A Little Book of Profitable Tales
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Eugene Field >> A Little Book of Profitable Tales
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"In the first place," resumed the little mauve mouse, after a pause that
testified eloquently to the depth of her emotion,--"in the first place,
that wretched cat dressed herself up in that pretty little white muff, by
which you are to understand that she crawled through the muff just so far
as to leave her four cruel legs at liberty."
"Yes, I understand," said the old clock.
"Then she put on the boy doll's fur cap," said the little mauve mouse,
"and when she was arrayed in the boy doll's fur cap and Dear-my-Soul's
pretty little white muff, of course she didn't look like a cruel cat at
all. But whom did she look like?"
"Like the boy doll," suggested the old clock.
"No, no!" cried the little mauve mouse.
"Like Dear-my-Soul?" asked the old clock.
"How stupid you are!" exclaimed the little mauve mouse. "Why, she looked
like Santa Claus, of course!"
"Oh, yes; I see," said the old clock. "Now I begin to be interested; go
on."
"Alas!" sighed the little mauve mouse, "not much remains to be told; but
there is more of my story left than there was of Squeaknibble when that
horrid cat crawled out of that miserable disguise. You are to understand
that, contrary to her sagacious mother's injunction, and in notorious
derision of the mooted coming of Santa Claus, Squeaknibble issued from the
friendly hole in the chimney corner, and gambolled about over this very
carpet, and, I dare say, in this very moonlight."
"I do not know," said the moonbeam, faintly. "I am so very old, and I have
seen so many things--I do not know."
"Right merrily was Squeaknibble gambolling," continued the little mauve
mouse, "and she had just turned a double back somersault without the use
of what remained of her tail, when, all of a sudden, she beheld, looming
up like a monster ghost, a figure all in white fur! Oh, how frightened she
was, and how her little heart did beat! 'Purr, purr-r-r,' said the ghost
in white fur. 'Oh, please don't hurt me!' pleaded Squeaknibble. 'No; I'll
not hurt you,' said the ghost in white fur; 'I'm Santa Claus, and I've
brought you a beautiful piece of savory old cheese, you dear little
mousie, you.' Poor Squeaknibble was deceived; a sceptic all her life, she
was at last befooled by the most palpable and most fatal of frauds. 'How
good of you!' said Squeaknibble. 'I didn't believe there was a Santa
Claus, and--' but before she could say more she was seized by two sharp,
cruel claws that conveyed her crushed body to the murderous mouth of
mousedom's most malignant foe. I can dwell no longer upon this harrowing
scene. Suffice it to say that ere the morrow's sun rose like a big yellow
Herkimer County cheese upon the spot where that tragedy had been enacted,
poor Squeaknibble passed to that bourn whence two inches of her beautiful
tail had preceded her by the space of three weeks to a day. As for Santa
Claus, when he came that Christmas eve, bringing morceaux de Brie and of
Stilton for the other little mice, he heard with sorrow of Squeaknibble's
fate; and ere he departed he said that in all his experience he had never
known of a mouse or of a child that had prospered after once saying that
he didn't believe in Santa Claus."
"Well, that is a remarkable story," said the old clock. "But if you
believe in Santa Glaus, why aren't you in bed?"
"That's where I shall be presently," answered the little mauve mouse, "but
I must have my scamper, you know. It is very pleasant, I assure you, to
frolic in the light of the moon; only I cannot understand why you are
always so cold and so solemn and so still, you pale, pretty little
moonbeam."
"Indeed, I do not know that I am so," said the moonbeam. "But I am very
old, and I have travelled many, many leagues, and I have seen wondrous
things. Sometimes I toss upon the ocean, sometimes I fall upon a
slumbering flower, sometimes I rest upon a dead child's face. I see the
fairies at their play, and I hear mothers singing lullabies. Last night I
swept across the frozen bosom of a river. A woman's face looked up at me;
it was the picture of eternal rest. 'She is sleeping,' said the frozen
river. 'I rock her to and fro, and sing to her. Pass gently by, O
moonbeam; pass gently by, lest you awaken her.'"
"How strangely you talk," said the old clock. "Now, I'll warrant me that,
if you wanted to, you could tell many a pretty and wonderful story. You
must know many a Christmas tale; pray tell us one to wear away this night
of Christmas watching."
"I know but one," said the moonbeam. "I have told it over and over again,
in every land and in every home; yet I do not weary of it. It is very
simple. Should you like to hear it?"
"Indeed we should," said the old clock; "but before you begin, let me
strike twelve; for I shouldn't want to interrupt you."
When the old clock had performed this duty with somewhat more than usual
alacrity, the moonbeam began its story:--
"Upon a time--so long ago that I can't tell how long ago it was--I fell
upon a hillside. It was in a far distant country; this I know, because,
although it was the Christmas time, it was not in that country as it is
wont to be in countries to the north. Hither the snow-king never came;
flowers bloomed all the year, and at all times the lambs found pleasant
pasturage on the hillsides. The night wind was balmy, and there was a
fragrance of cedar in its breath. There were violets on the hillside, and
I fell amongst them and lay there. I kissed them, and they awakened. 'Ah,
is it you, little moonbeam?' they said, and they nestled in the grass
which the lambs had left uncropped.
"A shepherd lay upon a broad stone on the hillside; above him spread an
olive-tree, old, ragged, and gloomy; but now it swayed its rusty branches
majestically in the shifting air of night. The shepherd's name was Benoni.
Wearied with long watching, he had fallen asleep; his crook had slipped
from his hand. Upon the hillside, too, slept the shepherd's flock. I had
counted them again and again; I had stolen across their gentle faces and
brought them pleasant dreams of green pastures and of cool water-brooks. I
had kissed old Benoni, too, as he lay slumbering there; and in his dreams
he seemed to see Israel's King come upon earth, and in his dreams he
murmured the promised Messiah's name.
"'Ah, is it you, little moonbeam?' quoth the violets. 'You have come in
good time. Nestle here with us, and see wonderful things come to pass.'
"'What are these wonderful things of which you speak?' I asked.
"'We heard the old olive-tree telling of them to-night,' said the violets.
'"Do not go to sleep, little violets," said the old olive-tree, "for this
is Christmas night, and the Master shall walk upon the hillside in the
glory of the midnight hour." So we waited and watched; one by one the
lambs fell asleep; one by one the stars peeped out; the shepherd nodded
and crooned and crooned and nodded, and at last he, too, went fast asleep,
and his crook slipped from his keeping. Then we called to the old
olive-tree yonder, asking how soon the midnight hour would come; but all
the old olive-tree answered was "Presently, presently," and finally we,
too, fell asleep, wearied by our long watching, and lulled by the rocking
and swaying of the old olive-tree in the breezes of the night.'
"'But who is this Master?' I asked.
"'A child, a little child,' they answered. 'He is called the little Master
by the others. He comes here often, and plays among the flowers of the
hillside. Sometimes the lambs, gambolling too carelessly, have crushed and
bruised us so that we lie bleeding and are like to die; but the little
Master heals our wounds and refreshes us once again.'
"I marvelled much to hear these things. 'The midnight hour is at hand,'
said I, 'and I will abide with you to see this little Master of whom you
speak.' So we nestled among the verdure of the hillside, and sang songs
one to another.
"'Come away!' called the night wind; 'I know a beauteous sea not far
hence, upon whose bosom you shall float, float, float away out into the
mists and clouds, if you will come with me.'
"But I hid under the violets and amid the tall grass, that the night wind
might not woo me with its pleading. 'Ho, there, old olive-tree!' cried the
violets; 'do you see the little Master coming? Is not the midnight hour at
hand?'
"'I can see the town yonder,' said the old olive-tree. 'A star beams
bright over Bethlehem, the iron gates swing open, and the little Master
comes.'
"Two children came to the hillside. The one, older than his comrade, was
Dimas, the son of Benoni. He was rugged and sinewy, and over his brown
shoulders was flung a goat-skin; a leathern cap did not confine his long,
dark curly hair. The other child was he whom they called the little
Master; about his slender form clung raiment white as snow, and around his
face of heavenly innocence fell curls of golden yellow. So beautiful a
child I had not seen before, nor have I ever since seen such as he. And as
they came together to the hillside, there seemed to glow about the little
Master's head a soft white light, as if the moon had sent its tenderest,
fairest beams to kiss those golden curls.
"'What sound was that?' cried Dimas, for he was exceeding fearful.
"'Have no fear, Dimas,' said the little Master. 'Give me thy hand, and I
will lead thee.'
"Presently they came to the rock whereon Benoni, the shepherd, lay; and
they stood under the old olive-tree, and the old olive-tree swayed no
longer in the night wind, but bent its branches reverently in the presence
of the little Master. It seemed as if the wind, too, stayed in its
shifting course just then; for suddenly there was a solemn hush, and you
could hear no noise, except that in his dreams Benoni spoke the Messiah's
name.
"'Thy father sleeps,' said the little Master, 'and it is well that it is
so; for that I love thee, Dimas, and that thou shalt walk with me in my
Father's kingdom, I would show thee the glories of my birthright.'
"Then all at once sweet music filled the air, and light, greater than the
light of day, illumined the sky and fell upon all that hillside. The
heavens opened, and angels, singing joyous songs, walked to the earth.
More wondrous still, the stars, falling from their places in the sky,
clustered upon the old olive-tree, and swung hither and thither like
colored lanterns. The flowers of the hillside all awakened, and they, too,
danced and sang. The angels, coming hither, hung gold and silver and
jewels and precious stones upon the old olive, where swung the stars; so
that the glory of that sight, though I might live forever, I shall never
see again. When Dimas heard and saw these things he fell upon his knees,
and catching the hem of the little Master's garment, he kissed it.
"'Greater joy than this shall be thine, Dimas,' said the little Master;
'but first must all things be fulfilled.'
"All through that Christmas night did the angels come and go with their
sweet anthems; all through that Christmas night did the stars dance and
sing; and when it came my time to steal away, the hillside was still
beautiful with the glory and the music of heaven."
"Well, is that all?" asked the old clock.
"No," said the moonbeam; "but I am nearly done. The years went on.
Sometimes I tossed upon the ocean's bosom, sometimes I scampered o'er a
battle-field, sometimes I lay upon a dead child's face. I heard the voices
of Darkness and mothers' lullabies and sick men's prayers,--and so the
years went on.
"I fell one night upon a hard and furrowed face. It was of ghostly pallor.
A thief was dying on the cross, and this was his wretched face. About the
cross stood men with staves and swords and spears, but none paid heed unto
the thief. Somewhat beyond this cross another was lifted up, and upon it
was stretched a human body my light fell not upon. But I heard a voice
that somewhere I had heard before,--though where I did not know,--and this
voice blessed those that railed and jeered and shamefully entreated. And
suddenly the voice called 'Dimas, Dimas!' and the thief upon whose
hardened face I rested made answer.
"Then I saw that it was Dimas; yet to this wicked criminal there remained
but little of the shepherd child whom I had seen in all his innocence upon
the hillside. Long years of sinful life had seared their marks into his
face; yet now, at the sound of that familiar voice, somewhat of the
old-time boyish look came back, and in the yearning of the anguished eyes
I seemed to see the shepherd's son again.
"'The Master!' cried Dimas, and he stretched forth his neck that he might
see him that spake.
"'O Dimas, how art thou changed!' cried the Master, yet there was in his
voice no tone of rebuke save that which cometh of love.
"Then Dimas wept, and in that hour he forgot his pain. And the Master's
consoling voice and the Master's presence there wrought in the dying
criminal such a new spirit, that when at last his head fell upon his
bosom, and the men about the cross said that he was dead, it seemed as if
I shined not upon a felon's face, but upon the face of the gentle shepherd
lad, the son of Benoni.
"And shining on that dead and peaceful face, I bethought me of the little
Master's words that he had spoken under the old olive-tree upon the
hillside: 'Your eyes behold the promised glory now, O Dimas,' I whispered,
'for with the Master you walk in Paradise.'"
Ah, little Dear-my-Soul, you know--you know whereof the moonbeam spake.
The shepherd's bones are dust, the flocks are scattered, the old
olive-tree is gone, the flowers of the hillside are withered, and none
knoweth where the grave of Dimas is made. But last night, again, there
shined a star over Bethlehem, and the angels descended from the sky to
earth, and the stars sang together in glory. And the bells,--hear them,
little Dear-my-Soul, how sweetly they are ringing,--the bells bear us the
good tidings of great joy this Christmas morning, that our Christ is born,
and that with him he bringeth peace on earth and good-will toward men.
1888.
+THE DIVELL'S CHRISTMASS+
THE DIVELL'S CHRYSTMASS.
It befell that on a time ye Divell did walk to and fro upon ye earth,
having in his mind full evill cogitations how that he might do despight;
for of soche nature is ye Divell, and ever hath been, that continually
doth he go about among men, being so dispositioned that it sufficeth him
not that men sholde of their own frowardness, and by cause of the guile
born in them, turn unto his wickedness, but rather that he sholde by his
crewel artifices and diabolical machinations tempt them at all times and
upon every hand to do his fiendly plaisaunce.
But it so fortuned that this time wherein ye Divell so walked upon ye
earth was ye Chrystmass time; and wit ye well that how evill soever ye
harte of man ben at other seasons, it is tofilled at ye Chrystmass time
with charity and love, like as if it ben sanctified by ye exceeding
holiness of that feast. Leastwise, this moche we know, that, whereas at
other times envy and worldliness do prevail, for a verity our natures are
toched at ye Chrystmass time as by ye hand of divinity, and conditioned
for merciful deeds unto our fellow kind. Right wroth was ye Divell,
therefore, when that he knew this ben ye Chrystmass time. And as rage doth
often confirm in ye human harte an evill purpose, so was ye Divell now
more diabolically minded to work his unclean will, and full hejeously fell
he to roar and lash his ribald legs with his poyson taile. But ye Divell
did presently conceive that naught might he accomplish by this means,
since that men, affrighted by his roaring and astonied by ye fumes of
brimstone and ye sulphur flames issuing from his mouth, wolde flee
therefrom; whereas by subtile craft and by words of specious guile it more
frequently befalls that ye Divell seduceth men and lureth them into his
toils. So then ye Divell did in a little season feign to be in a full
plaisaunt mind and of sweet purpose; and when that he had girt him about
with an hermit's cloak, so that none might see his cloven feet and his
poyson taile, right briskly did he fare him on his journey, and he did
sing ye while a plaisaunt tune, like he had ben full of joyous
contentation.
Now it befell that presently in his journey he did meet with a frere, Dan
Dennyss, an holy man that fared him to a neighboring town for deeds of
charity and godliness. Unto him spake ye Divell full courteysely, and
required of him that he might bear him company; to which ye frere gave
answer in seemly wise, that, if so be that he ben of friendly disposition,
he wolde make him joy of his companionship and conversation. Then, whiles
that they journeyed together, began ye Divell to discourse of theologies
and hidden mysteries, and of conjurations, and of negromancy and of
magick, and of Chaldee, and of astrology, and of chymistry, and of other
occult and forbidden sciences, wherein ye Divell and all that ply his
damnable arts are mightily learned and practised. Now wit ye well that
this frere, being an holy man and a simple, and having an eye single to ye
blessed works of his calling, was presently mightily troubled in his mind
by ye artifices of ye Divell, and his harte began to waver and to be
filled with miserable doubtings; for knowing nothing of ye things whereof
ye Divell spake, he colde not make answer thereto, nor, being of godly
cogitation and practice, had he ye confutations wherewith to meet ye
abhominable argumentations of ye fiend.
Yet (and now shall I tell you of a special Providence) it did fortune,
whiles yet ye Divell discoursed in this profane wise, there was vouchsafed
unto ye frere a certain power to resist ye evill that environed him; for
of a sodaine he did cast his doubtings and his misgivings to ye winds, and
did fall upon ye Divell and did buffet him full sore, crying, "Thou art ye
Divell! Get thee gone!" And ye frere plucked ye cloake from ye Divell and
saw ye cloven feet and ye poyson taile, and straightway ye Divell ran
roaring away. But ye frere fared upon his journey, for that he had had a
successful issue from this grevious temptation, with thanksgiving and
prayse.
Next came ye Divell into a town wherein were many people going to and fro
upon works of charity, and doing righteous practices; and sorely did it
repent ye Divell when that he saw ye people bent upon ye giving of alms
and ye doing of charitable deeds. Therefore with mighty diligence did ye
Divell apply himself to poyson ye minds of ye people, shewing unto them in
artful wise how that by idleness or by righteous dispensation had ye poore
become poore, and that, soche being ye will of God, it was an evill and
rebellious thing against God to seeke to minister consolation unto these
poore peoples. Soche like specious argumentations did ye Divell use to
gain his diabolical ends; but by means of a grace whereof none then knew
ye source, these men and these women unto whom ye Divell spake his hejeous
heresies presently discovered force to withstand these fiendly
temptations, and to continue in their Chrystianly practices, to ye glory
of their faith and to ye benefite of ye needy, but to ye exceeding
discomfiture of ye Divell; for ye which discomfiture I do give hearty
thanks, and so also shall all of you, if so be that your hartes within you
be of rightful disposition.
All that day long fared ye Divell to and fro among ye people of ye town,
but none colde he bring into his hellish way of cogitation. Nor do I count
this to be a marvellous thing; for, as I myself have herein shewn and as
eche of us doth truly know, how can there be a place for ye Divell upon
earth during this Chrystmass time when in ye very air that we breathe
abideth a certain love and concord sent of heaven for the controul and
edification of mankind, filling human hartes with peace and inclining
human hands to ye delectable and blessed employments of charity? Nay, but
you shall know that all this very season whereof I speak ye holy
Chrystchilde himself did follow ye Divell upon earth, forefending the
crewel evills which ye Divell fain wolde do and girding with confidence
and love ye else frail natures of men. Soothly it is known of common
report among you that when ye Chrystmass season comes upon ye earth there
cometh with it also the spirit of our Chryst himself, that in ye
similitude of a little childe descendeth from heaven and walketh among
men. And if so be that by any chance ye Divell is minded to issue from his
foul pit at soche a time, wit ye well that wheresoever ye fiend fareth to
do his diabolical plaisaunce there also close at hand followeth ye gentle
Chrystchilde; so that ye Divell, try how hard soever he may, hath no power
at soche a time over the hartes of men.
Nay, but you shall know furthermore that of soche sweete quality and of so
great efficacy is this heavenly spirit of charity at ye Chrystmass season,
that oftentimes is ye Divell himself made to do a kindly deed. So at this
time of ye which I you tell, ye Divell, walking upon ye earth with evill
purpose, became finally overcome by ye gracious desire to give an alms;
but nony alms had ye Divell to give, sith it is wisely ordained that ye
Divell's offices shall be confined to his domain. Right grievously
tormented therefore was ye Divell, in that he had nought of alms to
bestow; but when presently he did meet with a beggar childe that besought
him charity, ye Divell whipped out a knife and cut off his own taile,
which taile ye Divell gave to ye beggar childe, for he had not else to
give for a lyttle trinket toy to make merry with. Now wit ye well that
this poyson instrument brought no evill to ye beggar childe, for by a
sodaine miracle it ben changed into a flowre of gold, ye which gave great
joy unto ye beggar childe and unto all them that saw this miracle how that
it had ben wrought, but not by ye Divell. Then returned ye Divell unto his
pit of fire; and since that day, whereupon befell this thing of which I
speak, ye Divell hath had nony taile at all, as you that hath seene ye
same shall truly testify.
But all that day long walked ye Chrystchilde upon ye earth, unseen to ye
people but toching their hartes with his swete love and turning their
hands to charity; and all felt that ye Chrystchilde was with them. So it
was plaisaunt to do ye Chrystchilde's will, to succor ye needy, to comfort
ye afflicted, and to lift up ye oppressed. Most plaisauntest of all was it
to make merry with ye lyttle children, sithence of soche is ye kingdom
whence ye Chrystchilde cometh.
Behold, ye season is again at hand; once more ye snows of winter lie upon
all ye earth, and all Chrystantie is arrayed to the holy feast.
Presently shall ye star burn with exceeding brightness in ye east, ye sky
shall be full of swete music, ye angels shall descend to earth with
singing, and ye bells--ye joyous Chrystmass bells--shall tell us of ye
babe that was born in Bethlehem.
Come to us now, O gentle Chrystchilde, and walke among us peoples of ye
earth; enwheel us round about with thy protecting care; forefend all
envious thoughts and evil deeds; toche thou our hearts with the glory of
thy love, and quicken us to practices of peace, good-will, and charity
meet for thy approval and acceptation.
1888.
+THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SEA+
THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SEA
Once upon a time the air, the mountain, and the sea lived undisturbed upon
all the earth. The mountain alone was immovable; he stood always here upon
his rocky foundation, and the sea rippled and foamed at his feet, while
the air danced freely over his head and about his grim face. It came to
pass that both the sea and the air loved the mountain, but the mountain
loved the sea.
"Dance on forever, O air," said the mountain; "dance on and sing your
merry songs. But I love the gentle sea, who in sweet humility crouches at
my feet or playfully dashes her white spray against my brown bosom."
Now the sea was full of joy when she heard these words, and her thousand
voices sang softly with delight. But the air was filled with rage and
jealousy, and she swore a terrible revenge.
"The mountain shall not wed the sea," muttered the envious air. "Enjoy
your triumph while you may, O slumberous sister; I will steal you from
your haughty lover!"
And it came to pass that ever after that the air each day caught up huge
parts of the sea and sent them floating forever through the air in the
shape of clouds. So each day the sea receded from the feet of the
mountain, and her tuneful waves played no more around his majestic base.
"Whither art thou going, my love?" cried the mountain in dismay.
"She is false to thee," laughed the air, mockingly. "She is going to
another love far away."
But the mountain would not believe it. He towered his head aloft and cried
more beseechingly than before: "Oh, whither art thou going, my beloved? I
do not hear thy sweet voice, nor do thy soft white arms compass me about."
Then the sea cried out in an agony of helpless love. But the mountain
heard her not, for the air refused to bring the words she said.
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