The Rupa Book of Love Stories & Favourite Fairy Tales (2 in 1)

by Ruskin Bond

  She was right. It was not the catching of colts that made those rings on the green grass, but the dancing of the little folk to their own pipers' tune. But as the first dawn light broke pale in the east back came the pixies to claim their babies from the tulip cradles, where they lay asleep. And, all invisible now, they vanished clean away.

  She noticed that the tulips did not fade so quickly as the other flowers in the garden. Indeed, it seemed as though they would never wither. And one day, as she bent to have a look at them, the old woman noticed that the pixies had made them even lovelier by breathing over them. Now they smelled as fragrant as lilies or roses do.

  'No one, shall pick a single tulip, not even myself,' she said. 'They shall be kept altogether for the pixies' own delight.'

  And so it was as year succeeded year.

  But no one lives forever, and at last the old woman died. It was a sad day for the garden, and the tulips hung their heads. Well they might, for presently the garden passed into other hands. The new tenant cared nothing for pixie lore. He only cared for the garden at all because of its trees of fruit. Gooseberries and raspberries and greengage-plums made very tasty pies!

  'You shouldn't be gatherin' they gooseberries out of season,' a neighbour warned him, 'Tis proper unlucky. The pixies can't abide bein' robbed of their own.'

  'Pixies? Pah!' said the man.

  'Surely ye aint a-digging up they tulips?' said another. "Twas the old woman's special delight that bed o' flowers. What be yu puttin' in?'

  'I be settin' a bed of parsley, if you must know,' said the man.

  'Parsley? Dear soul alive! Don't you know 'tis mortal unlucky to set a parsley bed. Last man as ever I heard of was bedridden ever after.'

  'Stuff and nonsense!' snapped the new tenant dis believingly.

  So the enchanted flowers were rooted up, and parsley set instead. But so offended were the pixies that they caused it to wither away. Not only would nothing grow in the gay tulip bed, but the whole garden was soon a waste.

  Yet though the lullabies were heard no more from the tulip bed, singing still came from the little folk who dwelt in the neighbourhood. But this time the singing came from the old woman's grave. Sad and sorrowful was the song the pixies sang, and every night before the moon was full they sang it.

  No one looked after the old woman's grave, yet never a weed was seen. As she had tended their tulip bed, so now they tended her grave. And though no one was ever seen to plant a flower, somehow her favourites sprang up in the night—rosemary and gillyflowers, lavender and forget-me-nots.

  I cannot tell how the truth may be.

  I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

  THE CLICKING TOAD

  Once upon a time—and a very good time it was—when pigs were swine and dogs ate lime, and monkeys chewed tobacco, when houses were thatched with pancakes, streets paved with plum puddings, and roasted pigs ran up and down the streets with knives and forks on their backs, crying, 'Come and eat me!', that was a good time for travellers.

  And this particular traveller, who had come to Darlaston on business, betook himself for a walk in the fields beyond the town while he was waiting for his return coach. It was an evening in late summer, still but close. The harvest had begun and the oats were already stooked; and the partridges were feeding in the bond stubble. The thrushes and blackbirds had finished singing, and only the woodpigeons, hidden in the tops of the elms, tried over their unfinished cooings.

  The pastures tempted the traveller, for most of his days were spent in towns. He climbed stiles, wandered here and there, meeting nobody but an old gaffer whom he greeted with, 'We've had a lot of rain, I see.'

  'I know'd we should,' said the old fellow. 'Saturday moon and Sunday full, alius brings rain.'

  The traveller passed on, smelling the late honeysuckle and prying for berries. And he heated himself so much that he grew impatient with his heavy clothes. He took off his waistcoat and threw it over his arm and, as he walked from hedge to hedge and reached now to this bough and now to that, he did not notice his watch slip from his waistcoat pocket and fall without a sound between two tussocks. Not even when he was in the coach, an hour later, and on his way home, did he realise he had lost his watch. While the coach wheels spun merrily over the road, it lay where it had fallen, ticking away to the grasshoppers and the ants and the ladybirds that lived in the grasses around it.

  It was a fine watch, with a full white face, slender pointers, and a loud clear tick; and as the evening came on and the day grew cool, and the last birds silenced themselves, its ticking seemed to grow louder and louder, as if the watch were alive and were asking to be found and taken from its prison between the tussocks. When the first stars began to show themselves, its white face seemed to grow luminous: from a distance it shone like a mushroom or a rare flower that opened only at night.

  No one, however, came that way till night. Then, when the Darlaston bells were ringing curfew and there was no light in the sky except a faint green glimmer in the west, two men came by to look at some snares that they had set. They came guiltily and furtively, for they were poaching; after all, their day was the noon of night. Their ears were open for any strange sound and no sooner had they come within earshot of the watch than they stopped and listened.

  'Hark, Bill,' said the first poacher, 'there's something strange here. Hold still and listen.'

  'Tis a grasshopper,' replied Bill.

  'A grasshopper? I never yet heard the grasshopper that chirped as long as this. Listen to him. He never stops.'

  ''Tis some thing else then. 'Tis a bird, maybe.'

  'If 'its, 'tis a bewitched bird then,' said Tom, and at that moment a breath of wind carried the ticking towards them and made the sound louder than ever.

  'Let's track him down,' replied Bill, and cautiously they quartered the ground till they came to the watch.

  'There he is. I can see him shining. He has one big eye. Can you see him?'

  'That I can, and I don't like the look on him.'

  'No more do I. Look, he's ready to spring. A pound to a penny, 'tis something wicked. Come on, let's be off, or he'll be at our throats and sucking our blood afore we know where we are.'

  His friend needed no encouragement. Both took to their heels and did not stop running till they were well clear of the one-eyed monster that lurked among the tussocks and ticked so mysteriously.

  Once home they told the story of the strange noise that had alarmed them and by the next morning all Darlaston had heard of the strange creature that lay in the fields, and all Darlaston was curious to peep at it. However, though many peeped, it was a sad truth that not one man, not one woman could tell what it was, for there was no one in Darlaston that had ever before in his life seen a watch. In the end it was agreed that the solution to the problem should be left to a wise old man who had lived all his life in those parts. To Daddy—for so they called him—they sent a deputation; and word soon went round that Daddy was going forth to make a pronouncement on the riddle.

  Daddy was a very old man. His face was shrunk like a long-kept apple and covered with small wrinkles that ran together like cracks in a crock. His eyes were light blue and watery, and he kept his mouth open as if it was too much of an effort for him to hold up his jaw. He was too infirm to walk so they put him in an old wheelbarrow and wheeled him off to the field.

  When he came near, the circle round the watch opened, let him in, and then closed again. As the wheelbarrow was halted a silence came over the crowd.

  'Take I right up to this object,' said Daddy.

  'Why, you be right up to it now,' called the bystanders.

  'Then wheel I round the object,' said the old man, and his wheeler took him up and with great gravity wheeled him round.

  'Wheel I round again,' said the old man, and it seemed as if he were enjoying being trundled around so. They made a second circuit. 'Now wheel I round a third time.'

  The third circuit was completed, the barrow legs were set down and a great si
lence fell on the crowd. Then, struggling to his feet, the old man lifted up his arms and cried out in a foreboding voice, "Tis un clicking toad! 'Tis un clicking toad! Lads, arm yourselves with sticks and stones, for the end of the world be coming upon Darlaston!'

  When they heard this direful utterance, sticks and stones were the last things that the folks of Darlaston thought of. Instead, with yells and shrieks they turned and ran home as fast as they could. To Daddy, trundled along more quickly than ever he had been wheeled before, it seemed as if his prophecy was coming true more quickly than he himself had realised. Man, woman and child, all fled to their homes and barred, bolted and shuttered every door and window. All that day, and all the next day the streets and fields were empty. All Darlaston was indoors waiting for Judgement Day to come.

  Of course, Judgement Day did not come. While the people of Darlaston read away at their Bibles, and gabbled at their prayers, all that happened outside was that a traveller got down from the mail coach just outside the town, crossed the field, picked up the watch he had lost, thanked his good fortune, and went away.

  Be bow bend it,

  My tale's ended.

  If you don't like it,

  You may mend it.

  THE GREEN LADIES OF ONE TREE HILL

  Few will need to be told that the Christmas season consists of twelve days besides Christmas Day, which are commonly spoken of in Shropshire as Christmastide. Preparation for Christmas includes a general house-cleaning: everything is scrubbed to the utmost pitch of cleanliness. The pewter and brazen vessels have to be made so bright that the maids can see to put their caps on in them—otherwise the fairies will pinch them. But if all is perfect, the worker will find a coin in her shoe.

  Then the clean cheerful family kitchen must be adorned with holly and ivy. Sprigs of bright-berried holly, alternating with darker ivy, are stuck in the small leaded panes of the window casements, among the willow-pattern plates and dishes on the dark oak dresser.

  Christmas fare would consist of new beer, and honey, primrose, elderberry and dandelion wines, with roast and boiled beef, hams, hares, geese and fowls, mince and apple pies, junkets, cinnamon cakes, cider cakes and Christmas cakes. Supper fare consists of meat, pig's puddings, pork pies or mince pies, or else of toasted cheese eaten with beer and toast.

  And then there were the stories. Here is one from Baslow in Derbyshire.

  There were once three tall trees on a hill and on moonlit nights singing could be heard and three Green Ladies danced there. No one dared go near except the farmer and he only climbed the hill once a year on Midsummer Eve to lay a posy of late primroses on the root of each tree. The leaves rustled and the sun shone out, and he made quite sure he was safe indoors before sunset. It was a rich farm and he often said to his three sons, 'My father always said our luck lies up there; when I'm dead don't forget to do as I did, and my father before me, and all our forbears through the years.'

  And they listened, but did not take much heed, except the youngest.

  When the old man died the big farm was divided into three. The eldest brother took a huge slice, and the next brother took another, and that left the youngest with a strip of poor rough ground at the foot of the hill, but he didn't say much but set to work about it and sang as he worked and was indoors before sunset.

  One day his brothers came to see him. Their big farms were not doing very well and when they saw his rich little barley fields and the few loaded fruit trees, and his roots and herbs growing so green and smelling so sweet, and his three cows giving rich milk, they were angry and jealous.

  'Who helps you in your work?' they asked. 'They say down in the village there's singing and dancing at night. A hardworking farmer should be abed.'

  But the youngest did not answer.

  'Did we see you up the hill by the trees as we came? What were you about?'

  'I was doing as Father told us years ago. Tis Midsummer Eve,' he said quietly enough then.

  But they were too angry even to laugh at him.

  'The hill is mine,' cried the eldest. 'Don't let me see you up there again. As for the trees, I need timber for my new great barn, so I'm cutting one down. And you two can help me.'

  But the second brother found he had to go to market, and the youngest did not answer. The next day, Midsummer day, the eldest came with carts and men and axes, and called to his youngest brother, who was busy in the herb garden; but he only said, 'Remember what day it is.'

  But the eldest and his team went on up the hill to the three trees. When he laid his axe to the first tree it screamed like a woman, the horses ran away and the men after them, but the eldest went on hacking. The wind howled and the two other trees lashed their branches in anger. Then the murdered tree fell down, down on top of him and killed him. By and by his servants came and took the dead man and the dead tree away and then there were only two Green Ladies on moonlit nights.

  The second brother came back from market and took both the farms for himself, and the youngest he still worked his little strip of land and took primroses up the hill on Midsummer Eve. But the big farms didn't prosper at all and one Midsummer Eve the second brother saw the youngest brother up by the two trees. He was afraid to go up there, so he yelled.

  'Come off my land and take your cows away, breaking my hedges down. I'll build a stout timber fence round my hill and I'll cut down one of the trees to make it with.'

  That night there was no dancing together, there was no music but the crying of many leaves, and the youngest brother was very sad. The next morning, the second brother came with an axe and the two trees shuddered; but he only made sure there was no wind to drop the tree his way. The tree screamed like a woman as it fell and the youngest brother watching from the lane below with his cows saw the last tree lift a great branch and bring it down on his brother's head and kill him.

  People came and took the second dead tree and man away, and the youngest brother now had all three farms. But he still lived in his little farm near the hill and the lonely Green Lady. And sometimes she would dance alone to a sad little tune on moonlit nights, and he always left a bunch of late primroses at the roots of the one tree every Midsummer Eve and his farms prospered from that day.

  There are many people nowadays who won't climb One Tree Hill, especially on Midsummer Eve, and one or two very old people remember being told when they were little children that it must never be fenced because it belonged to a Green Lady.

  Two Japanese Fairy Tales, as told by Lafeadio Hearn

  THE OLD WOMAN WHO LOST HER DUMPLING

  Long, long ago there was a funny old woman, who liked to laugh and to make dumplings of rice-flour.

  One day, while she was preparing some dumplings for dinner, she let one fall; and it rolled into a hole in the earthen floor of her little kitchen and disappeared. The old woman tried to reach it by putting her hand down the hole, and all at once the earth gave way, and the old woman fell in.

  She fell quite a distance, but was not a bit hurt; and when she got up on her feet again, she saw that she was standing on a road, just like the road before her house. It was quite light down there; and she could see plenty of rice fields, but no one in them. How all this happened, I cannot tell you. But it seems that the old woman had fallen into another country.

  The road she had fallen upon sloped very much: so, after having looked for her dumpling in vain, she thought that it must have rolled farther away down the slope. She ran down the road to look, crying: 'My dumpling, my dumpling! Where is that dumpling of mine?'

  After a little while she saw a stone Fizō standing by the roadside, and she said: 'O Lord Fizō, did you see my dumpling?'

  Fizō answered: 'Yes, I saw your dumpling rolling by me down the road. But you had better not go any farther, because there is a wicked Oni living down there, who eats people.'

  But the old woman only laughed, and ran on farther down the road, crying: 'My dumpling, my dumpling! Where is that dumpling of mine?'

  And she came to anoth
er statue of Fizō, and asked it: 'O kind Lord Fizō, did you see my dumpling?'

  And Fizō said: 'Yes, I saw your dumpling go by a little while ago. But you must not run any farther, because there is a wicked Oni down there, who eats people.'

  But she only laughed, and ran on, still crying out: 'My dumpling, my dumpling! Where is that dumpling of mine?'

  And she came to a third Fizō, and asked it: 'O dear Lord Fizō, did you see my dumpling?'

  But Fizō said: 'Don't talk about your dumpling now. Here is the Oni coming. Squat down here behind my sleeve, and don't make any noise.'

  Presently the Oni came very close, and stopped and bowed to Fizō, and said: 'Good day, Fizō San!'

  Fizō said good day, too, very politely.

  Then the Oni suddenly sniffed the air two or three times in a suspicious way, and cried out: 'Fizō San, Fizō San! I smell a smell of mankind somewhere—don't you?'

  'Oh!' said Fizō, 'Perhaps you are mistaken.'

  'No, no!' said the Oni after sniffing the air again, 'I smell a smell of mankind.'

  Then the old woman could not help laughing—'Te-he-he!'—and the Oni immediately reached down his big hairy hand behind Fizō's sleeve, and pulled her out, still laughing, 'Te-he-he!'

  'Ah! ha!' cried the Oni.

  Then Fizō said: 'What are you going to do with that good old woman? You must not hurt her.'

  'I won't,' said the Oni. 'But I will take her home with me to cook for us.'

  'Te-he-he!' laughed the old woman.

  'Very well,' said Fizō, 'but you must really be kind to her. If you are not I shall be very angry.'

  'I won't hurt her at all,' promised the Oni, 'and she will only have to do a little work for us every day. Good-bye, Fizō San.'

  Then the Oni took the old woman far down the road, till they came to a wide deep river, where there was a boat. He put her into the boat, and took her across the river to his house. It was a very large house. He led her at once into the kitchen, and told her to cook some dinner for himself and the other Oni who lived with him. And he gave her a small wooden rice-paddle, and said: