by Howard Pyle
“Two men are in this bottle,” said the little old man; “when they have done all that you want them to do, say ‘brikket-ligg’ and they will go back again. Will you trade with me?” Yes, Peter would trade. So Peter gave the little man the eggs, and the little man gave Peter the second bottle, and they parted very good friends.
After a while Peter grew tired. “Now,” said he to himself, “I will ride a little”; and so he drew the cork out of the bottle. Pop! pop! out came two men from the bottle; but this time they were ugly and black, and each held a stout stick in his hand. They said not a word, but, without more ado, fell upon Peter and began threshing him as though he was wheat on the barn floor. “Stop! stop!” cried Peter, and he went hopping and skipping up and down, and here and there, but it seemed as though the two ugly black men did not hear him, for the blows fell as thick as hail on the roof. At last he gathered his wits together, like a flock of pigeons, and cried, “Brikket-ligg! brikket-ligg!” Then, whisk! pop! they went back into the bottle again, and Peter corked it up, and corked it tightly, I can tell you.
“Clever Peter and the Unlucky Bottle”
The next day he started off to the palace once more. Rap! rap! rap! he knocked at the door. Was the King at home? Yes, the King was at home; would he come and sit in the parlor?
Presently the King came in, in dressing-gown and slippers. “What! are you back again?” said he.
“Yes; I am back again,” said Peter.
“What do you want?” said the King.
“I want to marry the Princess,” said Peter.
“What have you brought this time?” said the King.
“I have brought another bottle,” said Peter.
Then the King rubbed his hands and was very polite indeed, and asked Peter in to breakfast, and Peter went. So they all three sat down together, the King, the Princess, and Peter.
“My dear,” said the King, to the Princess, “the Lord Peter has brought another bottle with him.” Thereat the Princess was very polite also. Would Lord Peter let them see the bottle? Oh yes! Peter would do that: so he drew it out of his pocket and sat it upon the table.
Perhaps they would like to have it opened. Yes, that they would. So Peter opened the bottle.
Hui! what a hubbub there was! The King hopped about till his slippers flew off, his dressing-gown fluttered like great wings, and his crown rolled off from his head and across the floor, like a quoit at the fair. As for the Princess, she never danced in all of her life as she danced that morning. They made such a noise that the soldiers of the Royal Guard came running in; but the two tall black men spared them no more than the King and the Princess. Then came all of the Lords of the Council, and they likewise danced to the same music as the rest.
“Oh, Peter! dear Lord Peter! cork up your men again!” they all cried.
“Will you give me back my bottle?” said Peter.
“Yes! yes!” cried the King.
“Will you marry me?” said Peter.
“Yes! yes!” cried the Princess.
Then Peter said “brikket-ligg!” and the two tall men popped back into the bottle again. So the King gave him back his other bottle, and the minister was called in and married him to the Princess.
After that he lived happily, and when the old King died he became King over all of the land. As for the Princess, she was as good a wife as you ever saw, but Peter always kept the bottle near to him — maybe that was the reason.
Ah me! if I could only take my eggs to such a
market and get two such bottles for them!
What would I do with them? It would
take too long to tell you.
“Clever Peter opens the Unlucky Bottle for the King and Princess”
YE ROMANTIC ADVENTURES OF THREE TAILORS
Three little men went ajogging along —
Along in the sunshiny weather.
And they laughed and they sang an occasional song
Which they all of them caroled together.
And the great white clouds floated over the sky
And the day it was warm and the sun it was high.
As three jolly tailor men all were they
As you’d find in a dozen of years.
One carried the yardstick another the goose
And the bravest of all bore the shears
So they merrily trudged until after awhile
The came where three milk-maids sat all on a stile.
The grass it was green and the flowers were gay,
And it was the pleasantest weather.
And the milkmaids were pretty as blossoms in May
As they sat on the stile all together.
Then they stopped on the high-way those three gallant men
For they never had seen as fair lasses as then.
Then up spake the first of the tailor men three
And the one with the goodliest parts.
“We are all of us good men gallant and free
And have never yet plighted our hearts.
So prithee fair maids will you marry us all
For our hearts they be great as our bodies be small.”
Then up spake the first of the three pretty dears
“Pray tell what your fortunes may be sir.”
“Oh three loving hearts and a yard goose and shears.”
“Then you’ve not enough fortune for me sir.
So get you along while your boots are still green
For richer young men we shall marry I ween.”
Three little tailor men jogging along —
Along in the sunshiny weather.
No longer they laugh with a jest and a song
But they walk very sadly together.
For when maidens are proud like the milkmaidens cold,
The lads they grow sad like the tailors so bold.
Howard Pyle
FANCY AND FACT
O! a shepherd and a shepherdess,
They dwelt in Arcadee,
And they were dressed in Watteau dress,
Most charming for to see.
They sat upon the dewy grass,
With buds and blossoms set.
And the shepherd played unto the lass,
Upon a flageolet.
It seemed to me as though it was
A very pleasant thing;
Particularly so because
The time of year was Spring.
But, O! the ground was damp, and so,
At least, I have been told,
The shepherd caught the lumbago,
The shepherdess, a cold.
My darling Child! the fact is
That the Poets often sing
Of those joys which in the practice
Are another sort of thing.
H.P.
YE TWO WISHES
An Angel went a walking out one day, as I’ve heard said,
And, coming to a faggot-maker, begged a crust of bread
The faggot-maker gave a crust and something rather queer
To wash it down withall, from out a bottle that stood near.
The Angel finished eating; but before he left, said he,
“Thou shalt have two wishes granted, for that thou hast given me.
One wish for that good drinkable, another for the bread.”
The he left the faggot-maker all amazed at what he’d said.
“I wonder,” says the faggot-maker, after he had gone,
“I wonder if there’s any truth in that same little song!”
So, turning this thing over in his mind, he cast around,
‘Till he saw the empty bottle where it lay upon the ground.
“I wish,” said he, just as a test, “if what he said is so,
Into that empty bottle, now, that I may straightway go”
No sooner said that done; for, — Whisk! into the flask he fell,
Where he found himself as tightly packed as chicken in the shell.
In vain he kicked and twisted, and in vain he howled with
pain;
For, in spite of all his efforts, he could not get out again.
So, seeing how the matter stood, he had to wish once more.
When, out he slipped, as easily as he’d gone in before.
If we had two wishes, granted by an Angel thus,
We would not throw away the good so kindly given us.
For first we’d ask for wisdom, which, when we had in store,
I’m very doubtful if we’d care to ask for anymore.
Howard Pyle
A VERSE WITH A MORAL BUT NO NAME
A wise man once, of Haarlem town,
Went wandering up, and wandering down,
And ever the question asked:
“If all the world was paper,
And if all the sea was ink,
And if the trees were bread and cheese,
What would we do for drink?”
Then all the folk, both great and small,
Began to beat their brains,
But they could not answer him at all,
In spite of all their pains.
But still he wandered here and there,
This man of great renown,
And still he questioned everywhere,
The folk of Haarlem town:
“If all the world was paper,
And if all the sea was ink,
And if the trees were bread and cheese,
What would we do for drink?”
Full thin he grew, as, day by day,
He toiled with mental strain,
Until the wind blew him away,
And he ne’er was seen again.
And now methinks I hear you say,
“Was ere a man so foolish, pray,
Since first the world began?”
Oh, hush! I’ll tell you secretly
Down East there dwells a man, and he
Is asking questions constantly,
That none can answer, that I see,
Yet he’s a wise-wise man!
H. Pyle
HANS HECKLEMANN’S LUCK
Hans Hecklemann had no luck at all. Now and then we hear folks say that they have no luck, but they only mean that their luck is bad and that they are ashamed of it. Everybody but Hans Hecklemann had luck of some kind, either good or bad, and, what is more, everybody carries his luck about with him; some carry it in their pocket-books, some carry it in their hats, some carry it on their finger tips, and some carry it under their tongues — these are lawyers. Mine is at this moment sitting astride of my pen, though I can no more see it than though it was thin air; whether it is good or bad depends entirely as to how you look upon it.
But Hans Hecklemann had no luck at all. How he lost it nobody knows, but it is certain that it was clean gone from him.
He was as poor as charity, and yet his luck was not bad, for, poor as he was, he always had enough for his wife and his family and himself to eat. They all of them worked from dawn to nightfall, and yet his luck was not good, for he never laid one penny on top of the other, as the saying is. He had food enough to eat, and clothes enough to wear, so his luck was not indifferent. Now, as it was neither good, bad, nor indifferent, you see that it could have been no luck at all.
Hans Hecklemann’s wife was named Catherine. One evening when Hans came into the cottage with just enough money to buy them all bread and not a cracked farthing to spare, Catherine spoke to him of this matter.
“Hans,” said she, “you have no luck at all.”
“Hans Hecklemann, Catherine.”
“No,” said Hans, “I have not,” which was the truth, as I have already told you.
“What are you going to do about it?” said Catherine.
“Nothing at all,” said Hans.
“Doing nothing puts no cabbage into the pot,” said Catherine.
“It takes none out,” said Hans.
“See, Hans,” said Catherine; “go to the old wise woman in the wood and talk to her about it; who knows but that she can tell you how and where you lost your luck?”
“If I should find my luck it might be bad and not good,” said Hans.
“It is worth having a look at,” said Catherine; “you can leave it where you find it if it does not please you.”
“No,” said Hans; “when a man finds his luck he has to take it, whether he likes it or no.”
So Hans talked, but he had made up his mind to do as Catherine said, to go and see the old wise woman in the wood. He argued with her, but he only argued with her to let her know how little was her knowledge and how great was his. After he had clearly shown her how poor her advice was, he took it. Many other men are like Hans Hecklemann.
So, early the next morning, Hans jogged along to the old wise woman’s cottage, while the day was sweet and fresh. The hedgerows were covered all over with white blossoms, as though it was with so much snow; the cuckoo was singing among the budding branches, and the little flowers were looking up everywhere with their bright faces. “Surely,” said Hans to himself, “if I find my luck on this day, it must be good and not ill.”
So he came to the little red cottage at the edge of the wood wherein lived the wise woman who knew many things and one. Hans scraped his feet on the stones until they were clean, and then he knocked at the door.
“Come in,” said the old wise woman.
She was as strange an old woman as one could hope to see in a lifetime. Her nose bent down to meet her chin, and her chin bent up to reach her nose; her face was gray with great age, and her hair was as white as snow. She wore a long red cloak over her shoulders, and a great black cat sat on the back of her chair.
“What do you want, Son Hans?” said she.
“I want to find my luck, mother,” said Hans.
“Where did you lose it, Son Hans?” said she.
“That I do not know, mother,” said Hans.
Then the old wise woman said “Hum-m-m!” in a very thoughtful voice, and Hans said nothing at all.
After a while she spoke again. “Have you enough to eat?” said she.
“Oh yes!” said Hans.
“Have you enough to drink?” said she.
“Plenty of water, enough of milk, but no beer,” said Hans.
“Have you enough clothes to cover you?” said she.
“Oh yes!” said Hans.
“Are you warm enough in winter?” said she.
“Oh yes!” said Hans.
“Then you had better leave well enough alone,” said she, “for luck can give you nothing more.”
“But it might put money into my pocket,” said Hans.
“And it might take away the good things that you already have,” said she.
“All the same, I should like to find it again,” said Hans; “if I could only lay my hands on it I might make good out of it, even if it is bad.”
“I doubt that,” said the old wise woman. Neverthe less, she saw that Hans was set in his own way, and that he only talked stiffness into his stubbornness. So she arose from her chair with much groaning, for her joints were stiffened with age, and limping to a closet in the wall she brought a book thence. Then she ran her finger down one page and up another, until she had found that which she sought. When she had found it she spoke:
“Hans Hecklemann goes to the cottage of the old Wise Woman in search of his Luck.”
“Son Hans, you lost your luck three years ago when you were coming from the fair at Kneitlingen. You sat down on the overturned cross that lies where three roads meet, and it fell out of your pocket along with a silver shilling. Now, Hans, your luck was evil, therefore it stuck to the good sign, as all evil things of that kind must, like a fly to butter. Also, I tell you this: when an evil manikin such as this touches the sign of the good cross, he becomes visible to the eyes of everybody who chooses to look upon him. Therefore go to the stone cross and you will find your luck running this way and that, but never able to get away from it.” So say ing, the old woman shut her book again. Then she arose from her chair and went once more to the close
t in the wall. This time she took from it a little sack woven of black goat’s hair. “When you have found your luck again, put it into this little bag,” said she; “once in it, no evil imp will be able to get out again so long as you keep the strings tied. And now good-bye!”
“Hans Hecklemann and the Old Wise-Woman”
Then Hans slipped the little sack into his pocket, and set out for the overturned stone cross where the three roads meet. When he had come to the place, he looked here and there, and this way and that, but for a long time he could see nothing at all. At last, after much looking, he beheld a little black beetle running hither and thither on the stone. “I wonder,” said Hans, “if this can be my luck.”
So saying, he caught the little beetle betwixt his finger and thumb, but very carefully, for he could not tell whether or not it might bite him. The beetle stuck to the stone as though it had been glued there, but, at last, Hans pulled it away; then — lo! it was not a beetle that he held in his hand, but a little manikin about as long as your thumb and as black as ink. Hans Hecklemann was so frightened that he nearly dropped it, for it kicked and screeched and rolled its red eyes in a very ugly way as he held it. However, he popped it into the little sack and pulled the strings tight, and there it was, safe and sound.
That is what Hans Hecklemann’s luck was like.
So Hans having his luck secure in the little sack began to bargain with it. “What will you do for me if I let you out?” said he.
“Nothing at all,” snarled his luck.
“Very well,” said Hans, “we will see about that.”
So he carried it home with him, and threw sack and all into a nasty pot where Catherine cast the scrapings of the dishes — the fat and what not that she boiled down into soap now and then. There he left his luck to stay until the next day, and then he went to it again. “What will you do for me if I will let you out now?” said he.