by Howard Pyle
So, one day, they came buzzing in the king’s ear again; perhaps the king did not know it, but that same giant had a silver bell, and every time that the bell was rung a good dinner was spread ready for the eating. Now, Peterkin had been saying to everybody that he could get that bell for the king just as easily as he had gotten the grey goose. At this the king pricked up his ears, for it tickled them to hear such talk. He sent for Peterkin to come to him, and Peterkin came. He vowed and swore that he had said nothing about getting the giant’s bell. But it was of no use; he only wasted his breath. The king wanted the silver bell, and the king must have it. Peterkin should have three days in which to get it. If he brought it at the end of that time, he should have half of the kingdom to rule over. If he did not bring it he should have his ears clipped; so there was an end of that talk.
It was a bad piece of business, but off Peterkin went and blew on his fingers, and up came the Little Grey Hare.
“Well,” said the Little Grey Hare, “and what is the trouble with us now?”
Why, the king wanted a little silver bell that was over at the giant’s house, and he had to go and get it for him; that was the trouble with Peterkin.
“Well,” says the Little Grey Hare, “there is no telling what one can do till one tries; just get a little wad of tow and come along, and we will see what we can make of it.”
So Peterkin got the wad of tow, and then he sat him on the Little Grey Hare’s back, and away they went till the wind whistled behind his ears. When they came to the river the Little Grey Hare called on the pike, and up it came and carried them over as it had done before. By and by they came to the giant’s house, and this time the giant was away from home, which was a lucky thing for Peterkin.
Peterkin climbed into the window, and hunted here and there till he had found the little silver bell. Then he wrapped the tow around the clapper, but, in spite of all that he could do, it made a jingle or two. Then away he scampered to the Little Grey Hare. He mounted on its back, and off they went.
But the giant heard the jingle of the little silver bell, and home he came as fast as his legs could carry him.
He hunted here and there till he found the track of Peterkin, then after him he went, three miles at a step.
When he came to the river, there was Peterkin, just out of harm’s way.
“Is that you, Peterkin?” bawled the giant.
“Yes; it is I,” said Peterkin.
“And have you stolen my silver bell?” said the giant.
“Yes; I have stolen your silver bell,” said Peterkin.
“And have you stolen my grey goose too?” said the giant.
Yes; Peterkin had stolen that too.
“And what would you do if you were me and I were you?” said the giant.
“I would do what I could,” said Peterkin.
At this the giant went back home, grumbling and muttering to himself, and if Peterkin had been by it would have been bad for Peterkin.
Dear, dear! but the king was glad to get the silver bell; as for Peterkin, he was a great man now, for he ruled over half of the kingdom.
But now the two elder brothers were less pleased than ever before; they grumbled and talked together until the upshot of the matter was that they went to the king for the third time. Peterkin had been bragging and talking again. This time he had said that the giant over yonder had a sword of such a kind that it gave more light in the dark than fourteen candles, and that he could get the sword as easily as he had gotten the grey goose and the little silver bell.
After that nothing would satisfy the king but for Peterkin to go and get the sword. Peterkin argued and talked, and talked and argued, but it was for no good; he might have talked till the end of all things. The king wanted the sword, and the king must have it. If Peterkin could bring it to him in three days’ time he might have the princess for his wife; if he came back empty-handed he should have a good thong of skin cut off of his back from top to bottom; that was what the king said.
So there was nothing for it but for Peterkin to whistle on his fingers for the Little Grey Hare once more.
“And what is it this time?” said the Little Grey Hare.
Why, the king wanted such and such a kind of sword, and Peterkin must go and get it for him; that was the trouble.
Well, well; there might be a hole in this hedge as well as another. But this time Peterkin must borrow one of the princess’s dresses and her golden comb; then one might see what could be done.
So Peterkin went to the king and said that he must have the dress and the comb, and the king let him have them. Then he mounted on the little Grey Hare and — whisk! — away they went as fast as before.
Well, they crossed the river and came to the giant’s house once more. There Peterkin dressed himself in the princess’s dress, and combed his hair with her golden comb; and as he combed his hair it grew longer and longer, and the end of the matter was that he looked for all the world like as fine and strapping a lass as ever a body saw. Then he went up to the giant’s house, and — rap! tap! tap! — he knocked at the door as bold as brass. The giant was in this time, and he came and opened the door himself. But when he saw what he thought was a fine lass, he smiled as though he had never eaten anything in all his life but soft butter.
Perhaps the pretty lass would come in and sit down for a bit; that was what he said to Peterkin.
Oh, yes! that suited Peterkin; of course he would come in. So in he came, and then he and the giant sat down to supper together. After they had eaten as much as they could the giant laid his head in Peterkin’s lap, and Peterkin combed his hair and combed his hair, until he fell fast asleep and began to snore so that he made the cinders fly up the chimney.
Then Peterkin rose up softly and took down the Sword of Light from the wall. After that he went out on tiptoes and mounted the Little Grey Hare, and away they went till the chips flew behind them.
By and by the giant opened his eyes and saw that Peterkin was gone, and, what was more, his Sword of Light was gone also. Then what a rage he was in! Off he went after Peterkin and the Little Grey Hare, seven miles a step. But he was just a little too late, though there was no room to spare between Peterkin and him, and that is the truth.
“Is that you, Peterkin?” said he.
“Yes; it is I,” said Peterkin.
“And have you stolen my Sword of Light?” said the giant.
Oh, yes; Peterkin had done that.
“And what would you do if you were me and I were you?” said the giant.
“I would drink the river dry and follow after,” said Peterkin.
“That is good,” said the giant. So he laid himself down and drank and drank and drank, until he drank so much that he burst with a great noise, and there was an end of him!
The king was so pleased with the Sword of Light that it seemed as though he could not look at it and talk about it enough. As for Peterkin, he got the princess for his wife, and that pleased him also, you may be sure. The princess was pleased too, for Peterkin was a good, smart, tight bit of a lad, and that is what the girls like. So it was that everybody was pleased except the two elder brothers, who looked as sour as green gooseberries. But now Peterkin was an apple that hung too high for them to reach, and so they had to let him alone.
The next day after the wedding, whom should Peterkin come across but the Little Grey Hare.
“See, Peterkin,” it said, “I have done much for you; will you do a little for me?”
“Yes, indeed that I will,” said Peterkin.
“Then take the Sword of Light and cut off my head and feet,” said the Little Grey Hare.
No, no; Peterkin could never do such a thing as that; that would be a pretty way to treat a good friend.
But the Little Grey Hare begged and begged and begged, until at last Peterkin did as he asked; he cut off his head and his feet. Then who should stand before him but a handsome young prince, with yellow hair and blue eyes. That was what the Little Grey Hare had been all
the time, only the giant had bewitched him.
As for Peterkin — well, this is the way of it; the youngest will step ahead of the others sometimes.
Mother Hildegarde
Once upon a time there lived a king who had an only daughter, and the princess was more handsome than I can tell you. But the queen had been dead for so long that the king began to think about marrying a second time. So the upshot of the matter was that by and by there came a step-mother into the house, and a step-sister besides, for the new queen had a daughter of her own. And that was a sorrowful thing for the princess.
At first the new queen was kind enough to the poor girl; but before long there were other cakes baking in that oven, for the step-mother began saying to herself: “See now, if this hussy were out of the way my own dear girl would be the first in the land, and might, in time, have the kingdom for her very own.” So, in the end, the poor princess found but little peace in the same house with the woman and her daughter.
One day the step-mother, the step-sister, and the pretty princess sat together in the castle garden beside a deep cistern of water. By the cistern hung a silver cup for the use of those who wished to drink. And as they sat there the princess grew thirsty, and would have taken the cup to quench her thirst, but the step-mother stopped her.
“See now,” said she, “if you must drink you will have to stoop to the water, for the silver cup is too good for such as you.”
“Alas!” said the poor princess, “the time was when a cup of gold was not too good for me!” And thereupon she began to weep as though her heart would break. But there was no help for it; if she would drink she must stoop for it; so down she knelt and began to drink from the deep water without any thought or fear of harm.
But as the princess thus stooped and drank, the wicked step-mother came behind her without her knowing it, and gave her a push so that she fell headlong into the cistern and sank to the bottom. After that the step-mother and the step-sister went back to the castle again, rejoicing and thinking that now they were rid of the princess for good and all, and that the step-sister would be the first in all of the land.
But in this they counted black chicks before they were hatched; for when the princess sank down to the bottom of the cistern, she found herself in a great wide meadow, all covered over with bright flowers, as many as there are stars in the sky at night.
Across this meadow she went on and on and on; but never a single soul did she see until at last she came to a great, fine house that stood all alone by itself, without another to be seen, near or afar. In the doorway of the house stood an old woman, whom the princess saw very plainly was not like common folk.
And she was right, for the old woman was none other than Mother Hildegarde, who is so wise that she knows almost as much as Father Time himself. Thus it was that she knew all about the princess, and who she was and whence she came, without the asking. “Listen,” said she, “I will give you food and lodging, and will pay you well if you will serve me faithfully for the space of a year and a day.”
That the princess was willing enough to do, for she was both tired and hungry; so into the house she went to serve Mother Hildegarde for a year and a day.
But it was no common work that the princess did, I can tell you; for listen: When she blew the bellows that the fire might blaze the brighter, the wind swept over the great brown world so that every windmill turned around and around from Jacob Pfennigdrummel’s to the shores of the great black sea at the north end of the earth; and when she sprinkled the clothes, the blessed rain came tumbling down till all the gutters ran with water so that little folk had either to stay home from school or to go thither under great, wide umbrellas.
But of all this the pretty princess knew nothing whatever, but only thought that she blew the fire and sprinkled the clothes. And that is often the way of the world — at least, so Tommy Pfouce tells me.
Well, one day Mother Hildegarde said to the princess: “See, now; I am going off on a journey, and it may be a while before I am back again. Here are the keys of all of the house, and you are free to go wherever you choose. Only here is a black key that unlocks a little room into which you must not go; for if you do I will be sure to know it, and ill-luck will be certain to happen to you.” Then off she went, and the princess was left all alone.
The first day the lass went here, and the second day she went there, and the third day she had gone everywhere except into the little room where Mother Hildegarde had told her not to go; and she never wanted anything in all of her life as much as she wanted just to peep into that little room.
“I wonder,” said she to herself— “I wonder what harm there could be in it if I were only to take one little peep?” So the upshot of the matter was that she went there just to look at the outside of the door.
“I wonder,” said she, “if the key will fit the lock?”
Yes; it did fit it.
“I wonder,” said she, “if the key will turn the bolt?”
Yes, it did turn it.
“I wonder,” said she, “whether it would do any harm just to peep into the room?”
And she did peep into it.
Believe me or not, all the same I tell you the truth when I say that there was not one thing in the room but a covered jar, that stood in the middle of the floor. Of course the princess must have just one peep into the jar, for as she had gone as far as she had, there could be no more harm in this than in the other. So she went to the jar and took off the lid and peeped into it.
And what do you think was in it? Nothing but water!
But as the princess looked into the water she saw Mother Hildegarde as though she were a great way off, and the Mother Hildegarde whom she saw in the water was looking at nobody in all of the world but her. As soon as the princess saw what she saw, she clapped down the lid of the jar again; but she clapped it down just a moment too late, for a lock of hair fell down over her face, and one single hair touched the water in the jar.
Yes; only one single hair. But when the princess looked she saw that every lock upon her head was turned to pure gold. Then if anybody in all of the world was frightened it was the poor princess. She twisted up the hair upon the top of her head and bound her kerchief about it so that it was all hidden; but all the same the hair was there, and could never be changed from the gold again.
Just then who should come walking into the house but Mother Hildegarde herself. “Have you obeyed all that I have told you?” said she.
“Yes,” said the princess, but all the same she was so frightened that her knees knocked together.
“Did you go into the little room?” said Mother Hildegarde.
“No,” said the princess; but her heart beat so that she could hardly speak.
Then Mother Hildegarde snatched the kerchief off of the princess’s head, and her golden hair came tumbling down all about her shoulders, glittering, so that it was the finest sight that you could see between here and Nomansland.
“Then how came your hair to be like that?” said Mother Hildegarde.
“I do not know,” said the princess; and then she began crying and sobbing as though her heart would break.
“See now,” said Mother Hildegarde; “you have served me well for all of the time that you have been with me, therefore I will have pity upon you, only you must tell me the truth. Did you go into the little room while I was away?”
But for all that Mother Hildegarde spoke ever so kindly the princess could not bring herself to speak the truth.
“No,” said she.
“Then how came your hair to be like that?” said Mother Hildegarde.
“I do not know,” said the princess.
At this Mother Hildegarde frowned till her eyes burned like sparks of fire. She caught the princess by the arm and struck her staff upon the ground, and away they flew through the air till the wind whistled behind them. So by and by they came to a great forest, out of which there was no path to be found either to the east or the west or the north or the
south.
“See now,” said Mother Hildegarde, “because you have been faithful in your labor with me I will give you still another chance. But if you do not answer me truthfully this time, I will leave you alone here in the forest, and will take away your speech so that you will be as dumb as the beasts of the field. Did you go into the little room?”
But still the princess hardened her heart and answered “No.”
“Then how came your hair to be like that?” said Mother Hildegarde.
“I do not know,” said the princess.
Then Mother Hildegarde went away, and left the princess alone in the forest as she had promised to do; and not only that, she took away the princess’s speech, so that she was quite dumb. So in the forest the princess dwelt for a long, long time, and there she would have died of hunger, only that Mother Hildegarde still cared for her and sent the wood-pigeons to feed her, which they did from day to day and from week to week and from month to month. As for the princess, she lived in the branches of the trees, for she was afraid of the wild beasts that roamed through the wood.
By and by her clothes became nothing but rags and tatters, and then she had to weave her beautiful hair about her, so that she was clad all from head to foot in her golden tresses, and in them alone.
Well, one time it happened that a young king came riding into the forest to hunt the wild boars, and many of his people came along with him. Some of those who rode on before came suddenly to where a great flock of wood-pigeons flew about in the tree-tops above them. But when they looked up, you may guess how wonder-struck they were when they saw that the pigeons were feeding a beautiful maiden who sat in the branches above, clad all in her golden hair. Back they rode to the young king and told him all that they had seen, and up he came as fast as he could ride. There he saw the maiden and how beautiful she was, and he called to her to come down. But she only shook her head, for she could not speak, and she was ashamed of being found where she was. Then the young king, seeing that she would not come down from the branches to him, climbed up himself and brought her.