who seemed very unhappy. So they thought they would ask
her if they could do anything to help her, for they were kind
children and sorry indeed for any one in distress.
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The girl seemed to be about fifteen years old. She was
dressed in very ragged clothes. Round her shoulders there
was an old brown shawl. She wore no bonnet. Her hair was
coal-black and hung down uncombed and unfastened. She
had something hidden under her shawl; on seeing them coming towards her, she carefully put it under her and sat upon it. She sat watching the children approach, and did not move
or stir till they were within a yard of her; then she wiped her
eyes just as if she had been crying bitterly, and looked up.
The children stood still in front of her for a moment, staring at her. “ Are you crying?” they asked shyly.
l b their surprise she said in a most cheerful voice, “ Oh
dear, no! quite the contrary. Are you?”
“ Perhaps you have lost yourself?” they said gently.
But the girl answered promptly, “ Certainly not. Why, you
have just found me. Besides,” she added, “ I live in the village.”
The children were surprised at this, for they had never seen
her before, and yet they thought they knew all the village folk
by sight.
Then the TUrkey, who had an inquiring mind, put a question. “ What are you sitting on?” she asked.
“ On a peardrum,” the girl answered.
“ What is a peardrum?” they asked.
“ I am surprised at your not knowing,” the girl answered.
“ Most people in good society have one.” And then she pulled
it out and showed it to them. It was a curious instrument, a
good deal like a guitar in shape; it had three strings, but only
two pegs by which to tune them. But the strange thing about
the peardrum was not the music it made, but a little square
box attached to one side.
“ Where did you get it?” the children asked.
“ I bought it,” the girl answered.
“ Didn’t it cost a great deal of money?” they asked.
“ Yes,” answered the girl slowly, nodding her head, “ it
cost a great deal of money. I am very rich,” she added.
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“ You don’t look rich,” they said, in as polite a voice as
possible.
“ Perhaps not,” the girl answered cheerfully.
At this, the children gathered courage, and ventured to
remark, “ You look rather shabby.”
“ Indeed?” said the girl in a voice of one who had heard
a pleasant but surprising statement. “ A little shabbiness is
very respectable,” she added in a satisfied voice. “ I must
really tell them this,” she continued. And the children wondered what she meant. She opened the little box by the side of the peardrum, and said, just as if she were speaking to
some one who could hear her, “ They say I look rather
shabby; it is quite lucky isn’t it?”
“ Why, you are not speaking to any one!” they said, more
surprised than ever.
“ Oh dear, yes! I am speaking to them both.”
“ Both?” they said, wondering.
“ Yes. I have here a little man dressed as a peasant, and a
little woman to match. I put them on the lid of the box, and
when I play they dance most beautifully.”
“ Oh! let us see; do let us see!” the children cried.
Then the village girl looked at them doubtfully. “ Let you
see!” she said slowly. “ Well, I am not sure that I can. Tell
me, are you good?”
“ Yes, yes,” they answered eagerly, “ we are very good!”
“ Then it’s quite impossible,” she answered, and resolutely
closed the lid of the box.
They stared at her in astonishment. “ But we are good,”
they cried, thinking she must have misunderstood them. “ We
are very good. Then can’t you let us see the little man and
woman?”
“ Oh dear, no!” the girl answered. “ I only show them to
naughty children. And the worse the children the better do
the man and woman dance.”
She put the peardrum carefully under her ragged cloak,
and prepared to go on her way. “ I really could not have
believed that you were good,” she said reproachfully, as if
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77
they had accused themselves of some great crime. “ Well,
good day.”
“ Oh, but we will be naughty,” they said in despair.
“ I am afraid you couldn’t , ” she answered, shaking her
head. “ It requires a great deal of skill to be naughty well.”
And swiftly she walked away, while the children felt their
eyes fill with tears, and their hearts ache with disappointment.
“ If we had only been naughty,” they said, “ we should
have seen them dance.”
“ Suppose,” said the Itirkey, “ we try to be naughty today;
perhaps she would let us see them to-morrow.”
“ But, oh!” said Blue-Eyes, “ I don’t know how to be
naughty; no one ever taught m e.”
The Thrkey thought for a few minutes in silence. “ I think
I can be naughty if I try,” she said. “ I ’ll try to-night.”
“ Oh, don’t be naughty without me!” she cried. “ It would
be so unkind of you. You know I want to see the little man
and woman just as much as you do. You are very, very unkind.”
And so, quarreling and crying, they reached their home.
Now, when their mother saw them, she was greatly astonished, and, fearing they were hurt, ran to meet them.
“ Oh, my children, oh, my dear, dear children,” she said;
“ what is the matter?”
But they did not dare tell their mother about the village
girl and the little man and woman, so they answered, “ Nothing is the matter,” and cried all the more.
“ Poor children!” the mother said to herself, “ They are
tired, and perhaps they are hungry; after tea they will be
better.” And she went back to the cottage, and made the fire
blaze; and she put the kettle on to boil, and set the tea-things
on the table. Then she went to the little cupboard and took
out some bread and cut it on the table, and said in a loving
voice, “ Dear little children, come and have your tea. And
see, there is the baby waking from her sleep; she will crow
at us while we eat.”
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But the children made no answer to the dear mother; they
only stood still by the window and said nothing.
“ Come, children,” the mother said again. “ Come, Blue-
Eyes, and come, my Tbrkey; here is nice sweet bread for
tea.” Then suddenly she looked up and saw that the Hirkey’s
eyes were full of tears.
“ Turkey!” she exclaimed, “ my dear little Thrkey! what is
the matter? Come to mother, my sweet.” And putting the
baby down, she held out her arms, and the Turkey ran swiftly
into them.
“ Oh, mother,” she sobbed, “ Oh, dear mother! I do so
want to be naughty. I do so want to be very, very naughty. ’ ’
And then Blue-Eyes left her chair als
o, and rubbing her
face against her mother’s shoulder, cried sadly. “ And so do
I, mother. Oh, I ’d give anything to be very, very naughty.”
“ But, my dear children,” said the mother, in astonishment, “ Why do you want to be naughty?”
“ Because we do; oh, what shall we do?” they cried together.
“ I should be very angry if you were naughty. But you
could not be, for you love m e,” the mother answered.
“ Why couldn’t we?” they asked.
Then the mother thought a while before she answered; and
she seemed to be speaking rather to herself than to them.
“ Because if one loves well,” she said gently, “ one’s love
is stronger than all bad feelings in one, and conquers them. ’ ’
“ We don’t know what you mean,” they cried; “ and we
do love you; but we want to be naughty.”
“ Then I should know you did not love m e,” the mother
said.
“ If we were very, very, very naughty, and wouldn’t be
good, what then?”
“ Then,” said the mother sadly—and while she spoke her
eyes filled with tears, and a sob almost choked her—“ then,”
she said, “ I should have to go away and leave you, and to
send home a new mother, with glass eyes and wooden tail.”
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79
II
“ Good-day,” said the village girl, when she saw Blue-
Eyes and the Turkey approach. She was again sitting by the
heap of stones, and under her shawl the peardrum was hidden.
“ Are the little man and woman there?” the children asked.
“ Yes, thank you for inquiring after them,” the girl answered; “ they are both here and quite well. The little woman has heard a secret—she tells it while she dances.”
“ Oh do let us see,” they entreated.
“ Quite impossible, I assure you,” the girl answered
promptly. “ You see, you are good.”
“ Oh!” said Blue-Eyes, sadly; “ but mother says if we are
naughty she will go away and send home a new mother, with
glass eyes and a wooden tail.”
“ Indeed,” said the girl, still speaking in the same unconcerned voice, “ that is what they all say. They all threaten that kind of thing. Of course really there are no mothers with
glass eyes and wooden tails; they would be much too expensive to make.” And the common sense of this remark the children saw at once.
“ We think you might let us see the little man and woman
dance.”
“ The kind of thing you would think,” remarked the village
girl.
“ But will you if we are naughty?” they asked in despair.
“ I fear you could not be naughty—that is, really—even if
you tried,” she said scornfully.
“ But if we are very naughty tonight, will you let us see
them to-morrow?”
“ Questions asked to-day are always best answered tomorrow,” the girl said, and turned round as if to walk on.
“ Good-day,” she said blithely; “ I must really go and play a
little to myself.”
For a few minutes the children stood looking after her,
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then they broke down and cried. The Ihikey was the first to
wipe away her tears. “ Let us go home and be very naughty,’’
she said; “ then perhaps she will let us see them to-morrow.”
And that afternoon the dear mother was sorely distressed,
for, instead of sitting at their tea as usual with smiling happy
faces, they broke their mugs and threw their bread and butter
on the floor, and when the mother told them to do one thing
they carefully did another, and only stamped their feet with
rage when she told diem to go upstairs until they were good.
“ Do you remember what I told you I should do if you
were very, very naughty?” she asked sadly.
“ Yes, we know, but it isn’t true,” they cried. “ There is
no mother with a wooden tail and glass eyes, and if there
were we should just stick pins into her and send her away;
but there is none.”
Then the mother became really angry, and sent them off
to bed, but instead of crying and being sorry at her anger,
they laughed for joy, and sat up and sang merry songs at the
top of their voices.
The next morning quite early, without asking leave from
the mother, the children got up and ran off as fast as they
could to look for the village girl. She was sitting as usual by
the heap of stones with the peardrum under her shawl.
“ Now please show us the little man and woman,” they
cried, “ and let us hear the peardrum. We were very naughty
last night.” But the girl kept the peardrum carefully hidden.
“ So you say,” she answered. “ You were not half naughty
enough. As I remarked before, it requires a great deal of skill
to be naughty well.”
“ But we broke our mugs, we threw our bread and butter
on the floor, we did everything we could to be tiresome.”
“ Mere trifles,” answered the village girl scornfully. “ Did
you throw cold water on the fire, did you break the clock,
did you pull all the tins down from the walls, and throw them
on the floor?”
“ No,” exclaimed the children, aghast, “ we did not do
that.”
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“ I thought no t,” the girl answered. “ So many people mistake a little noise and foolishness for real naughtiness.” And before they could say another word she had vanished.
“ We’ll be much worse,” the children cried, in despair.
“ We’ll go and do all the things she says” ; and then they
went home and did all these things. And when the mother
saw all that they had done she did not scold them as she had
the day before, but she just broke down and cried, and said
sadly—
“ Unless you are good to-morrow, my poor Blue-Eyes and
TUrkey, I shall indeed have to go away and come back no
more, and the new mother I told you of will come to you.”
They did not believe her; yet their hearts ached when they
saw how unhappy she looked, and they thought within themselves that when they once had seen the little man and woman dance, they would be good to the dear mother for ever afterwards.
The next morning, before the birds were stirring, the children crept out of the cottage and ran across the fields. They found the village girl sitting by the heap of stones, just as if
it were her natural home.
“ We have been very naughty,” they cried. “ We have done
all the things you told us; now will you show us the little
man and woman?” The girl looked at them curiously. “ You
really seem quite excited,” she said in her usual voice. “ You
should be calm.”
“ We have done all the things you told u s,” the children
cried again, “ and we do so long to hear the secret. We have
been so very naughty, and mother says she will go away today and send home a new mother if we are not good.”
“ Indeed,” said the girl. “ Well, let me see. When did your
mother say she would go?”
“ But if she goes, what shall we do?” they cried in despair.
“ We don’t want her
to go; we love her very much.”
“ You had better go back and be good, you are really not
clever enough to be anything else; and the little woman’s
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secret is very important; she never tells it for make-believe
naughtiness.”
‘‘But we did all the things you told u s,” the children cried.
‘‘You didn’t throw the looking-glass out of the window, or
stand the baby on its head.”
“ No, we didn’t do that,” the children gasped.
“ I thought not,” the girl said triumphantly. “ Well, good-
day. I shall not be here to-morrow.”
“ Oh, but don’t go away,” they cried. “ Do let us see them
just once.”
“ Well, I shall go past your cottage at eleven o ’clock this
morning,” the girl said. “ Perhaps I shall play the peardrum
as I go by.”
“ And will you show us the man and woman?” they asked.
“ Quite impossible, unless you have really deserved it;
make-believe naughtiness is only spoilt goodness. Now if
you break the looking-glass and do the things that are desired . . .”
“ Oh, we will,” they cried. “ We will be very naughty till
we hear you coming.”
Then again the children went home, and were naughty, oh,
so very very naughty that the dear mother’s heart ached and her
eyes filled with tears, and at last she went upstairs and slowly
put on her best gown and her new sun-bonnet, and she dressed
the baby all in its Sunday clothes, and then she came down and
stood before Blue-Byes and the Ihrkey, and just as she did so
die Thrkey threw the looking-glass out of the window, and it fell
with a loud crash upon the ground.
“ Good-bye, my children,” the mother said sadly, kissing
them. “ The new mother will be home presendy. Oh, my
poor children!” and then weeping bitterly, the mother took
the baby in her arms and turned to leave the house.
“ But mother, we will be good at half-past eleven, come
back at half-past eleven,” they cried, “ and we’ll both be
good; we must be naughty till eleven o’clock.” But the
mother only picked up the litde bundle in which she had tied
up her cotton apron, and went slowly out at the door. Just by
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the comer of the fields she stopped and turned, and waved
The Color of Evil - The Dark Descent V1 (1991) Page 10
