Racketty-Packetty House and Other Stories (14 page)

“My name,” said the little man, “is Robin Goodfellow, and I'll find them for you.”

He had a tiny scarlet silk pouch hanging at his girdle, and he put his hand into it and drew forth the smallest golden whistle you ever saw.

“Blow that,” he said, giving it to Fairyfoot, “and take care that you don't swallow it. You are such a tremendous creature!”

Fairyfoot took the whistle and put it very delicately to his lips. He blew, and there came from it a high, clear sound that seemed to pierce the deepest depths of the forest.

“Blow again,” commanded Robin Goodfellow.

Again Prince Fairyfoot blew, and again the pure clear sound rang through the trees, and the next instant he heard a loud rushing and tramping and squeaking and grunting, and all the great drove of swine came tearing through the bushes and formed themselves into a circle and stood staring at him as if waiting to be told what to do next.

“Oh, Robin Goodfellow, Robin Goodfellow!” cried Fairyfoot, “how grateful I am to you!”

“Not as grateful as I am to you,” said Robin Goodfellow. “But for you I should be disturbing that hawk's digestion at the present moment, instead of which, here I am, a respectable fairy once more, and my late wife (though I ought not to call her that, for goodness knows she was early enough hustling me out of my nest before daybreak, with the unpleasant proverb about the early bird catching the worm!)—I suppose I should say my early wife—is at this juncture a widow. Now, where do you live?”

Fairyfoot told him, and told him also about the swineherd, and how it happened that, though he was a prince, he had to herd swine and live in the forest.

“Well, well,” said Robin Goodfellow, “that is a disagreeable state of affairs. Perhaps I can make it rather easier for you. You see that is a fairy whistle.”

“I thought so,” said Fairyfoot.

“Well,” continued Robin Goodfellow, “you can always call your swine with it, so you will never be beaten again. Now, are you ever lonely?”

“Sometimes I am very lonely indeed,” answered the Prince. “No one cares for me, though I think the brook is sometimes sorry, and tries to tell me things.”

“Of course,” said Robin. “They all like you. I've heard them say so.”

“Oh, have you?” cried Fairyfoot, joyfully.

“Yes; you never throw stones at the birds, or break the branches of the trees, or trample on the flowers when you can help it.”

“The birds sing to me,” said Fairyfoot, “and the trees seem to beckon to me and whisper; and when I am very lonely, I lie down in the grass and look into the eyes of the flowers and talk to them. I would not hurt one of them for all the world!”

“Humph!” said Robin, “you are a rather good little fellow. Would you like to go to a party?”

“A party!” said Fairyfoot. “What is that?”

“This sort of thing,” said Robin; and he jumped up and began to dance around and to kick up his heels gaily in the palm of Fairyfoot's hand. “Wine, you know, and cake, and all sorts of fun. It begins at twelve to-night, in a place the fairies know of, and it lasts until just two minutes and three seconds and a half before daylight. Would you like to come?”

“Oh,” cried Fairyfoot, “I should be so happy if I might!”

“Well, you may,” said Robin; “I'll take you. They'll be delighted to see any friend of mine, I'm a great favourite; of course, you can easily imagine that. It was a great blow to them when I was changed; such a loss, you know. In fact, there were several lady fairies, who—but no matter.” And he gave a slight cough, and began to arrange his necktie with a disgracefully consequential air, though he was trying very hard not to look conceited; and while he was endeavouring to appear easy and gracefully careless, he began accidentally to hum, “See the Conquering Hero Comes,” which was not the right tune under the circumstances.

“But for you,” he said next, “I couldn't have given them the relief and pleasure of seeing me this evening. And what ecstasy it will be to them, to be sure! I shouldn't be surprised if it broke up the whole thing. They'll faint so—for joy, you know—just at first—that is, the ladies will. The men won't like it at all; and I don't blame 'em. I suppose I shouldn't like it—to see another fellow sweep all before him. That's what I do; I sweep all before me.” And he waved his hand in such a fine large gesture that he overbalanced himself, and turned a somersault. But he jumped up after it quite undisturbed.

“You'll see me do it to-night,” he said, knocking the dents out of his hat—“sweep all before me.” Then he put his hat on, and his hands on his hips, with a swaggering, man-of-society air. “I say,” he said, “I'm glad you're going. I should like you to see it.”

“And I should like to see it,” replied Fairyfoot.

“Well,” said Mr. Goodfellow, “you deserve it, though that's saying a great deal. You've restored me to them. But for you, even if I'd escaped that hawk, I should have had to spend the night in that beastly robin's nest, crowded into a corner by those squawking things, and domineered over by her! I wasn't made for that! I'm superior to it. Domestic life doesn't suit me. I was made for society. I adorn it. She never appreciated me. She couldn't soar to it. When I think of the way she treated me,” he exclaimed, suddenly getting into a rage, “I've a great mind to turn back into a robin and peck her head off!”

“Would you like to see her now?” asked Fairyfoot, innocently.

Mr. Goodfellow glanced behind him in great haste, and suddenly sat down.

“No, no!” he exclaimed in a tremendous hurry; “by no means! She has no delicacy. And she doesn't deserve to see me. And there's a violence and uncertainty about her movements which is annoying beyond anything you can imagine. No, I don't want to see her! I'll let her go unpunished for the present. Perhaps it's punishment enough for her to be deprived of me. Just pick up your cap, won't you? and if you see any birds lying about, throw it at them, robins particularly.”

“I think I must take the swine home, if you'll excuse me,” said Fairyfoot, “I'm late now.”

“Well, let me sit on your shoulder and I'll go with you and show you a short way home,” said Goodfellow; “I know all about it, so you needn't think about yourself again. In fact, we'll talk about the party. Just blow your whistle, and the swine will go ahead.”

Fairyfoot did so, and the swine rushed through the forest before them, and Robin Goodfellow perched himself on the Prince's shoulder, and chatted as they went.

It had taken Fairyfoot hours to reach the place where he found Robin, but somehow it seemed to him only a very short time before they came to the open place near the swineherd's hut; and the path they had walked in had been so pleasant and flowery that it had been delightful all the way.

“Now,” said Robin when they stopped, “if you will come here to-night at twelve o'clock, when the moon shines under this tree, you will find me waiting for you. Now I'm going. Good-bye!” And he was gone before the last word was quite finished.

Fairyfoot went towards the hut, driving the swine before him, and suddenly he saw the swineherd come out of his house, and stand staring stupidly at the pigs. He was a very coarse, hideous man, with bristling yellow hair, and little eyes, and a face rather like a pig's, and he always looked stupid, but just now he looked more stupid than ever. He seemed dumb with surprise.

“What's the matter with the swine?” he asked in his hoarse voice, which was rather piglike, too.

“I don't know,” answered Fairyfoot, feeling a little alarmed. “What
is
the matter with them?”

‘They are four times fatter, and five times bigger, and six times cleaner, and seven times heavier, and eight times handsomer than they were when you took them out,” the swineherd said.

“I've done nothing to them,” said Fairyfoot. “They ran away, but they came back again.”

The swineherd went lumbering back into the hut, and called his wife.

“Come and look at the swine,” he said.

And then the woman came out, and stared first at the swine and then at Fairyfoot.

“He has been with the fairies,” she said at last to her husband; “or it is because he is a king's son. We must treat him better if he can do wonders like that.”

In went the shepherd's wife, and she prepared quite a good supper for Fairyfoot and gave it to him. But Fairyfoot was scarcely hungry at all; he was so eager for the night to come, so that he might see the fairies. When he went to his loft under the roof, he thought at first that he could not sleep; but suddenly his hand touched the fairy whistle and he fell asleep at once, and did not waken again until a moonbeam fell brightly upon his face and aroused him. Then he jumped up and ran to the hole in the wall to look out, and he saw that the hour had come, and the moon was so low in the sky that its slanting light had crept under the oak-tree.

He slipped downstairs so lightly that his master heard nothing, and then he found himself out in the beautiful night with the moonlight so bright that it was lighter than daytime. And there was Robin Goodfellow waiting for him under the tree! He was so finely dressed that, for a moment, Fairyfoot scarcely knew him. His suit was made out of the purple velvet petals of a pansy, which was far finer than any ordinary velvet, and he wore plumes and tassels, and a ruffle around his neck, and in his belt was thrust a tiny sword, not half as big as the finest needle.

“Take me on your shoulder,” he said to Fairyfoot, “and I will show you the way.”

Fairyfoot took him up, and they went their way through the forest. And the strange part of it was that though Fairyfoot thought he knew all the forest by heart, every path they took was new to him, and more beautiful than anything he had ever seen before. The moonlight seemed to grow brighter and purer at every step, and the sleeping flowers sweeter and lovelier, and the moss greener and thicker. Fairyfoot felt so happy and gay that he forgot he had ever been sad and lonely in his life.

Robin Goodfellow, too, seemed to be in very good spirits. He related a great many stories to Fairyfoot, and, singularly enough, they were all about himself and divers and sundry fairy ladies who had been so very much attached to him that he scarcely expected to find them alive at the present moment. He felt quite sure they must have died of grief in his absence.

“I have caused a great deal of trouble in the course of my life,” he said, regretfully, shaking his head. “I have sometimes wished I could avoid it, but that is impossible. Ahem! When my great-aunt's grandmother rashly and inopportunely changed me into a robin, I was having a little flirtation with a little creature who was really quite attractive. I might have decided to engage myself to her. She was very charming. Her name was Gauzita. Tomorrow I shall go and place flowers on her tomb.”

“I thought fairies never died,” said Fairyfoot.

“Only on rare occasions, and only from love,” answered Robin. “They needn't die unless they wish to. They have been known to do it through love. They frequently wish they hadn't afterward—in fact, invariably—and then they can come to life again. But Gauzita——”

“Are you quite sure she is dead?” asked Fairyfoot.

“Sure!” cried Mr. Goodfellow, in wild indignation, “why, she hasn't seen me for a couple of years. I've moulted twice since last we met. I congratulate myself that she didn't see me then,” he added, in a lower voice. “Of course she's dead,” he added, with solemn emphasis; “as dead as a door nail.”

Just then Fairyfoot heard some enchanting sounds, faint, but clear. They were the sounds of delicate music and of tiny laughter, like the ringing of fairy bells.

“Ah!” said Robin Goodfellow, “there they are! But it seems to me they are rather gay, considering they have not seen me for so long. Turn into the path.”

Almost immediately they found themselves in a beautiful little dell, filled with moonlight, and with glittering stars in the cup of every flower; for there were thousands of dewdrops, and every dewdrop shone like a star. There were also crowds and crowds of tiny men and women, all beautiful, all dressed in brilliant, delicate dresses, all laughing or dancing or feasting at the little tables, which were loaded with every dainty the most fastidious fairy could wish for.

“Now,” said Robin Goodfellow, “you shall see me sweep all before me. Put me down.”

Fairyfoot put him down, and stood and watched him while he walked forward with a very grand manner. He went straight to the gayest and largest group he could see. It was a group of gentlemen fairies, who were crowding around a lily of the valley, on the bent stem of which a tiny lady fairy was sitting, airily swaying herself to and fro, and laughing and chatting with all her admirers at once.

She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely; indeed, it was disgracefully plain that she was having a great deal of fun. One gentleman fairy was fanning her, one was holding her programme, one had her bouquet, another her little scent bottle, and those who had nothing to hold for her were scowling furiously at the rest. It was evident that she was very popular, and that she did not object to it at all; in fact, the way her eyes sparkled and danced was distinctly reprehensible.

“You have engaged to dance the next waltz with every one of us!” said one of her adorers. “How are you going to do it?”

“Did I engage to dance with all of you?” she said, giving her lily stem the sauciest little swing, which set all the bells ringing. “Well, I am not going to dance it with all.”

“Not with
me?
” the admirer with the fan whispered in her ear.

She gave him the most delightful little look, just to make him believe she wanted to dance with him but really couldn't. Robin Goodfellow saw her. And then she smiled sweetly upon all the rest, every one of them. Robin Goodfellow saw that, too.

“I am going to sit here and look at you, and let you talk to me,” she said. “I do so enjoy brilliant conversation.”

All the gentlemen fairies were so much elated by this that they began to brighten up, and settle their ruffs, and fall into graceful attitudes, and think of sparkling things to say; because every one of them knew, from the glance of her eyes in his direction, that he was one whose cover-sation was brilliant; every one knew there could be no mistake about its being himself that she meant. The way she looked just proved it. Altogether it was more than Robin Goodfellow could stand, for it was Gauzita who was deporting herself in this unaccountable manner, swinging on lily stems, and “going on,” so to speak, with several parties at once, in a way to chill the blood of any proper young lady fairy—who hadn't any partner at all. It was Gauzita herself.

He made his way into the very centre of the group. “Gauzita!” he said. He thought, of course, she would drop right off her lily stem; but she didn't. She simply stopped swinging a moment, and stared at him.

“Gracious!” she exclaimed. “And who are you?”

“Who am I?” cried Mr. Goodfellow, severely. “Don't you remember me?”

“No,” she said, coolly; “I don't, not in the least.”

Robin Goodfellow almost gasped for breath. He had never met with anything so outrageous in his life.

“You don't remember
me?
” he cried. “
Me!
Why, it's impossible!”

“Is it?” said Gauzita, with a touch of dainty impudence. “What's your name?”

Robin Goodfellow was almost paralyzed. Gauzita took up a midget of an eyeglass which she had dangling from a thread of a gold chain, and she stuck it in her eye and tilted her impertinent little chin and looked him over. Not that she was near-sighted-not a bit of it; it was just one of her tricks and manners.

“Dear me!” she said, “you do look a trifle familiar. It isn't, it can't be, Mr.——, Mr.——,” then she turned to the adorer, who held her fan, “it can't be Mr.——, the one who was changed into a robin, you know,” she said. “Such a ridiculous thing to be changed into! What was his name?”

“Oh, yes! I know whom you mean. Mr.——, ah—Goodfellow!” said the fairy with the fan.

“So it was,” she said, looking Robin over again. “And he has been pecking at trees and things, and hopping in and out of nests ever since, I suppose. How absurd! And we have been enjoying ourselves so much since he went away! I think I never
did
have so lovely a time as I have had during these last two years. I began to know you,” she added, in a kindly tone, “just about the time he went away.”

“You have been enjoying yourself?” almost shrieked Robin Goodfellow.

“Well,” said Gauzita, in unexcusable slang, “I must smile.” And she did smile.

“And nobody has pined away and died?” cried Robin.

“I haven't,” said Gauzita, swinging herself and ringing her bells again. “I really haven't had time.”

Robin Goodfellow turned around and rushed out of the group. He regarded this as insulting. He went back to Fairyfoot in such a hurry that he tripped on his sword and fell, and rolled over so many times that Fairyfoot had to stop him and pick him up.

“Is she dead?” asked Fairyfoot.

“No,” said Robin; “she isn't.”

He sat down on a small mushroom and clasped his hands about his knees and looked mad—just mad. Angry or indignant wouldn't express it.

“I have a great mind to go and be a misanthrope,” he said.

“Oh! I wouldn't,” said Fairyfoot. He didn't know what a misanthrope was, but he thought it must be something unpleasant.

“Wouldn't you?” said Robin, looking up at him.

“No,” answered Fairyfoot.

“Well,” said Robin, “I guess I won't. Let's go and have some fun. They are all that way. You can't depend on any of them. Never trust one of them. I believe that creature has been engaged as much as twice since I left. By a singular coincidence,” he added, “I have been married twice myself—but, of course, that's different. I'm a man, you know, and-well, it's different. We won't dwell on it. Let's go and dance. But wait a minute first.” He took a little bottle from his pocket.

“If you remain the size you are,” he continued, “you will tread on whole sets of lancers and destroy entire germans. If you drink this, you will become as small as we are; and then, when you are going home, I will give you something to make you large again.” Fairyfoot drank from the little flagon, and immediately he felt himself growing smaller and smaller until at last he was as small as his companion.

“Now, come on,” said Robin.

On they went and joined the fairies, and they danced and played fairy games and feasted on fairy dainties, and were so gay and happy that Fairyfoot was wild with joy. Everybody made him welcome and seemed to like him, and the lady fairies were simply delightful, especially Gauzita, who took a great fancy to him. Just before the sun rose, Robin gave him something from another flagon, and he grew large again, and two minutes and three seconds and a half before daylight the ball broke up, and Robin took him home and left him, promising to call for him the next night.

Every night throughout the whole summer the same thing happened. At midnight he went to the fairies' dance; and at two minutes and three seconds and a half before dawn he came home. He was never lonely any more, because all day long he could think of what pleasure he would have when the night came; and, besides that, all the fairies were his friends. But when the summer was coming to an end, Robin Goodfellow said to him: “This is our last dance—at least it will be our last for some time. At this time of the year we always go back to our own country, and we don't return until spring.”

This made Fairyfoot very sad. He did not know how he could bear to be left alone again, but he knew it could not be helped; so he tried to be as cheerful as possible, and he went to the final festivities, and enjoyed himself more than ever before, and Gauzita gave him a tiny ring for a parting gift. But the next night, when Robin did not come for him, he felt very lonely indeed, and the next day he was so sorrowful that he wandered far away into the forest, in the hope of finding something to cheer him a little. He wandered so far that he became very tired and thirsty, and he was just making up his mind to go home, when he thought he heard the sound of falling water. It seemed to come from behind a thicket of climbing roses; and he went towards the place and pushed the branches aside a little, so that he could look through. What he saw was a great surprise to him. Though it was the end of summer, inside the thicket the roses were blooming in thousands all around a pool as clear as crystal, into which the sparkling water fell from a hole in the rock above. It was the most beautiful, clear pool that Fairyfoot had ever seen, and he pressed his way through the rose branches, and, entering the circle they inclosed, he knelt by the water and drank.

Almost instantly his feeling of sadness left him, and he felt quite happy and refreshed. He stretched himself on the thick perfumed moss, and listened to the tinkling of the water, and it was not long before he fell asleep.

When he awakened the moon was shining, the pool sparkled like a silver plaque crusted with diamonds, and two nightingales were singing in the branches over his head. And the next moment he found out that he understood their language just as plainly as if they had been human beings instead of birds. The water with which he had quenched his thirst was enchanted, and had given him this new power.

“Poor boy!” said one nightingale, “he looks tired; I wonder where he came from.”

“Why, my dear,” said the other, “is it possible you don't know that he is Prince Fairyfoot?”

“What!” said the first nightingale—“the King of Stumpinghame's son, who was born with small feet?”

“Yes,” said the second. “And the poor child has lived in the forest, keeping the swineherd's pigs ever since. And he is a very nice boy, too—never throws stones at birds or robs nests.”

“What a pity he doesn't know about the pool where the red berries grow!” said the first nightingale.