by Jacob Grimm
And do not forget your cowherd-maid,
As the prince forgot his betrothed bride,
Who waited for him ‘neath the lime-tree’s shade.”
the little calf knelt down, and she stroked it.
And when she had lived for a couple of years alone and full of grief, a report was spread over all the land that the King’s daughter was about to celebrate her marriage. The road to the town passed through the village where the maiden was living, and it came to pass that once when the maiden was driving out her herd, the bridegroom traveled by. He was sitting proudly on his horse, and never looked round, but when she saw him she recognized her beloved, and it was just as if a sharp knife had pierced her heart. “Alas!” said she, “I believed him true to me, but he has forgotten me.”
Next day he again came along the road. When he was near her she said to the little calf:
“Little calf, little calf, kneel by my side,
And do not forget your cowherd-maid,
As the prince forgot his betrothed bride,
Who waited for him ’neath the lime-tree’s shade.”
When he was aware of the voice, he looked down and reined in his horse. He looked into the girl’s face and then put his hands before his eyes as if he were trying to remember something, but he soon rode onwards and was out of sight. “Alas!” said she, “he no longer knows me,” and her grief was ever greater.
Soon after this a great festival three days long was to be held at the King’s court, and the whole country was invited to it.
“Now will I try my last chance,” thought the maiden, and when evening came she went to the stone under which she had buried her treasures. She took out the dress with the golden suns, put it on, and adorned herself with the jewels. She let down her hair, which she had concealed under a handkerchief, and it fell down in long curls about her, and thus she went into the town, and in the darkness was observed by no one. When she entered the brightly-lighted hall, every one started back in amazement, but no one knew who she was. The King’s son went to meet her, but he did not recognize her. He led her out to dance, and was so enchanted with her beauty, that he thought no more of the other bride. When the feast was over, she vanished in the crowd, and hastened before daybreak to the village, where she once more put on her herd’s dress.
Next evening she took out the dress with the silver moons, and put a half-moon made of precious stones in her hair. When she appeared at the festival, all eyes were turned upon her, but the King’s son hastened to meet her, and filled with love for her, danced with her alone, and no longer so much as glanced at anyone else. Before she went away she was forced to promise him to come again to the festival on the last evening.
When she appeared for the third time, she wore the star-dress which sparkled at every step she took, and her hair-ribbon and girdle were starred with jewels. The prince had already been waiting for her for a long time, and forced his way up to her. “Do but tell who you are,” said he, “I feel just as if I had already known you a long time.” “Do you not know what I did when you left me?” Then she stepped up to him, and kissed him on his left cheek, and in a moment it was as if scales fell from his eyes, and he recognized the true bride. “Come,” said he to her, “here I stay no longer,” gave her his hand, and led her down to the carriage. The horses hurried away to the magic castle as if the wind had been harnessed to the carriage. The illuminated windows already shone in the distance. When they drove past the lime-tree, countless glow-worms were swarming about it. It shook its branches, and sent forth their fragrance. On the steps flowers were blooming, and the rooms echoed with the song of strange birds, but in the hall the entire court was assembled, and the priest was waiting to marry the bridegroom to the true bride.
The Hare and the Hedgehog
THIS STORY, my dear young folks, seems to be false, but it really is true, for my grandfather, from whom I have it, used always, when relating it, to say: “It must be true, my son, or else no one could tell it to you.” The story is as follows. One Sunday morning about harvest time, just as the buckwheat was in bloom, the sun was shining brightly in heaven, the east wind was blowing warmly over the stubble-fields, the larks were singing in the air, the bees buzzing among the buckwheat, the people in their Sunday clothes were all going to church, and all creatures were happy, and the hedgehog was happy too.
The hedgehog, however, was standing by his door with his arms akimbo, enjoying the morning breezes, and slowly trilling a little song to himself, which was neither better nor worse than the songs which hedgehogs are in the habit of singing on a blessed Sunday morning. Whilst he was thus singing half aloud to himself, it suddenly occurred to him that, while his wife was washing and drying the children, he might very well take a walk into the field, and see how his turnips were getting on. The turnips, in fact, were close beside his house, and he and his family were accustomed to eat them, for which reason he looked upon them as his own. No sooner said than done. The hedgehog shut the house-door behind him, and took the path to the field. He had not gone very far from home, and was just turning round the sloe-bush which stands there outside the field, to go up into the turnip-field, when he observed the hare who had gone out on business of the same kind, namely, to visit his cabbages. When the hedgehog caught sight of the hare, he bade him a friendly good morning. But the hare, who was in his own way a distinguished gentleman, and frightfully haughty, did not return the hedgehog’s greeting, but said to him, assuming at the same time a very contemptuous manner: “How do you happen to be running about here in the field so early in the morning?” “I am taking a walk,” said the hedgehog. “A walk!” said the hare, with a smile. “It seems to me that you might use your legs for a better purpose.” This answer made the hedgehog furiously angry, for he can bear anything but a reference to his legs, just because they are crooked by nature. So now the hedgehog said to the hare: “You seem to imagine that you can do more with your legs than I with mine.” “That is just what I do think,” said the hare. “That can be put to the test,” said the hedgehog. “I wager that if we run a race, I will outstrip you.” “That is ridiculous! You with your short legs!” said the hare, “but for my part I am willing, if you have such a monstrous fancy for it. What shall we wager?” “A golden louis-d’or and a bottle of brandy,” said the hedgehog. “Done,” said the hare. “Shake hands on it, and then we may as well begin at once.” “Nay,” said the hedgehog, “there is no such great hurry! I am still fasting, I will go home first, and have a little breakfast. In half-an-hour I will be back again at this place.”
Hereupon the hedgehog departed, for the hare was quite satisfied with this. On his way the hedgehog thought to himself: “The hare relies on his long legs, but I will contrive to get the better of him. He may be a great man, but he is a very silly fellow, and he shall pay for what he has said.” So when the hedgehog reached home, he said to his wife: “Wife, dress yourself quickly, you must go out to the field with me.” “What is going on, then?” said his wife. “I have made a wager with the hare, for a gold louis-d’or and a bottle of brandy. I am to run a race with him, and you must be present.” “Good heavens, husband,” the wife now cried, “are you not right in your mind, have you completely lost your wits? What can make you want to run a race with the hare?” “Hold your tongue, woman,” said the hedgehog, “that is my affair. Don’t begin to discuss things which are matters for men. Be off, dress yourself, and come with me.” What could the hedgehog’s wife do? She was forced to obey him, whether she liked it or not.
So when they had set out on their way together, the hedgehog said to his wife: “Now pay attention to what I am going to say. Look you, I will make the long field our race-course. The hare shall run in one furrow, and I in another, and we will begin to run from the top. Now all that you have to do is to place yourself here below in the furrow, and when the hare arrives at the end of the furrow on the other side of you, you must cry out to him: ‘I am here already!’ ”
Then they reach
ed the field, and the hedgehog showed his wife her place, and then walked up the field. When he reached the top, the hare was already there. “Shall we start?” said the hare. “Certainly,” said the hedgehog. “Then both at once.” So saying, each placed himself in his own furrow. The hare counted: “Once, twice, thrice, and away!” and went off like a whirlwind down the field. The hedgehog, however, only ran about three paces, and then he crouched down in the furrow, and stayed quietly where he was.
When the hare therefore arrived at full speed at the lower end of the field, the hedgehog’s wife met him with the cry: “I am here already!” The hare was shocked and wondered not a little, he thought no other than that it was the hedgehog himself who was calling to him, for the hedgehog’s wife looked just like her husband. The hare, however, thought to himself: “That has not been done fairly,” and cried: “It must be run again, let us have it again.” And once more he went off like the wind in a storm, so that he seemed to fly. But the hedgehog’s wife stayed quietly in her place. So when the hare reached the top of the field, the hedgehog himself cried out to him: “I am here already.” The hare, however, quite beside himself with anger, cried: “It must be run again, we must have it again.” “All right,” answered the hedgehog, “for my part we’ll run as often as you choose.” So the hare ran seventy-three times more, and the hedgehog always held out against him, and every time the hare reached either the top or the bottom, either the hedgehog or his wife said: “I am here already.”
At the seventy-fourth time, however, the hare could no longer reach the end. In the middle of the field he fell to the ground, blood streamed out of his mouth, and he lay dead on the spot. But the hedgehog took the louis-d’or which he had won and the bottle of brandy, called his wife out of the furrow, and both went home together in great delight, and if they are not dead, they are living there still.
This is how it happened that the hedgehog made the hare run races with him on the Heath of Buxtehude* till he died, and since that time no hare has ever had any fancy for running races with a Buxtehude hedgehog.
The moral of this story is, firstly, that no one, however great he may be, should permit himself to jest at any one beneath him, even if he be only a hedgehog. And, secondly, it teaches, that when a man marries, he should take a wife in his own position, who looks just as he himself looks. So whosoever is a hedgehog let him see to it that his wife is a hedgehog also, and so forth.
* Buxtehude is a village near Hamburg.
The Spindle, the Shuttle, and the Needle
THERE WAS once a girl whose father and mother died while she was still a little child. All alone, in a small house at the end of the village, dwelt her godmother, who supported herself by spinning, weaving, and sewing. The old woman took the forlorn child to live with her, kept her to her work, and educated her in all that is good. When the girl was fifteen years old, the old woman became ill, called the child to her bedside, and said: “Dear daughter, I feel my end drawing near. I leave you the little house, which will protect you from wind and weather, and my spindle, shuttle, and needle, with which you can earn your bread.” Then she laid her hands on the girl’s head, blessed her, and said: “Only preserve the love of God in your heart, and all will go well with you.” Thereupon she closed her eyes, and when she was laid in the earth, the maiden followed the coffin, weeping bitterly, and paid her the last mark of respect.
And now the maiden lived quite alone in the little house, and was industrious, and spun, wove, and sewed, and the blessing of the good old woman was on all that she did. It seemed as if the flax in the room increased of its own accord, and whenever she wove a piece of cloth or carpet, or had made a shirt, she at once found a buyer who paid her amply for it, so that she was in want of nothing, and even had something to share with others.
About this time, the son of the King was traveling about the country looking for a bride. He was not to choose a poor one, and did not want to have a rich one. So he said: “She shall be my wife who is the poorest, and at the same time the richest.” When he came to the village where the maiden dwelt, he inquired, as he did wherever he went, who was the richest and also the poorest girl in the place. They first named the richest; the poorest, they said, was the girl who lived in the small house quite at the end of the village. The rich girl was sitting in all her splendor before the door of her house, and when the prince approached her, she got up, went to meet him, and made him a low curtsy. He looked at her, said nothing, and rode on. When he came to the house of the poor girl, she was not standing at the door, but sitting in her little room. He stopped his horse, and saw through the window, on which the bright sun was shining, the girl sitting at her spinning-wheel, busily spinning. She looked up, and when she saw that the prince was looking in, she blushed all over her face, let her eyes fall, and went on spinning. I do not know whether, just at that moment, the thread was quite even; but she went on spinning until the King’s son had ridden away again. Then she went to the window, opened it, and said: “It is so warm in this room!” and she looked after him as long as she could distinguish the white feathers in his hat. Then she sat down to work again in her room and went on with her spinning, and a saying which the old woman had often repeated when she was sitting at her work, came into her mind, and she sang these words to herself:
“Spindle, my spindle, haste, haste thee away,
And here to my house bring the wooer, I pray.”
And what do you think happened? The spindle sprang out of her hand in an instant, and out of the door, and when, in her astonishment, she got up and looked after it, she saw that it was dancing out merrily into the open country, and drawing a shining golden thread after it. Before long, it had entirely vanished from her sight. As she had now no spindle, the girl took the weaver’s shuttle in her hand, sat down to her loom, and began to weave.
The spindle, however, danced continually onwards, and just as the thread came to an end, reached the prince. “What do I see?” he cried; “the spindle certainly wants to show me the way!” turned his horse about, and rode back with the golden thread. The girl, however, was sitting at her work singing:
“Shuttle, my shuttle, weave well this day,
And guide the wooer to me, I pray.”
Immediately the shuttle sprang out of her hand and out by the door. Before the threshold, however, it began to weave a carpet which was more beautiful than the eyes of man had ever yet beheld. Lilies and roses blossomed on both sides of it, and on a golden ground in the center green branches ascended, under which bounded hares and rabbits, stags and deer stretched their heads in between them, brightly-colored birds were sitting in the branches above; they lacked nothing but the gift of song. The shuttle leapt hither and thither, and everything seemed to grow of its own accord.
As the shuttle had run away, the girl sat down to sew. She held the needle in her hand and sang:
“Needle, my needle, sharp-pointed and fine,
Prepare for the wooer this house of mine.”
Then the needle leapt out of her fingers, and flew everywhere about the room as quick as lightning. It was just as if invisible spirits were working; it covered tables and benches with green cloth in an instant, and the chairs with velvet, and hung the windows with silken curtains. Hardly had the needle put in the last stitch than the maiden saw through the window the white feathers of the prince, whom the spindle had brought thither by the golden thread. He alighted, stepped over the carpet into the house, and when he entered the room, there stood the maiden in her poor garments, but she shone out from within them like a rose surrounded by leaves. “You are the poorest and also the richest,” said he to her. “Come with me, you shall be my bride.” She did not speak, but she gave him her hand. Then he gave her a kiss, led her forth, lifted her on to his horse, and took her to the royal castle, where the wedding was solemnized with great rejoicings. The spindle, shuttle, and needle were preserved in the treasure-chamber, and held in great honor.
The Peasant and the Devil
&nb
sp; THERE WAS once upon a time a far-sighted, crafty peasant whose tricks were much talked about. The best story, however, is how he once got hold of the Devil, and made a fool of him.
The peasant had one day been working in his field, and as twilight had set in, was making ready for the journey home, when he saw a heap of burning coals in the middle of his field, and when, full of astonishment, he went up to it, a little black Devil was sitting on the live coals. “Are you sitting upon a treasure?” said the peasant. “Yes, in truth,” replied the Devil, “on a treasure which contains more gold and silver than you have ever seen in your life!” “The treasure lies in my field and belongs to me,” said the peasant. “It is yours,” answered the Devil, “if you will for two years give me one half of everything your field produces. Money I have enough, but I have a desire for the fruits of the earth.” The peasant agreed to the bargain. “In order, however, that no dispute may arise about the division,” said he, “everything that is above ground shall belong to you, and what is under the earth to me.” The Devil was quite satisfied with that, but the cunning peasant had sown turnips.
Now when the time for harvest came, the Devil appeared and wanted to take away his crop; but he found nothing but the yellow withered leaves, while the peasant, full of delight, was digging up his turnips. “You have had the best of it for once,” said the Devil, “but the next time that won’t do. What grows above ground shall be yours, and what is under it, mine.” “I am willing,” replied the peasant; but when the time came to sow, he did not again sow turnips, but wheat. The grain became ripe, and the peasant went into the field and cut the full stalks down to the ground. When the Devil came, he found nothing but the stubble, and went away in a fury down into a cleft in the rocks. “That is the way to cheat the Devil,” said the peasant, and went and fetched away the treasure.
