Racketty-Packetty House and Other Stories (15 page)
Read Racketty-Packetty House and Other Stories Online
Authors: Frances Hodgson; Burnett
“What poolâand what red berries?” asked the second nightingale.
“Why, my dear,” said the first, “is it possible you don't know about the pool where the red berries growâthe pool where the poor, dear Princess Goldenhair met with her misfortune?”
“Never heard of it,” said the second nightingale, rather crossly.
“Well,” explained the other, “you have to follow the brook for a day and three-quarters, and then take all the paths to the left until you come to the pool. It is very ugly and muddy, and bushes with red berries on them grow around it.”
“Well, what of that?” said her companion; “and what happened to the Princess Goldenhair?”
“Don't you know that, either?” exclaimed her friend.
“No.”
“Ah!” said the first nightingale, “it was very sad. She went out with her father, the King, who had a hunting party; and she lost her way, and wandered on until she came to the pool. Her poor little feet were so hot that she took off her gold-embroidered satin slippers, and put them into the waterâher feet, not the slippersâand the next minute they began to grow and grow, and to get larger and larger, until they were so immense she could hardly walk at all; and though all the physicians in the kingdom have tried to make them smaller, nothing can be done, and she is perfectly unhappy.”
“What a pity she doesn't know about this pool!” said the other bird. “If she just came here and bathed them three times in the water, they would be smaller and more beautiful than ever, and she would be more lovely than she has ever been.” .
“It is a pity,” said her companion; “but, you know, if we once let people know what this water will do, we should be overrun with creatures bathing themselves beautiful, and trampling our moss and tearing down our rose-trees, and we should never have any peace.”
“That is true,” agreed the other.
Very soon after they flew away, and Fairyfoot was left alone. He had been so excited while they were talking that he had been hardly able to lie still. He was so sorry for the Princess Goldenhair, and so glad for himself. Now he could find his way to the pool with the red berries, and he could bathe his feet in it until they were large enough to satisfy Stumpinghame; and he could go back to his father's court, and his parents would perhaps be fond of him. But he had so good a heart that he could not think of being happy himself and letting others remain unhappy, when he could help them. So the first thing was to find the Princess Goldenhair and tell her about the nightingales' fountain. But how was he to find her? The nightingales had not told him. He was very much troubled, indeed. How was he to find her?
Suddenly, quite suddenly, he thought of the ring Gauzita had given him. When she had given it to him she had made an odd remark.
“When you wish to go anywhere,” she had said, “hold it in your hand, turn around twice with closed eyes, and something queer will happen.”
He had thought it was one of her little jokes, but now it occurred to him that at least he might try what would happen. So he rose up, held the ring in his hand, closed his eyes, and turned around twice.
What did happen was that he began to walk, not very fast, but still passing along as if he were moving rapidly. He did not know where he was going, but he guessed that the ring did, and that if he obeyed it, he should find the Princes Goldenhair. He went on and on, not getting in the least tired, until about daylight he found himself under a great tree, and on the ground beneath it was spread a delightful breakfast, which he knew was for him. He sat down and ate it, and then got up again and went on his way once more. Before noon he had left the forest behind him, and was in a strange country. He knew it was not Stumpinghame, because the people had not large feet. But they all had sad faces, and once or twice, when he passed groups of them who were talking, he heard them speak of the Princess Goldenhair, as if they were sorry for her and could not enjoy themselves while such a misfortune rested upon her.
“So sweet and lovely and kind a princess!” they said; “and it really seems as if she would never be any better.”
The sun was just setting when Fairyfoot came in sight of the palace. It was built of white marble, and had beautiful pleasure-grounds about it, but somehow there seemed to be a settled gloom in the air. Fairyfoot had entered the great pleasure-garden, and was wondering where it would be best to go first, when he saw a lovely white fawn, with a golden collar about its neck, come bounding over the flower-beds, and he heard, at a little distance, a sweet voice, saying, sorrowfully, “Come back, my fawn; I cannot run and play with you as I once used to. Do not leave me, my little friend.”
And soon from behind the trees came a line of beautiful girls, walking two by two, all very slowly; and at the head of the line, first of all, came the loveliest princess in the world, dressed softly in pure white, with a wreath of lilies on her long golden hair, which fell almost to the hem of her white gown.
She had so fair and tender a young face, and her large, soft eyes, yet looked so sorrowful, that Fairyfoot loved her in a moment, and he knelt on one knee, taking off his cap and bending his head until his own golden hair almost hid his face.
“Beautiful Princess Goldenhair, beautiful and sweet Princess, may I speak to you?” he said.
The Princess stopped and looked at him, and answered him softly. It surprised her to see one so poorly dressed kneeling before her, in her palace gardens, among the brilliant flowers; but she always spoke softly to everyone.
“What is there that I can do for you, my friend?” she said.
“Beautiful Princess,” answered Fairyfoot, blushing, “I hope very much that I may be able to do something for you.”
“For me!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, friend; what is it you can do? Indeed, I need a help I am afraid no one can ever give me.”
“Gracious and fairest lady,” said Fairyfoot, “it is that help I thinkânay, I am sureâthat I bring to you.”
“Oh!” said the sweet Princess. “You have a kind face and most true eyes, and when I look at you-I do not know why it is, but I feel a little happier. What is it you would say to me?”
Still kneeling before her, still bending his head modestly, and still blushing, Fairyfoot told his story. He told her of his own sadness and loneliness, and of why he was considered so terrible a disgrace to his family. He told her about the fountain of the nightingales and what he had heard there and how he had journeyed through the forests, and beyond it into her own country, to find her. And while he told it, her beautiful face changed from red to white, and her hands closely clasped themselves together.
“Oh!” she said, when he had finished, “I know that this is true from the kind look in your eyes, and I shall be happy again. And how can I thank you for being so good to a poor little princess whom you had never seen?”
“Only let me see you happy once more, most sweet Princess,” answered Fairyfoot, “and that will be all I desireâonly if, perhaps, I might onceâkiss your hand.”
She held out her hand to him with so lovely a look in her soft eyes that he felt happier than he had ever been before, even at the fairy dances. This was a different kind of happiness. Her hand was as white as a dove's wing and as soft as a dove's breast. “Come,” she said, “let us go at once to the King.'
Within a few minutes the whole palace was in an uproar of excitement. Preparations were made to go to the fountain of the nightingales immediately. Remembering what the birds had said about not wishing to be disturbed, Fairyfoot asked the King to take only a small party. So no one was to go but the King himself, the Princess, in a covered chair carried by two bearers, the Lord High Chamberlain, two Maids of Honour, and Fairyfoot.
Before morning they were on their way, and the day after they reached the thicket of roses, and Fairyfoot pushed aside the branches and led the way into the dell.
The Princess Goldenhair sat down upon the edge of the pool and put her feet into it. In two minutes they began to look smaller. She bathed them once, twice, three times, and, as the nightingales had said, they became smaller and more beautiful than ever. As for the Princess herself, she really could not be more beautiful than she had been; but the Lord High Chamberlain, who had been an exceedingly ugly old gentleman, after washing his face, became so young and handsome that the First Maid of Honour immediately fell in love with him. Whereupon she washed her face, and became so beautiful that he fell in love with her, and they were engaged upon the spot.
The Princess could not find any words to tell Fairyfoot how grateful she was and how happy. She could only look at him again and again with her soft, radiant eyes, and again and again give him her hand that he might kiss it.
She was so sweet and gentle that Fairyfoot could not bear the thought of leaving her; and when the King begged him to return to the palace with them and live there always, he was more glad than I can tell you. To be near this lovely Princess, to be her friend, to love and serve her and look at her every day, was such happiness that he wanted nothing more. But first he wished to visit his father and mother and sisters and brothers in Stumpinghame! so the King and Princess and their attendants went with him to the pool where the red berries grew; and after he had bathed his feet in the water they were so large that Stumpinghame contained nothing like them, even the King's and Queen's seeming small in comparison. And when, a few days later, he arrived at the Stumpingham Palace, attended in great state by the magnificent retinue with which the father of the Princess Goldenhair had provided him, he was received with unbounded rapture by his parents. The King and Queen felt that to have a son with feet of such a size was something to be proud of, indeed. They could not admire him sufficiently, although the whole country was illuminated, and feasting continued throughout his visit.
But though he was glad to be no more a disgrace to his family, it cannot be said that he enjoyed the size of his feet very much on his own account. Indeed, he much preferred being Prince Fairyfoot, as fleet as the wind and as light as a young deer, and he was quite glad to go to the fountain of the nightingales after his visit was at an end, and bathe his feet small again, and to return to the palace of the Princess Goldenhair with the soft and tender eyes. There everyone loved him, and he loved everyone, and was four times as happy as the day is long.
He loved the Princess more dearly every day, and, of course, as soon as they were old enough, they were married. And of course, too, they used to go in the summer to the forest, and dance in the moonlight with the fairies, who adored them both.
When they went to visit Stumpinghame, they always bathed their feet in the pool of the red berries; and when they returned, they made them small again in the fountain of the nightingales.
They were always great friends with Robin Goodfellow, and he was always very confidential with them about Gauzita, who continued to be as pretty and saucy as ever.
“Some of these days,” he used to say, severely, “I'll marry another fairy, and see how she'll like thatâto see someone else basking in my society!
I'll
get even with her!”
But he
never
did.
T
here once was a little grain of wheat which was very proud indeed. The first thing it remembered was being very much crowded and jostled by a great many other grains of wheat, all living in the same sack in the granary. It was quite dark in the sack, and no one could move about, and so there was nothing to be done but to sit still and talk and think. The proud little grain of wheat talked a great deal, but did not think quite so much, while its next neighbour thought a great deal and only talked when it was asked questions it could not answer. It used to say that when it thought a great deal it could remember things which it seemed to have heard a long time ago.
“What is the use of our staying here so long doing nothing, and never being seen by anybody?” the proud little grain once asked.
“I don't know,” the learned grain replied. “I don't know the answer to that. Ask me another.”
“Why can't I sing like the birds that build their nests in the roof? I should like to sing, instead of sitting here in the dark.”
“Because you have no voice,” said the learned grain.
This was a very good answer indeed.
“Why didn't someone give me a voice, thenâwhy didn't they?” said the proud little grain, getting very cross.
The learned grain thought for several minutes.
“There might be two answers to that,” she said at last. “One might be that nobody had a voice to spare, and the other might be that you have nowhere to put one if it were given to you.”
“Everybody is better off than I am,” said the proud little grain. “The birds can fly and sing, the children can play and shout. I am sure I can get no rest for their shouting and playing. There are two little boys who make enough noise to deafen the whole sackful of us.”
“Ah! I know them,” said the learned grain. “And it's true they are noisy. Their names are Lionel and Vivian. There is a thin place in the side of the sack, through which I can see them. I would rather stay where I am than have to do all they do. They have long yellow hair, and when they stand on their heads the straw sticks in it and they look very curious. I heard a strange thing through listening to them the other day.”
“What was it?” asked the proud grain.
“They were playing in the straw, and someone came in to themâit was a lady who had brought them something on a plate. They began to dance and shout: âIt's cake! It's cake! Nice little mamma for bringing us cake.' And then they each sat down with a piece and began to take great bites out of it. I shuddered to think of it afterward.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know they are always asking questions, and they began to ask questions of their mamma, who lay down in the straw near them. She seemed to be used to it. These are the questions Vivian asked:
“âWho made the cake?'
“âThe cook.'
â“Who made the cook?'
“âGod.'
â“What did He make her for?'
â“Why didn't He make her white?'
“âWhy didn't He make you black?'
“âDid He cut a hole in heaven and drop me through when He made me?'
“âWhy didn't it hurt me when I tumbled such a long way?'
“She said she âdidn't know' to all but the two first, and then he asked two more.
“âWhat is the cake made of?'
“âFlour, sugar, eggs and butter.'
“âWhat is flour made of?'
“It was the answer to that which made me shudder.”
“What was it?” asked the proud grain.
“She said it was made ofâwheat!! I don't see the advantage of being richââ”
“Was the cake rich?” asked the proud grain.
“Their mother said it was. She said, âDon't eat it so fastâit is very rich.”'
“Ah!” said the proud grain. “I should like to be rich. It must be very fine to be rich. If I am ever made into cake, I mean to be so rich that no one will dare to eat me at all.”
“Ah?” said the learned grain. “I don't think those boys would be afraid to eat you, however rich you were. They are not afraid of richness.”
“They'd be afraid of me before they had done with me,” said the proud grain. “I am not a common grain of wheat. Wait until I am made into cake. But gracious me! there doesn't seem much prospect of it while we are shut up here. How dark and stuffy it is, and how we are crowded, and what a stupid lot the other grains are! I'm tired of it, I must say.”
“We are all in the same sack,” said the learned grain, very quietly.
It was a good many days after that, that something happened. Quite early in the morning, a man and a boy came into the granary, and moved the sack of wheat from its place, wakening all the grains from their last nap.
“What is the matter?” said the proud grain. “Who is daring to disturb us?”
“Hush!” whispered the learned grain, in the most solemn manner. “Something is going to happen. Something like this happened to somebody belonging to me long ago. I seem to remember it when I think very hard. I seem to remember something about one of my family being sown.”
“What is sown?” demanded the other grain.
“It is being thrown into the earth,” began the learned grain.
Oh, what a passion the proud grain got into! “Into the earth?” she shrieked out. “Into the common earth? The earth is nothing but dirt, and I am
not
a common grain of wheat. I won't be sown! I will
not
be sown! How dare anyone sow me against my will! I would rather stay in the sack.”
But just as she was saying it, she was thrown out with the learned grain and some others into another dark place, and carried off by the farmer, in spite of her temper; for the farmer could not hear her voice at all, and wouldn't have minded if he had, because he knew she was only a grain of wheat, and ought to be sown, so that some good might come of her.
Well, she was carried out to a large field in the pouch which the farmer wore at his belt. The field had been ploughed, and there was a sweet smell of fresh earth in the air; the sky was a deep, deep blue, but the air was cool and the few leaves on the trees were brown and dry, and looked as if they had been left over from last year.
“Ah!” said the learned grain. “It was just such a day as this when my grandfather, or my father, or somebody else related to me, was sown. I think I remember that it was called Early Spring.”
“As for me,” said the proud grain, fiercely, “I should like to see the man who would dare to sow me!”
At that very moment, the farmer put his big, brown hand into the bag and threw her, as she thought, at least half a mile from them.
He had not thrown her so far as that, however, and she landed safely in the shadow of a clod of rich earth, which the sun had warmed through and through. She was quite out of breath and very dizzy at first, but in a few seconds she began to feel better and could not help looking around, in spite of her anger, to see if there was anyone near to talk to. But she saw no one, and so began to scold as usual.
“They not only sow me,” she called out, “but they throw me all by myself, where I can have no company at all. It is disgraceful.”
Then she heard a voice from the other side of the clod. It was the learned grain, who had fallen there when the farmer threw her out of his pouch.
“Don't be angry,” it said, “I am here. We are all right so far. Perhaps, when they cover us with the earth, we shall be even nearer to each other than we are now.”
“Do you mean to say they will cover us with the earth?” asked the proud grain.
“Yes,” was the answer. “And there we shall lie in the dark, and the rain will moisten us, and the sun will warm us, until we grow larger and larger, and at last burst open!”
“Speak for yourself,” said the proud grain; “I shall do no such thing!”
But it all happened just as the learned grain had said, which showed what a wise grain it was, and how much it had found out just by thinking hard and remembering all it could.
Before the day was over, they were covered snugly up with the soft, fragrant, brown earth, and there they lay day after day.
One morning, when the proud grain wakened, it found itself wet through and through with rain which had fallen in the night, and the next day the sun shone down and warmed it so that it really began to be afraid that it would be obliged to grow too large for its skin, which felt a little tight for it already.
It said nothing of this to the learned grain, at first, because it was determined not to burst if it could help it; but after the same thing had happened a great many times, it found, one morning, that it really was swelling, and it felt obliged to tell the learned grain about it.
“Well,” it said, pettishly, “I suppose you will be glad to hear that you were right. I
am
going to burst. My skin is so tight now that it doesn't fit me at all, and I know I can't stand another warm shower like the last.”
“Oh!” said the learned grain, in a quiet way (really learned people always have a quiet way), “I knew I was right, or I shouldn't have said so. I hope you don't find it very uncomfortable. I think I myself shall burst by to-morrow.”
“Of course I find it uncomfortable,” said the proud grain. “Who wouldn't find it uncomfortable, to be two or three sizes too small for one's self! Pouf! Crack! There I go! I have split up all up my right side, and I must say it's a relief.”
“Crack! Pouf! so have I,” said the learned grain. “Now we must begin to push up through the earth. I am sure my relation did that.”
“Well, I shouldn't mind getting out into the air. It would be a change at least.”
So each of them began to push her way through the earth as strongly as she could, and, sure enough, it was not long before the proud grain actually found herself out in the world again, breathing the sweet air, under the blue sky, across which fleecy white clouds were drifting, and swift-winged, happy birds darting.
“It really is a lovely day,” were the first words the proud grain said. It couldn't help it. The sunshine was so delightful, and the birds chirped and twittered so merrily in the bare branches, and, more wonderful than all, the great field was brown no longer, but was covered with millions of little, fresh green blades, which trembled and bent their frail bodies before the light wind.
“This is an improvement,” said the proud grain.
Then there was a little stir in the earth beside it, and up through the brown mould came the learned grain, fresh, bright, green, like the rest.
“I told you I was not a common grain of wheat,” said the proud one.
“You are not a grain of wheat at all now,” said the learned one, modestly. “You are a blade of wheat, and there are a great many others like you.”
“See how green I am!” said the proud blade.
“Yes, you are very green,” said its companion. “You will not be so green when you are older.”
The proud grain, which must be called a blade now, had plenty of change and company after this. It grew taller and taller every day, and made a great many new acquaintances as the weather grew warmer. These were little gold and green beetles living near it, who often passed it, and now and then stopped to talk a little about their children and their journeys under the soil. Birds dropped down from the sky sometimes to gossip and twitter of the nests they were building in the apple-trees, and the new songs they were learning to sing.
Once, on a very warm day, a great golden butterfly, floating by on his large lovely wings, fluttered down softly and lit on the proud blade, who felt so much prouder when he did it that she trembled for joy.
“He admires me more than all the rest in the field, you see,” it said, haughtily. “That is because I am so green.”
“If I were you,” said the learned blade, in its modest way, “I believe I would not talk so much about being green. People will make such ill-natured remarks when one speaks often of one's self.”
“I am above such people,” said the proud blade; “I can find nothing more interesting to talk of than myself.”
As time went on, it was delighted to find that it grew taller than any other blade in the field, and threw out other blades; and at last there grew out at the top of its stalk ever so many plump, new little grains, all fitting closely together, and wearing tight little green covers.
“Look at me!” it said then. “I am the queen of all the wheat. I have a crown.”
“No,” said its learned companion. “You are now an ear of wheat.”
And in a short time all the other stalks wore the same kind of crown, and it found out that the learned blade was right, and that it was only an ear, after all.
And now the weather had grown still warmer and the trees were covered with leaves, and the birds sang and built their nests in them and laid their little blue eggs, and in time, wonderful to relate, there came baby birds, that were always opening their mouths for food, and crying “peep, peep,” to their fathers and mothers. There were more butterflies floating about on their amber and purple wings, and the gold and green beetles were so busy they had no time to talk.
“Well!” said the proud ear of wheat (you remember it was an ear by this time) to its companion one day. “You see, you were right again. I am not so green as I was. I am turning yellowâbut yellow is the colour of gold, and I don't object to looking like gold.”
“You will soon be ripe,” said its friend.
“And what will happen then?”
“The reaping-machine will come and cut you down, and other strange things will happen.”
“There I make a stand,” said the proud ear, “I will
not
be cut down.”
But it was just as the wise ear said it would be. Not long after a reaping-machine was brought and driven back and forth in the fields, and down went all the wheat ears before the great knives. But it did not hurt the wheat, of course, and only the proud ear felt angry.
