Grimm's Fairy Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)
Page 26
Then the mother took the little boy and put him into a box, and put it under the almond tree; but little Marline stood by, and cried and cried, and the tears all fell into the box.
Soon the father came home, and sat down to table, and said, “Where is my son?” Then the mother brought in a great big dish of stew; and little Marline cried, and could not leave off. Then the father said again, “Where is my son?” “Oh,” said the mother, “he had gone across the country to Muötten; he is going to stop there a bit.”
“What is he doing there? and why did he not say good-bye to me?” “Oh, he wanted to go, and asked me if he might stop there six weeks; he will be taken care of there.” “Ah,” said the man, “I feel very dull; that was not right; he ought to have wished me good-bye.” With that he began to eat, and said to Marline, “What are you crying for? your brother will soon come back.” “Oh, wife,” said he then, “how delicious this tastes; give me some more!” And he ate till all the broth was done.
Little Marline went to her box, and took from the bottom drawer her best silk handkerchief, and carried it outside the door, and cried bitter tears. Then she laid herself under the juniper tree on the green grass; and when she had laid herself there, all at once she felt quite light and happy, and cried no more. Then the juniper tree began to move, and the boughs spread out quite wide, and then went back again; just as when one is very much pleased, and claps with the hands. At the same time a sort of mist rose from the tree; in the middle of the mist it burned like a fire; and out of the fire there flew a beautiful bird, that sang very sweetly and flew high up in the air: and when it had flown away, the juniper tree was as it had been before. Then little Marline was as light and happy as if her brother were alive still; and went into the house to dinner.
The bird flew away and perched upon a Goldsmith’s house, and began to sing—
“My mother killed me;
My father grieved for me;
My sister, little Marline,
Wept under the juniper tree:
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I.”
The Goldsmith sat in his workshop, and was making a gold chain, when he heard the bird that sat upon his roof and sang; and it seemed to him so beautiful. Then he got up, and as he stepped over the sill of the door he lost one of his slippers; but he went straight up the middle of the street with one slipper and one sock on. He had his leather apron on, and in the one hand he had the gold chain and in the other the pincers, and the sun shone brightly up the street. He went and stood and looked at the bird. “Bird,” said he then, “how beautifully you can sing. Sing me that song again.” “Nay,” said the bird, “I don’t sing twice for nothing. Give me the gold chain and I will sing it you again.” “There,” said the Goldsmith, “take the gold chain; now sing me that again.” Then the bird came and took the gold chain in the right claw, and sat before the Goldsmith, and sang—
“My mother killed me;
My father grieved for me;
My sister, little Marline,
Wept under the juniper tree:
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I.”
Then the bird flew off to a Shoemaker, and perched upon the roof of his house, and sang—
“My mother killed me;
My father grieved for me;
My sister, little Marline,
Wept under the juniper tree:
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I.”
The Shoemaker heard it, and ran outside the door in his shirt sleeves and looked up at the roof, and was obliged to hold his hand before his eyes to prevent the sun from blinding him. “Bird,” said he, “how beautifully you can sing.” Then he called in at the door, “Wife, come out, here’s a bird; look at the bird; he just can sing beautifully.” Then he called his daughter, and children, and apprentices, servant boy, and maid; and they all came up the street, and looked at the bird: oh! how beautiful he was, and he had such red and green feathers, and round about the throat was all like gold, and the eyes sparkled in his head like stars. “Bird,” said the Shoemaker, “now sing me that piece again.” “Nay,” said the bird, “I don’t sing twice for nothing; you must make me a present of something.” “Wife,” said the man, “go into the shop; on the top shelf there stands a pair of red shoes, fetch them down.” The wife went and fetched the shoes. “There, bird,” said the man; “now sing me that song again.” Then the bird came and took the shoes in the left claw, and flew up on to the roof again and sang—
“My mother killed me;
My father grieved for me;
My sister, little Marline,
Wept under the juniper tree:
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I.”
And when he had done singing he flew away. The chain he had in the right claw, and the shoes in the left claw; and he flew far away to a mill; and the mill went clipp-clapp, clipp-clapp, clipp-clapp. And in the mill there sat twenty miller’s men; they were shaping a stone, and chipped away hick-hack, hick-hack, hick-hack; and the mill went clipp-clapp, clipp-clapp, clipp-clapp. Then the bird flew and sat on a lime tree that stood before the mill, and sang—then one left off; then two more left off and heard it; then again four left off; now there were only eight chipping away; now only five; now only one;
“My mother killed me;”
“My father grieved for me;”
“My sister,”
“little Marline,”
“Wept under”
“the juniper tree:”
“Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I.”
Then the last left off, when he heard the last word. “Bird,” said he, “how beautifully you sing! let me too hear that; sing me that again.” “Nay,” said the bird, “I don’t sing twice for nothing. Give me the millstone, and I will sing it again.” “Ay,” said he, “if it belonged to me alone, you should have it.” “Yes,” said the others, “if he sings again he shall have it.” Then the bird came down, and all the twenty millers caught hold of a pole, and raised the stone up, hu, uh, upp, hu, uh, upp, hu, uh, upp! And the bird stuck his head through the hole, and took it round his neck like a collar, and flew back to the tree, and sang—
“My mother killed me;
My father grieved for me;
My sister, little Marline,
Wept under the juniper tree:
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I.”
And when he had done singing he spread his wings, and had in his right claw the gold chain, in his left the shoes, and round his neck the millstone, and he flew far away, to his father’s house.
In the room sat the father, the mother, and little Marline, at dinner; and the father said, “Oh dear, how light and happy I feel!” “Nay,” said the mother, “I am all of a tremble, just as if there were going to be a heavy thunderstorm.” But little Marline sat and cried and cried, and the bird came flying, and as he perched on the roof, the father said, “I feel so lively, and the sun shines so deliciously outside, it’s exactly as if I were going to see some old acquaintance again.” “Nay,” said the wife, “I am so frightened, my teeth chatter, and it’s like fire in my veins;” and she tore open her stays; but little Marline sat in a corner and cried, and held her plate before her eyes and cried it quite wet. Then the bird perched on the juniper tree, and sang—
“My mother killed me;”
Then the mother held her ears and shut her eyes, and would neither see nor hear; but it rumbled in her ears like the most terrible storm, and her eyes burned and twittered like lightning.
“My father grieved for me;”
“Oh, mother,” said the man, “there is a beautiful bird that sings so splendidly; the sun shines so warm, and everything smells all like cinnamon.”
“My sister, little Marline,”
Then Marline laid her head on her knees and cried away; but the man said, “I shall go out, I must see the bird close.” “Oh! do not go,” said the woman; “it seems as if the whole house shook and were on fire.” But the man we
nt out and looked at the bird.
“Wept under the juniper tree:
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I.”
And the bird let the gold chain fall, and it fell just round the man’s neck, and fitted beautifully. Then he went in and said, “See what an excellent bird it is; it has given me such a beautiful gold chain, and it looks so splendid.” But the woman was so frightened, that she fell her whole length on the floor, and her cap tumbled off her head. Then the bird sang again—
“My mother killed me;”
“Oh that I were a thousand fathoms under the earth, not to hear that!”
“My father grieved for me;”
Then the woman fainted.
“My sister, little Marline,”
“Ah,” said Marline, “I will go out too, and see if the bird will give me something;” and she went out. Then the bird threw the shoes down.
“Wept under the juniper tree:
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I.”
Then, she was so happy and lively, she put the new red shoes on, and danced and jumped back again. “Oh,” said she, “I was so dull when I went out, and now I am so happy. That is a splendid bird; he has given me a pair of red shoes.”
“Well,” said the woman, and jumped up, and her hair stood on end like flames of fire, “I feel as if the world were coming to an end; I will go out too, and see if it will make me easier.” And as she stepped outside the door—bang! the bird dropped the millstone on her head and crushed her to death. The father and little Marline heard it, and went out. Then a smoke, and flames, and fire rose from the place, and when that had passed there stood the little brother; and he took his father and little Marline by the hand, and all three were happy and lively, and went into the house to dinner.
The Little Farmer
There was a certain village, wherein several rich farmers were settled, and only one poor one, who was therefore called “The Little Farmer.” He had not even a cow, nor money to buy it, though he and his wife would have been too happy to have had one. One day he said to her, “A good thought has just struck me; our father-in-law, the carver, can make us a calf out of wood and paint it brown, so that it will look like any other: in time perhaps it will grow big and become a cow.” This proposal pleased his wife, and the carver was instructed accordingly, and he cut out the calf, painted it as it should be, and so made it that its head was bent down as if eating.
When the next morning the cows were driven out to pasture, the Farmer called the Shepherd in, and said, “See, I have here a little calf, but it is so small that it must as yet be carried.” The Shepherd said, “Very well,” and, taking it under his arm, carried it down to the meadow and set it among the grass. All day the calf stood there as if eating, and the Shepherd said, “It will soon grow big and go alone: only see how it is eating.” At evening time, when he wanted to drive his flocks home, he said to the calf, “Since you can stand there to satisfy your hunger, you must also be able to walk upon your four legs, and I shall not carry you home in my arms.” The Little Farmer stood before his house-door waiting for his calf, and as the Shepherd drove his herd through the village he asked after it. The Shepherd replied, “It is still standing there eating; it would not listen and come with me.” The Farmer exclaimed, “Eh, what! I must have my calf!” and so they both went together down to the meadow, but some one had stolen the calf, and it was gone. The Shepherd said, “Perhaps it has run away itself;” but the Farmer replied, “Not so, that won’t do for me;” and dragging him before the mayor, he was condemned for his negligence to give the Little Farmer a cow in the place of the lost calf.
Now the Farmer and his wife possessed the long-desired cow, and were very glad; but having no fodder they could give her nothing to eat, so that very soon they were obliged to kill her. The flesh they salted down, and the skin the Little Farmer took to the next town to sell, to buy another calf with what he got for it. On the way he passed a mill where a raven was sitting with a broken wing, and out of compassion he took the bird up and wrapped it in the skin he was carrying. But the weather being just then very bad, a great storm of wind and rain falling, he was unable to go further, and turning into the mill begged for shelter. The Miller’s wife was at home alone, and said to the Farmer, “Lie down on that straw,” and gave him a piece of bread and cheese. The Farmer ate it and lay down, with his skin near him, and the Miller’s wife thought he was asleep. Presently in came the parson, whom she received well, and invited to sup with her; but the Farmer, when he heard talk of the feast, was vexed that he should have been treated only to bread and cheese. So the woman went down into the cellar and brought up four dishes, roast meat, salad, boiled meat, and wine. As they were sitting down to eat there was a knock outside, and the woman exclaimed, “Oh, gracious! there is my husband!” In a great hurry she stuck the roast meat into the oven, the wine under the pillow, the salad upon the bed, and the boiled meat under it, and the parson stepped into a closet where she kept the linen. This done, she let in her husband and said, “God be praised, you are returned again! what weather it is, as if the world were coming to an end!”
The Miller remarked the man lying on the straw, and asked what the fellow did there. His wife said, “Ah! the poor fellow came in the wind and rain and begged for shelter, so I gave him some bread and cheese, and showed him the straw.”
The husband said he had no objection, but bade her bring him quickly something to eat. The wife said, “I have nothing but bread and cheese,” and her husband told her with that he should be contented, and asked the Farmer to come and share his meal. The Farmer did not let himself be twice asked, but got up and ate away. Presently the Miller remarked the skin lying upon the ground, in which was the raven, and asked, “What have you there?” The Farmer replied, “I have a truth-teller therein.” “Can it tell me the truth too?” inquired the Miller.
“Why not?” said the other, “but he will only say four things, and the fifth he keeps to himself.” The Miller was curious and wished to hear it speak, and the Farmer squeezed the raven’s head so that it squeaked out. The Miller then asked, “What did he say?” and the Farmer replied, “The first is, under the pillow lies wine.” “That is a rare tell-tale!” cried the Miller, and went and found the wine. “Now again,” said he. The Farmer made the raven croak again, and said, “Secondly, he declares there is roast meat in the oven.” “That is a good tell-tale!” again cried the Miller, and, opening the oven, he took out the roast meat. Then the Farmer made the raven croak again, and said, “For the third thing, he declares there is salad on the bed.”
“That is a good tell-tale!” cried the Miller, and went and found the salad. Then the Farmer made his bird croak once more, and said, “For the fourth thing, he declares there is boiled meat under the bed.”
“That is a capital tell-tale!” cried the Miller, while he went and found as it said.
The worthy pair now sat down together at the table, but the Miller’s wife felt terribly anxious, and went to bed, taking all the keys with her. The Miller was very anxious to know the fifth thing, but the man said, “First let us eat quietly these four things, for the other is somewhat dreadful.”
After they had finished their meal, the Miller bargained as to how much he should give for the fifth thing, and at last he agreed for three hundred dollars. Then the Farmer once more made the raven croak, and when the Miller asked what it said, he told him, “He declares that in the cupboard where the linen is there is an evil spirit.”
The Miller said, “The evil spirit must walk out!” and tried the door, but it was locked, and the woman had to give up the key to the Farmer, who unlocked it. The parson at once bolted out and ran out of the house, while the Miller said, “Ah! I saw the black fellow, that was all right.” Soon they went to sleep, but at daybreak the Farmer took his three hundred dollars and made himself scarce.
The Farmer was now quite rich at home, and built himself a fine house, so that his fellows said, “The Little Farmer has cer
tainly found the golden snow, of which he has brought away a basketful,” and they summoned him before the Mayor, that he might be made to say whence his riches came. The man replied, “I have sold my cow’s skin in the city for three hundred dollars.” And as soon as the others heard this, they desired also to make a similar profit. The farmers ran home, killed all their cows, and, taking the skins off, took them to the city to sell them for as good a price. The Mayor, however, said, “My maid must go first;” and when she arrived at the city she went to the merchant, but he gave her only three dollars for her skin. And when the rest came he would not give them so much, saying, “What shall I do with all these skins?”
The farmers were much vexed at being outwitted by their poor neighbour, and, bent on revenge, they complained to the Mayor of his deceit. The innocent Little Farmer was condemned to death unanimously, and was to be rolled in a cask full of holes into the sea. He was led away, and a priest sent for who should say for him the mass for the dead. Every one else was obliged to remove to a distance, and when the farmer looked at the priest he recognised the parson who was with the Miller’s wife. So he said to him, “I have delivered you out of the cupboard, now deliver me from this cask.” Just at that moment the Shepherd passed by with a flock of sheep, and the Farmer, knowing that for a long time the man had desired to be mayor, cried out with all his might, “No, no! I will not do it, if all the world asked me I would not be it! No! I will not.”