The roar came nearer, it swelled, it grew louder and louder and louder. The noise made the little Water Sprite’s head ring. “This is the end of me!” was his last thought. He gathered himself together, held his breath, and waited …
Now!
A wooden wall came flying towards him – opened and swallowed him up.
Everything was dark. There was – a thundering, boiling, hissing noise. The little Water Sprite felt himself being whirled through the air. He turned head over heels and tumbled back into the water.
He had gone over the mill-wheel.
It would have been very dangerous for an ordinary boy to go over the mill-wheel. He would have been lucky to have escaped unhurt. At the very least he would have broken several ribs, and probably his neck too.
But water sprites are made of stronger stuff. Their necks are not so easily broken, especially not by falling into the water – and where else was the little Water Sprite to fall when he shot off the mill-wheel? He was tossed up out of the water and tumbled straight back again – which was lucky for him.
Of course, he was terrified at first, not knowing what had happened to him. He swam to safety as quickly as possible. His first thought was to get out on the other side of those wooden walls, into the open air and the sunlight.
His second thought was that the slide over the mill-wheel hadn’t been so bad after all. In fact, quite the opposite. Now it was over, he decided it had really been quite fun.
“Just suppose,” thought the little Water Sprite, “just suppose I had another go …?”
That was his third thought.
Twenty-Five of the Best
So quite by chance the little Water Sprite had discovered a wonderful new game.
He slid along the mill-race and over the wheel several times after another. As soon as he had plunged off the wheel, he climbed back on the bank, at the other side of the mill, ran round the mill, through the meadow, back to the mill-pond, jumped head first into the water and started all over again.
He slid a great many times more, that day and the next day and the day after that. He found he could slide in different positions, sometimes on his tummy, sometimes on his back, stretched out flat, or curled up in a ball like a hedgehog.
Sometimes he put his hands in his pockets, or clasped them behind his head. Or he slid sitting cross-legged or crouched on all fours. Or if he felt like it he turned somersaults during the slide.
His best trick was to touch his nose with his toes and shoot through the mill-race with his bottom first. The only trouble was that he hadn’t got an audience.
And it was a pity the miller never wound the sluice gate more than halfway open – yes, that was a great pity. “Because if only he’d open it wider,” thought the little Water Sprite, “there’d be more water flowing down the trough. And then it would go faster. It’s much too slow now.”
He hoped and hoped that one day the miller would open the sluice gate really wide. But the miller had no intention of doing so.
In the end, the little Water Sprite said to himself, “Very well, if the miller won’t do it, I will!”
He waited till Sunday.
The little Water Sprite knew that the men who lived in the mill went to church on Sunday. When they were all out of the house, he could do what he liked without being disturbed.
Just as he expected, when the church bells began ringing in the village on Sunday morning, the door of the mill opened and the miller’s wife came out with her hymn book under her arm. Behind her came the miller’s boys, behind the miller’s boys the two maids, and behind the two maids came the miller himself. He wore his best coat with the silver buttons, and instead of his floury miller’s cap he had a tall black hat on his head. The little Water Sprite hardly recognized him.
The little Water Sprite crouched in a clump of reeds at the lower end of the mill-pond, near the sluice gate. He watched the miller and his household closely.
He saw the miller take a big key out of his coat pocket and lock the mill door. Then the whole company went along the little field path in single file. In front walked the miller’s wife, behind her the miller’s boys, and behind them the two maids. At the end of the procession went the miller in his fine blue coat with the silver buttons. They all had cheerful Sunday faces, and the little Water Sprite in his hiding place in the reeds was cheerful too.
The miller and his household went by. They had no idea he was there. Their legs passed right in front of his nose. He could have pinched their calves if he had wanted to, easily. But he mustn’t give himself away.
The sluice gate was shut, the channel for the water was empty, and the mill-wheel stood still. The miller and his household clattered over the narrow plank bridge across the sluice. The miller gave the iron handle a quick tug, to make sure the gate would stay shut. Then he strode after the others.
The little Water Sprite waited until they had disappeared among the fields. Even then he waited a bit longer. Not till he was sure they must be nearly at the church did he climb out of his hiding place and set to work.
The little Water Sprite had a hard time with the sluice gate. He pulled at the iron handle for ages. He pulled with all his might. It just wouldn’t budge.
The little Water Sprite took off his coat. He spat in his hands. He drew a deep breath.
It took a lot more spit and a lot more deep breaths. But at last he succeeded.
The iron handle gave in, creaking and groaning. Slowly the gate rose. The first drops of water trickled through the crack into the channel.
“There!” thought the little Water Sprite. He had a short rest and then got back to work again. It was much easier now.
The little Water Sprite turned and turned. Right hand, left hand – right, left! The iron handle went round and round. The water trickled faster and faster through the sluice gate. Soon the trickle turned to a rush, and the rush turned to a roar. Before long the mill-wheel started to clack in the distance. Click – clack, it began. Click – clack. It sounded quite sleepy.
But after a time it went click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. And a little later on it went clack-clack-clack – clack-clack-clack – clack-clack-clack.
In the end you could only hear a rattling noise – ratatatatata. Even faster than you can say it. The honest miller would have had a fit if he had heard it.
But luckily the miller was at church and couldn’t hear it. The little Water Sprite turned happily on.
He wound the sluice gate right up, as high as it would go. The water boiled and bubbled at his feet, filling the wooden trough to the brim. That was better! It should go at least twice as fast when he jumped in this time.
The little Water Sprite jumped head first from the bridge. The current seized him. He shot along the trough like an arrow – up over the mill-wheel – and plop! back into the water. It was all over before he could count to three.
This was splendid! This was how he’d always wanted it. Without wasting a moment he went out past the wooden wall, round the mill, back through the meadow and splash! off the bridge into the water again. He repeated the performance a dozen times or more. Until all at once Father Water Sprite appeared. He seemed to spring out of the ground at the little Water Sprite’s feet.
“Did you do that?” he asked angrily, pointing to the open sluice gate. “Well! Words fail me! So you’d let the pond out, you rascal, would you? Just wait, my boy, I’ll teach you a lesson! Come here.” Father Water Sprite seized his son by the scruff of his neck. Holding him firmly with his left hand, he began to wind the sluice gate down again with his right.
“What’s the idea?” he scolded. “Want us all to dry up, eh? The pond’s half empty already. And why? – because little Master Water Sprite goes messing about with the sluice! Twenty-five of the best for you, my lad!”
Father Water Sprite was as good as his word. When the sluice was closed again, he put the struggling little Water Sprite over his knee and gave him twenty-five of the best, just as he’d promised.
Boo!
People often threw things carelessly away into the mill-pond, and the little Water Sprite collected them – old tins, electric light bulbs, worn-out clogs, and all kinds of other valuable things. He hid them under a stone behind the water sprites’ house. In time the little Water Sprite had a large collection of treasures in his hoard. One day he showed them proudly to his friend Cyprian the carp.
Cyprian made a careful examination of all the treasures in turn. Then he said, pouting scornfully, “That’s all well and good, my child – but what use is a pot without a bottom? Or that rusty old poker? I can see a left boot with holes in it, too – and you seem to have dozens of beer bottles there.”
“I find beer bottles quite often. Mostly broken, I’m afraid,” said the little Water Sprite. “Never mind, I collect them all the same.”
“And what for, may I ask?” inquired Cyprian the carp.
“What for?” repeated the little Water Sprite in surprise. The question had never entered his head. He tried to think up an answer quickly, but while he was still thinking, Cyprian said, “There, you see, that’s just the point. You don’t really know yourself why you’ve collected all this rubbish. Not worth keeping, any of it. You’d better throw it away.”
“Throw it away!” cried the little Water Sprite. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Leave it alone.”
“All right, all right,” said Cyprian, “that’s your business, nothing to do with me. If you like collecting rubbish, please yourself. I wouldn’t do it, in any event. But then I’m an old fellow, after all. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Cyprian blew a few bubbles, just to show he had nothing more to say. Then he swam off.
The little Water Sprite watched him angrily.
“Say what you like!” he called after the carp. “You won’t spoil my lovely things for me, ever.” But secretly he was hoping for a chance to convince Cyprian that his treasures could be useful after all.
He didn’t have long to wait.
Before three days were up he met Cyprian again. The old carp looked upset and kept blowing bubbles. The little Water Sprite couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he could tell it was nothing friendly.
“What’s the matter, Cyprian?” he asked.
“Oh, leave me alone,” was the answer. “I’m in a bad temper.”
“Even a blind man can see that,” said the little Water Sprite. “But what’s put you in a temper?”
“It’s that man with the fishing rod!” Cyprian snapped indignantly at the water. “I wish I could gobble him up! It’s a crying shame. Sits up there on the bank just waiting for you to bite! I ask you, isn’t that enough to put anyone in a temper? Oh, if only I could gobble him up!”
“Well, you can’t,” said the little Water Sprite. “Neither can I. Still … perhaps I might be able to think of something else …”
“Oh, really?” drawled Cyprian. He looked disbelievingly at the little Water Sprite. “And what might that be?”
“Wait and see,” replied the little Water Sprite. He wanted to give Cyprian a surprise.
He made the carp show him where the hook and fishing line hung down in the water. Then he told him to swim nearer the bank and watch what happened to the fisherman. “I can’t tell you any more yet,” he explained, winking at Cyprian. “It’s a secret.”
So Cyprian swam towards the bank and waited. He squinted suspiciously at the man holding his rod over the pond. Near the man stood a bucket. Water was slopping about in it. “He must have caught some of us already,” thought Cyprian in dismay. “It must be dreadful struggling about in that bucket. I only hope no one else bites …”
Scarcely had the thought passed through Cyprian’s mind when he saw the man frown and bend forward. Then, with a mighty tug, he pulled his line in.
“Oh dear!” thought the good old carp, chilled to the marrow of his bones. “He’s caught another, this dreadful man. And I have to stand by and watch!”
Something came flying to the bank in a great arc and landed smack in the grass.
At once the man fell eagerly on his prey. But lo and behold! this time it wasn’t a fish he had caught. He had caught – Cyprian the carp opened his mouth wide in astonishment – he had caught a left boot with holes in it!
There was no mistaking it – a battered, torn left boot was hanging on the hook.
Light began to dawn on Cyprian the carp. Of course, he knew at once how that shoe had got on the hook. But the man didn’t know – how could he?
At first the man looked puzzled. Then he got annoyed. Angrily he unhooked the boot and flung it back into the water. He took a tin out of the top of his boot, chose a fat worm out of the tin, put the worm on the hook and threw out his line again.
“Good luck!” bubbled Cyprian. “I wonder what you will catch this time?”
A little later the man brought an old, rusty poker to land instead of the boot. How he cursed! Cyprian the carp was delighted. He waved his fins in glee and thought, “This will teach you to go fishing, my friend! Let’s see what comes up next time …”
The man threw out his line seven times more, and he had worse luck each time. After the poker he caught an empty beer bottle. After the beer bottle he brought up an old clog. Then he fished one by one out of the pond a broken sieve, a mouse-trap, a cheese-grater, and a battered old lampshade. And finally a pot with handles but no bottom came up on his hook. To the pot clung the little Water Sprite. He had pulled his pointed red cap down over his forehead, and he was waving his arms and legs about like a madman and yelling, “Boo! Boooo!”
It was a ghastly sound.
The man dropped his fishing rod in terror and ran for his life. As he ran he let the tin of worms fall. He took no notice. He ran as if the devil were after him. Without once looking back he disappeared.
“There!” said the little Water Sprite happily, slipping out of the pot again. “I don’t think we shall see him again very soon. What do you say, Cyprian?”
“I say you managed it beautifully!” the carp pronounced. “A grownup water sprite couldn’t have done better.”
“But it wouldn’t have been so easy without my useless rubbish,” said the little Water Sprite laughing. He tapped the pot with his knuckles.
“You were quite right,” said Cyprian. “I can see that now. Just go on collecting rubbish – I’ll take care not to laugh at it again!”
“Well, so long as you understand, everything’s all right,” said the little Water Sprite. He was very pleased with himself. “Now I can swim up to the bank in peace.”
“The bank?” asked Cyprian in surprise. “What are you going to do there?”
“First: break the fishing rod,” said the little Water Sprite. “Second: tip back the poor things struggling away in that bucket – and third …”
“Third?”
“Third: I’m going to find the tin that fisherman left behind, and give the rest of the worms to a certain carp called Cyprian for his lunch.”
“Oh no!” cried Cyprian, touched.
“Oh yes!” said the little Water Sprite. “And I hope they taste good!”
Harp Music
“The boy’s coming on,” said Father Water Sprite approvingly when Cyprian told him the story of the man with the fishing rod. “Are you sure you didn’t invent any of it, Cyprian?”
“True as I’m swimming here!” the carp assured him. “I’ve only told you what I saw with my own eyes. If I invented the least little bit may I dry up on the spot!”
“Well, if you say so, it must be right,” agreed Father Water Sprite. “In that case I really ought to give the boy a treat, as a reward for driving off the man with the rod. What do you think about that?”
He beckoned Cyprian closer and whispered into his mouth (for as you know, carp have no ears) his plan to give the little Water Sprite a treat.
“Mm, yes,” said Cyprian, grinning. “Yes, that’s a good idea of yours. The lad will be sure to enjoy that. When will you tell him?”
&
nbsp; “This evening,” said Father Water Sprite. He grinned too. “After supper, before he goes to bed. I want it to be a surprise.”
It was a good thing the little Water Sprite didn’t know about the treat, or he would have been too excited to swallow a mouthful of supper. But he had no idea his father had been planning a treat for him. He drank his soup and ate up everything on his plate like a good boy – just the same as any other evening. When he had finished his supper he got down to say good night to his parents.
“Wait a minute, my boy,” said Father Water Sprite. “I can see you want to be off to bed. But well, I’ve got other ideas. I was just thinking you might like to come out with me for a little.”
“Out with you?” asked the little Water Sprite in astonishment.
“Yes, out with me,” Father Water Sprite repeated. “It’s such a fine evening, I want to go up on land for an hour or so. And I’m taking the harp!”
“Really?” The little Water Sprite could hardly believe his ears. “Did you really and truly say I could come too? Oh, that’s – that’s …”
“That’s for your adventure of yesterday afternoon,” said Father Water Sprite, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Cyprian told me all about it. I think you’ve earned an evening out.”
He took down his harp from its hook and beckoned the little Water Sprite to follow him.
The little Water Sprite was delighted. It was the first time his father had taken him up on land in the evening.
How often he had begged to go too! But the answer had always been, “Later on.”
“When you’re older, perhaps we’ll think about it,” his father had repeated only the other day. “You’re still too small, for one thing. Bed’s the place for you in the evening.”
The Little Water Sprite Page 4