by Howard Pyle
He wrapped his cloak about her and set her on his horse in front of him, and then he and all that were with him rode away out of the dark forest and under the blue sky, until they had come to the king’s castle. But all the time the princess did nothing but weep and weep, for she could not speak a single word. The young king gave her to his mother to care for, who was none too glad to have such a dumb maiden brought into the house, even though the lass was as pretty as milk and rose-leaves.
But the young king cared nothing whatever for what his mother thought about the matter, for the more he looked at the princess, the more beautiful she appeared in his eyes. So the end of the matter was that he married her, even though she had not a word to say for herself.
Well, time went on and on, till one day the storks that lived on the castle roof brought a baby boy to the poor dumb princess, whereat everybody was as glad as glad could be.
But their gladness was soon changed to sadness, for that night, when every one in the king’s house was fast and sound asleep, Mother Hildegarde came softly into the princess’s room. She gave her back her speech for the time being, and then she said, “I will still have pity upon you. If you will only tell me the truth you shall have your speech again, and all will go well with you. But if you tell me a falsehood once more, still greater troubles will come upon you. Now tell me, did you go into the little room?”
“No,” said the princess, for still she could not bring herself to confess to Mother Hildegarde.
“Then how came your hair to be like that?”
“I do not know,” said the princess.
So Mother Hildegarde took away her speech once more.
After that she smeared the mouth of the princess with blood, and then, wrapping the baby in her mantle, she carried it away with her, leaving the mother weeping alone.
You can guess what a hubbub there was the next morning in the castle, when they came and found that the baby was gone, and that the princess’s mouth was smeared with blood. “See,” said the king’s mother, “what did I tell you from the very first. Do you not see that you have brought a wicked witch into the house and that she has killed her own child?”
But the king would listen to no such words as these, for it seemed to him that the princess was too beautiful and too good to do such a wicked thing.
After a time there came another baby to the princess, and once more Mother Hildegarde came to her and said, “Did you go into the little room?”
“No,” said the princess.
“Then how came your hair to be like that?”
“I do not know,” said the princess.
So Mother Hildegarde took this baby away as she had done the other, and left the princess with her lips smeared with blood.
And now every one of the king’s household began to mutter and to whisper to his neighbor, and the king had nothing to say, but only left the room silently, for his heart was like heavy lead within his breast. Still he would not hear of harm coming to the princess, no matter what had happened.
In time there came a third baby, but still the princess could not soften her heart, and Mother Hildegarde took it away as she had done the others. This time the king could do nothing to save the princess, for every one cried out upon her that she was a wicked witch who killed her children, and that she should be burned at the stake, as was fitting for such a one. So a great pile of fagots was built out in the castle courtyard, and the princess was brought out and tied to a stake that stood in the midst. Then they lit the pile of fagots and it began to crackle and burn around her where she stood.
Then suddenly Mother Hildegarde stood beside her in the midst of the fire. In her arms she held the princess’s youngest baby, and the others stood, one upon one side and the other upon the other, and held on to her skirts.
She gave the princess her speech again, and then she said, “Now, tell me, did you go into the little room?”
Even yet the princess would have answered “No;” but when she saw her children standing in the midst of the fire with her, her heart melted away within her.
“Yes!” she cried, “I went in and I saw.”
“And how came your hair to be like that?” said Mother Hildegarde.
“Alas!” said the princess, “I gazed upon that which I should not have gazed upon, and looked into that which I should not have looked into, and one hair touched the water and all was turned to gold.”
Then Mother Hildegarde smiled till her face shone as white as the moon. “The truth is better late than not at all,” said she: “and if you had but spoken in the first place, I would have freely forgiven you.” As she spoke a shower of rain fell down from the sky, and the fire of the fagots was quenched.
And now you can guess what joy there was in the king’s castle when every one knew all that had happened, and it was seen how the right thing had come about at last, though it was the toss of a farthing betwixt this and that. Even the king’s mother was glad enough when she came to know that it was a real princess whom her son had married after all.
And now listen to what happened in the end.
They gave a great feast, and everybody was asked to come from far and near. Then who should come travelling along with the others, as grand as you please, but the wicked step-mother and step-sister of the princess.
Dear, dear, how they stared and goggled when they saw who the young queen really was, and that the poor princess had married the richest and greatest king in all of the land!
Their hearts were so filled with envy that they swelled and swelled until they burst within them, and they fell down dead, and there was an end of them.
Thus it is that everything turns out right in the long run — that is in fairy tales.
But, after all, if the princess had only told the truth in the first place, she would never have gotten in all this peck of trouble.
And then who knows what Mother Hildegarde would have done for her, for she is a strange woman, is Mother Hildegarde.
Which is Best?
There was a rich man who lived on a hill, and a poor man who lived down in the valley, and they were brothers, the one was older and the other younger. The one lived in a grand house and the other in a little, rickety, tumbledown hut, and the one was covetous and greedy and the other was kind and merciful. All the same, it was a merry life that the poor brother led of it, for each morning when he took a drink he said, “Thank Heaven for clear water;” and when the day was bright he said, “Thank Heaven for the warm sun that shines on us all;” and when it was wet it was, “Thank Heaven for the gentle rain that makes the green grass grow.”
One day the poor brother was riding in the forest, and there he met the rich brother, and they jogged along the way together. The one rode upon a poor, old, spavined, white horse, and the other rode upon a fine, prancing steed.
By and by they met an old woman, and it was all that she could do to hobble along the way she was going.
“Dear, good, kind gentlemen,” said she, “do help a poor old body with a penny or two, for it is nothing I have in the world, and life sits heavy on old shoulders.”
The rich brother was for passing along as though he heard never a word of what she said, but the poor brother had a soft heart, and reined in his horse.
“It is only three farthings that I have in the world,” said he; “but such as they are you are welcome to them,” and he emptied his purse into her hand.
“You shall not have the worst of the bargain,” said the old woman; “here is something that is worth the having,” and she gave him a little black stone about as big as a bean. Then off she went with what he had given her.
“See, now,” said the rich brother, “that is why you are so poor as hardly to be able to make both ends meet in the world.”
“That may be so, or may not be so,” said the poor brother; “all the same, mercy is better than greed.”
How the elder did laugh at this, to be sure! “Why, look,” says he, “here I am riding upon a grand horse wit
h my pockets full of gold and silver money, and there you are astride of a beast that can hardly hobble along the road, and with never a copper bit in your pocket to jingle against another.”
Yes; that was all true enough; nevertheless, the younger brother stuck to it that mercy was better than greed, until, at last, the other flew into a mighty huff.
“Very well,” says he, “I will wager my horse against yours that I am right, and we will leave it to the first body we meet to settle the point.”
Well, that suited the poor brother, and he was agreed to do as the other said.
So by and by they met a grand lord riding along the road with six servants behind him; and would he tell whether mercy or greed were the best for a body in this world?
The rich lord laughed and laughed. “Why,” said he, “greed is the best, for if it were otherwise, and I had only what belonged to me, I should never be jogging along through the world with six servants behind me.”
So off he rode, and the poor brother had to give up his horse to the other, who had no more use for it than I have for five more fingers. “All the same,” says the poor brother, “mercy is better than greed.” Goodness! What a rage the rich brother fell into, to be sure! “There is no teaching a simpleton,” said he; “nevertheless, I will wager all the money in my purse against your left eye that greed is better than mercy, and we will leave it to the next body we meet, since you are not content with the other.”
That suited the younger brother well enough, and on they jogged until they met a rich merchant driving a donkey loaded with things to sell. And would he judge between them whether mercy or greed were the best for a body?
“Poof!” says the merchant, “what a question to ask! All the world knows that greed is the best. If it were not for taking the cool end of the bargain myself, and leaving the hot end for my neighbor to hold, it is little or nothing that I should have in the world to call my own.” And off he went whither he was going.
“There,” says the rich brother, “now perhaps you will be satisfied;” and he put out the poor man’s left eye.
But no, the other still held that mercy was better than greed; and so they made another wager of all the rich man had in the world against the poor man’s right eye.
This time it was a poor ploughman whom they met, and would he tell whether mercy or greed were the best?
“Prut!” said he, “any simpleton can tell that greed is the best, for all the world rides on the poor man’s shoulders, and he is able to bear the burden the least of all.”
Then the rich man put out the poor man’s right eye; “for,” says he, “a body deserves to be blind who cannot see the truth when it is as plain as a pikestaff.”
But still the poor man stuck to it that mercy was the best. So the rich man rode away and left him in his blindness.
As all was darkness to his eyes, he sat down beside the road at the first place he could find, and that was underneath the gallows where three wicked robbers had been hung. While he sat there two ravens came flying, and lit on the gallows above him. They began talking to one another, and the younger brother heard what they said, for he could understand the speech of the birds of the air and of the beasts of the field, just as little children can, because he was innocent.
And the first raven said to the second raven, “Yonder, below, sits a fellow in blindness, because he held that mercy was better than greed.”
And the second raven said to the first, “Yes, that is so, but he might have his sight again if he only knew enough to spread his handkerchief upon the grass, and bathe his eyes in the dew which falls upon it from the gallows above.”
And the first raven said to the second, “That is as true as that one and one make two; but there is more to tell yet, for in his pocket he carries a little black stone with which he may open every door that he touches. Back of the oak-tree yonder is a little door; if he would but enter thereat he would find something below well worth the having.”
That was what the two ravens said, and then they flapped their wings and flew away.
As for the younger brother, you can guess how his heart danced at what he heard. He spread his handkerchief on the grass, and by and by, when night came, the dew fell upon it until it was as wet as clothes on the line. He wiped his eyes with it, and when the dew touched the lids they were cured, and he could see as well and better than ever.
By and by the day broke, and he lost no time in finding the door back of the oak-tree. He touched the lock with the little black stone, and the door opened as smoothly as though the hinges were greased. There he found a flight of steps that led down into a pit as dark as a beer vault. Down the steps he went, and on and on until, at last, he came to a great room, the like of which his eyes had never seen before. In the centre of the room was a statue as black as ink; in one hand it held a crystal globe which shone with a clear white light, so that it dazzled one’s eyes to look upon it; in the other hand it held a great diamond as big as a hen’s egg. Upon the breast of the statue were written these words in letters of gold:
“WHAT THOU DESERVEST
THAT THOU SHALT HAVE.”
On three sides of the room sat three statues, and at the feet of each statue stood a heavy chest:
The first statue was of gold, and over its head were written these words:
“WHO CHOOSES HERE TAKES
THE BEST THAT THE EARTH HAS TO GIVE.”
The second statue was of silver, and over its head were written these words:
“WHO CHOOSES HERE TAKES
WHAT THE RICH MAN LOVES.”
The third statue was of dull lead, and over its head was written:
“WHO CHOOSES HERE TAKES
WHAT HE SHOULD HAVE.”
The man touched the chest at the feet of the golden statue with the little black stone. And — click! clack! — up flew the lid, and the chest was full of all kinds of precious stones.
“Pugh!” says the younger brother; “and if this is the best that the world has to give, it is poor enough.” And he shut down the lid again.
He touched the chest at the feet of the silver statue with his little black stone, and it was full of gold and silver money.
“Pish!” says he; “and if this is what the rich man loves, why, so do not I.” And he shut down the lid again.
Last of all he touched the chest at the feet of the leaden statue.
In it was a book, and the letters on it said that whoever read within would know all that was worth the knowing. Beside the book was a pair of spectacles, and whoever set them astride of his nose might see the truth without having to rub the glasses with his pocket-handkerchief. But the best of all in the chest was an apple, and whoever ate of it would be cured of sorrow and sickness.
“Hi!” said the younger brother, “but these are worth the having, for sure and certain.” And he put the spectacles upon his nose and the apple and the book in his pocket. Then off he went, and the spectacles showed him the way, although it was as crooked as sin and as black as night.
So by and by he came out into the blessed sunlight again, and at the same place where he had gone in.
Off he went to his own home as fast as his legs could carry him, and you can guess how the rich brother stared when he saw the poor brother back in that town again, with his eyesight as good as ever.
As for the poor brother, he just turned his hand to being a doctor; and there has never been one like him since that day, for not only could he cure all sickness with his apple, but he could cure all sorrow as well. Money and fame poured in on him; and whenever trouble lit on his shoulders he just put on his spectacles and looked into the business, and then opened the book of wisdom and found how to cure it. So his life was as happy as the day was long; and a body can ask for no more than that in this world here below.
One day the rich brother came and knocked at the other’s door. “Well, brother,” say he, “I am glad to see you getting along so well in the world. Let us let bygones be bygones and live tog
ether as we should, for I am sorry for what I did to you.”
Well, that suited the younger brother well enough; he bore no malice against the other, for all that had been done had turned out for the best. All the same, he was more sure than ever now that mercy was better than greed.
The elder brother twisted up his face at this, as though the words were sour; all the same, he did not argue the question, for what he had come for was to find why the world had grown so easy with the other all of a sudden. So in he came, and they lit their pipes and sat down by the stove together.
He was a keen blade, was the elder brother, and it was not long before he had screwed the whole story out of the other.
“Dear, dear, dear!” said he, “I only wish I could find a black pebble like that one of yours.”
“It would do you no good if you had it,” said the younger brother, “for I have brought away all that is worth the having. All the same, if you want my black pebble now you are welcome to it.”
Did the elder brother want it! Why, of course he wanted it, and he could not find words enough to thank the younger.
Off he went, hot-foot, to find the door back of the oak-tree; “For,” said he to himself, “I will bring something back better worth the having than a musty book, an old pair of spectacles, and a red apple.”
He touched the door with the black stone, and it opened for him just as it had for the younger brother.
Down the steps he went, and on and on and on, until by and by he came to the room where the statues were. There was the black statue holding out the crystal ball and the diamond as big as a hen’s egg, and there sat the golden statue and the silver statue and the leaden statue, just as they had sat when the younger brother had been there, only there was nothing in the chest at the feet of the leaden statue.