. And he felt so hungry that he could almost have eaten the cat, who kept walking to and fro in a melancholy manner – only she was alive, and he couldn’t well eat her alive. Besides he knew she was old, and had an idea she might be tough, so he merely said, politely, “How do you do, Mrs Pussy,” to which she answered nothing – of course.

  Something must be done, and luckily brownies can do things which nobody else can do. So he thought he would change himself into a mouse, and gnaw a hole through the door. But then he suddenly remembered the cat, who, though he had decided not to eat her, might take this opportunity of eating him. So he thought it advisable to wait till she was fast asleep, which did not happen for a good while. At length, quite tired with walking about, Pussy turned round on her tail six times, curled down in a corner, and fell fast asleep.

  Immediately Brownie changed himself into the smallest mouse possible, and, taking care not to make the least noise, gnawed a hole in the door, and squeezed himself through – immediately turning into his proper shape again, for fear of accidents.

  The kitchen fire was at its last glimmer, but it showed a better supper than even last night, for the cook had had friends with her, a brother and two cousins, and they had been exceedingly merry. The food they had left behind was enough for three brownies at least, but this one managed to eat it all up. Only once, in trying to cut a great slice of beef, he let the carving knife and fork fall with such a clatter, that Tiny the terrier, who was tied up at the foot of the stairs, began to bark furiously. However, he brought her her puppy, which had been left in a basket in a corner of the kitchen, and so succeeded in quieting her.

  After that he enjoyed himself amazingly, and made more marks than ever on the white table-cloth.

  When Cook came downstairs and saw that the same thing had happened again – that the supper was all eaten, and the table-cloth blacker than ever with the extraordinary footmarks, she was greatly puzzled. Who could have done it all? Not the cat, who came mewing out of the coal cellar the minute she unlocked the door.

  Possibly a rat – but then would a rat have come within reach of Tiny?

  “It must have been Tiny herself, or her puppy,” which just came rolling out of its basket over Cook’s feet. “You little wretch! You and your mother are the greatest nuisance imaginable. I’ll punish you!”

  And quite forgetting that Tiny had been safely tied up all night, and that her poor little puppy was so fat and helpless it could scarcely stand on its legs – to say nothing of jumping on chairs and tables – she gave them both such a thrashing that they ran howling together out of the kitchen door, where the kind little kitchen maid took them up in her arms.

  “You ought to have beaten the Brownie, if you could catch him,” said she in a whisper. “He’ll do it again and again, you’ll see, for he can’t bear an untidy kitchen. You’d better do as poor Old Cook did, and clear the supper things away, and put the odds and ends safe in the larder. Also,” she added mysteriously, “if I were you, I'd put a bowl of milk behind the coal cellar door.”

  “Nonsense!” answered Young Cook, and flounced away. But afterwards she thought better of it, and did as she was advised, grumbling all the time, but doing it.

  Next morning, the milk was gone! Perhaps Brownie had drunk it up. Anyhow nobody could say that he hadn’t. As for the supper, Cook having safely laid it on the shelves of the larder, nobody touched it. And the tablecloth, which was wrapped up tidily and put in the dresser drawer, came out as clean as ever, with not a single black footmark upon it. No mischief being done, the cat and the dog both escaped beating, and Brownie played no more tricks with anybody – till the next time.

  The Fairies and the Envious Neighbour

  By Algernon Freeman-Mitford

  READING TIME: 2 MINUTES

  Once upon a time there was a certain man, who, being overtaken by darkness among the mountains, was driven to seek shelter in the trunk of a hollow tree. In the middle of the night, a large company of fairies assembled at the place, and the man, peeping out from his hiding place, was frightened out of his wits. After a while, however, the fairies began to feast and drink wine, and to amuse themselves by singing and dancing, until at last the man, caught by the infection of the fun, forgot all about his fright, and crept out of his hollow tree to join in the revels.

  When the day was about to dawn, the fairies said to the man, “You're a very jolly companion, and must come out and have a dance with us again. You must make us a promise, and keep it.” So the elves, thinking to bind the man over to return, took a large wart that grew on his forehead and kept it as a pledge. Upon this they all left the place, and went home.

  The man walked off to his house in glee at having passed a jovial night, and got rid of his wart into the bargain. He told the story to all his friends, who congratulated him warmly on being cured of his wart. But he had a neighbour who was also troubled with a wart of long standing. When he heard of his friend’s luck, he was smitten with envy, and went to find the hollow tree, in which he passed the night.

  Towards midnight the elves came, as he had expected, and began feasting and drinking, with songs and dances as before. As soon as he saw this, he came out of his hollow tree, and began dancing and singing as his neighbour had done. The elves, mistaking him for their former boon-companion, were delighted to see him, and said:

  “You're a good fellow to recollect your promise, and we’ll give you back your pledge,” so one of the elves, pulling the pawned wart out of his pocket, stuck it onto the man’s forehead, on the top of the other wart which he already bad. And the envious neighbour went home weeping, with two warts instead of one. This is a good lesson to people who cannot see the good luck of others, without coveting it for themselves.

  Drak, the Fairy

  By Kate Douglas Wiggin

  READING TIME: 8 MINUTES

  In the last century there lived in the little town of Gaillac, in Languedoc, a young merchant named Michael, who, having arrived at an age when he wished to settle down in life, sought a wife. Providing she was sweet-tempered, witty, rich, beautiful, and of good family, he was not particular about the rest. Unhappily, he could not see in Gaillac one who appeared worthy of his choice. At length he was told of a young lady with good qualities and a dowry of twenty thousand crowns. This sum was exactly that required by Michael to establish himself in business, so he instantly fell in love with the young lady of Lavaur. He obtained an introduction to the family, who liked his appearance, and gave him a good reception. But the young heiress had many suitors, from whom she hesitated to make a definite choice. After several discussions it was decided by her parents that the suitors should be brought together at a ball, and after having compared them a choice should be made.

  On the appointed day Michael set out for Lavaur. His case was packed with his finest clothes – an apple-green coat, a lavender waistcoat, breeches of black velvet, silk stockings with silver trees, buckled shoes, powder box to powder his hair, and a satin ribbon for his pigtail. His horse was harnessed with gay trappings.

  Furthermore, the prudent traveller, not having a pistol to put in his holsters, had slipped in a little bottle of wine and several slices of almond cake, in order to have something at hand to keep his courage up. For in reality, now that the day had come he was in a very anxious state, and when he saw in the distance the church of Lavaur he felt quite taken aback. He
slackened the pace of his horse, then dismounted, and in order to reflect upon what he should do at the ball he entered a little wood and sat down on the turf. He drew from his holsters, to keep him company, the almond cake and the bottle, the latter he placed between his knees, so that without thinking of it he varied his reflections by sips of wine and mouthfuls of cake.

  The sun having disappeared from the horizon he was about to pursue his journey, when he heard a sound behind him among the leaves, as of a multitude of little footsteps trampling the grass in tune to the music of a flute and cymbals. Astonished, he turned around, and by the light of the first stars, he perceived a troop of fairies, who were running, headed by the king, Tambourinet. In their rear, turning over and over like a wheel, was the buffoon of the little people – Drak, the fairy.

  The fairies surrounded the traveller, and gave him a thousand welcomes and good wishes. Michael, who had drunk too freely not to be brave, began to crumble and throw his cake to them as one would to the birds. Each one had his crumb with the exception of Drak, who arrived when everyone had finished. King Tambourinet next asked what was in the bottle, and the fairies passed it from hand to hand till it reached the buffoon, who, finding it empty, threw it away.

  Michael burst out laughing.

  “That is justice, my little man,” said he to the fairy. “For those who arrive late, there remains nothing but regret.”

  “I will make you remember what you have just said,” cried Drak in anger.

  “And how?” asked the traveller. “Do you think, now, you are big enough to revenge yourself ?”

  Drak disappeared without answering, and Michael, after taking leave of Tambourinet, mounted his horse.

  He had not gone a hundred paces, when the saddle turned and threw him roughly to the ground. He arose a little stunned, rebuckled the straps, and mounted again. A little farther on, as he was going over a bridge, the right stirrup bent slightly, and he found himself thrown in the middle of the river. He got out again in a very bad humour, and fell the third time over the pebbles in the road, hurting himself so much that he could hardly proceed. He began to think that if he persisted in riding in the saddle he would be unable to present himself at all to the family of the young lady, so he decided to ride his horse barebacked, and take the saddle upon his shoulder. In this manner, he made his entry into Lavaur amid the laughter of the people who were sitting at their doors.