The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Russian Grandmother's Wonder Tales, by Louise Seymour Houghton This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Russian Grandmother's Wonder Tales Author: Louise Seymour Houghton Illustrator: W. T. Benda Release Date: March 25, 2014 [EBook #45214] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUSSIAN GRANDMOTHER'S WONDER TALES *** Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Original Front Cover. THE RUSSIAN GRANDMOTHER’S WONDER TALES [Contents] [Contents] The old woman stole out to the tree, crept under the bed, and there hid herself The old woman stole out to the tree, crept under the bed, and there hid herself [Contents] Original Title Page. The Russian Grandmother’s Wonder Tales BY Louise Seymour Houghton ILLUSTRATED BY W. T. BENDA [Contents] CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS NEW YORK Copyright, 1906, by CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS Printed in the United States of America All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons TO THE FIVE GRANDCHILDREN PHILLIPS, SHERRILL, MARGARET, RUSSELL, AND CAROLINE PREFACE The stories which the Russian grandmother told will be found, with many others, in a German collection of “Tales and Legends of South Slavonia,” put forth in Vienna some twenty years ago by Dr. Friedrich Kraus, an ardent student of folk-lore. I have sketched in a slight background of peasant village life as it still exists in some parts of Southern Russia, because this is the proper setting of these stories; and I have been careful to clothe them as nearly as I might in the simple language in which they are told to-day by many a village fireside in South Slavonia. I frankly confess to having received from Mr. Joel Chandler Harris the suggestion which I have thus carried out. It was an unerring literary instinct which impelled him to put upon the lips of Uncle Remus and in the environment of a Southern country home of half a century ago the stories which he had found among the colored people of the South. Folk-tales, of whatever character, speak the more directly home to the hearts of children, whatever their own intellectual environment, in proportion as their setting is most nearly that which naturally belongs to them. Just as the highest value of the Homeric poems is their revelation of the heart of man, showing that in all ages and under all conditions heart answers to heart as face answers to face in water, so the folk-tales of all peoples in their native [Contents] [Contents] [vii] [Contents] [viii] form have a higher function than simply to amuse, a higher than mere literary value; they are the child’s best introduction to the study of human nature. The children will not be the less interested in the stories which the Russian grandmother told to the little peasant boy if they discover in her wonder-tales some analogies with stories that they already know. The adventures of Master Reinecke and Mrs. Petz, of Isegrim and Lampe, will surely remind them of the Uncle Remus tales; they will find some suggestion of Kamer-es-zaman and the Princess Budoor in the story of “The Beg and the Fox,” a hint of the “City of Brass,” in that of “The Vila in Muhlenberg,” a faint reflection of the “Arabian Nights” story of the Fisherman in the tale of the “Three Eels,” and they will be especially pleased to recognize their old friend—and Sindbad the Sailor’s—the roc, in the bird Kumrikusha. The transformations which are so enchanting a feature of the “Arabian Nights” are here suggested in the story of “Steelpacha,” while the dress of feathers, most universal of folk-fancies, found among every people in the world, and most perfectly developed in the Arabian “Story of Hassan of Bassora,” here appears in the tale of “The Golden Apple-tree and the Nine Pea-hens.” That these stories originated in that fountain-head of wonder-tales, the East, is very evident. They give more than a few suggestions of biblical story: the servant sent to announce the readiness of the feast (a courtesy of which I was myself the recipient in Syria last winter), the Delilah-like importunities by which the youngest sister lures from Steelpacha the secret of his strength, are perhaps the most striking instances. Although this preface is not written for the children, yet as there are children who occasionally dip into prefaces, let me call the attention of such to the difference, both in style and point of view, between these stories and those which they have received from the brothers Grimm, from Hans Andersen, and from a host of later writers. All of these drew their material from the same sources as those of the Russian grandmother; but their cultivated minds have worked this material into exquisite literary forms. Not so your own nurses, or even your mothers, who told you wonder-tales before you were old enough to read. Not so the village story-tellers in far-away parts of the world, who, like the Russian grandmother, still hand down to the children the stories they received from parents and grandparents. These sometimes lose the connection; they add little local touches—sweet wine from Zagorjé, going home to Varazdin, and the like—they give to certain incidents the setting with which they are themselves familiar; most artlessly they interweave such results of modern invention and discovery as are familiar to them, with such blank ignorance of physical facts as is shown by bringing in the sun, the moon, the winds, as persons. Many of you know how beautifully George Macdonald did this sort of thing in his story “At the Back of the North Wind,” and you perfectly well perceive the difference between that story and such a tale as, for instance, “So Born, So Die,” in this book. When you are older you will recognize that it is precisely the difference between literature and folk-lore. That many of these wonder-tales passed through Mohammedan minds on their way to the Russian grandmother, or her great-grandmother, is evident. “The Beg and the Fox” is a striking case in point; it almost seems as if the story ought, like the stories of the “Arabian Nights,” to close with the exclamation, “There is no God but God, the High, the Great!” The humor of these stories, however, is unmistakably Slavonic. There is a fine pungency—not Oriental, though Oriental humor is very pungent—in certain of the endings, “I have heard a lie, I have told a lie, and God give you joy!” or after a peculiarly impossible story, “Whoever believes it will be blessed!” The underlying pathos of the story of the Basil-plant suggests the exquisite sentiment of Hans Andersen’s “Steadfast Tin Soldier”; but its excessive simplicity, its dropped threads of thought, forbid the idea that it has been worked over by any more sophisticated mind than that of the Russian grandmother. In this simple-hearted story-teller I have tried to reproduce some lineaments of the peasant mother to whom, he tells us, Dr. Kraus owes his first impulse to folk-lore research. She was one of nine children of a poor pedler, brought up in a village of charcoal burners, deep in a Slavonian forest. She was illiterate, like our Russian grandmother, but like her intelligent and learned in the wonder-lore of her people. Her son pays her a lovely tribute in the preface to the first volume of his collection: She grew up like a flower in the hedge-row, among the simple peasant folk whose manners and spirit she made entirely her own. The villagers, who had a little education, therefore called her, contemptuously, baba vracana (the little old sorceress), but the illiterate peasants lovingly named her nasá baba Eva (our little mother Eve). But for once the villagers were right, my mother is a sorceress; else, how comes it that I so constantly fall under the spell of her enchantments ... I solemnly declare that if there is a true word in metempsychosis, and it is left to our choice to return to the present state of existence, nothing would so sorely tempt me back, no crown, not even that of learning—as the simple assurance of the All-Father that he would give me again the same dear mother, though I were to go begging with her through the world. L. S. H. [ix] [x] [xi] [xii] [xiii] [xiv] New York, September 1, 1906. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The Little Boy and the Grandmother The Wolf as a Roman 1 II. The Mother’s Fête-Day The Sick Lion 12 III. Saturday Afternoon Whiteling’s War with Isegrim 17 IV. The Fire of Shavings The Bear, the Boar, and the Fox 31 V. Frost-Bitten Toes The Man, the Hare, the Fox, and the Bear 37 VI. After Supper Reinecke’s Revenge on Isegrim 49 VII. The Snowy Day The Bird, the Fox, and the Dog The Fox and the Dove 60 VIII. The Election Meeting The Fox and the Hedgehog Master Reinecke and Gockeling, the Cock The Disappointed Bear 70 IX. Cat and Dog Why the Dog Cannot Endure the Cat, nor the Cat the Mouse 82 X. A Pleasant Surprise The Fox and the Badger The Stag and the Hedgehog 88 XI. The Patient Little Boy The Cock and the Hen 97 XII. The Sheep-Play The Beg and the Fox 109 XIII. Getting Ready The Seven Stars 128 XIV. Mother’s-Mother The Vila of Muhlenberg 137 [xv] [Contents] 4 14 19 32 39 49 61 66 73 77 78 [xvi] 84 90 93 97 111 129 143 XV. The Little Boy Homesick A Short Story The Golden Apple-Tree and the Nine Peahens The Wonderful Story The Youth and the Vila 156 XVI. The Little Boy Sleepless The Vila in the Golden Castle 196 XVII. Home Again Prince Hedgehog 203 XVIII. The Betrothal The Deserter 212 XIX. In the Fields The Hunter The Watch-Tower between Earth and Heaven The Bridge 228 XX. Trinity-Monday So Born, So Die The Enchanted Lambs The Knot-Grass 242 XXI. Threshing-Time “The Three Eels” 262 XXII. The Korowai Morning-Dew 273 XXIII. The Wedding “Young Neverfull” The Basil-Plant 283 XXIV. After the Wedding Steelpacha 298 ILLUSTRATIONS The old woman stole out to the tree, crept under the bed, and there hid herself Took his place in the middle of the field, with his mouth wide open Step into this sack, ... and I will carry you around the field A shower of golden ducats fell, and lay upon the plates in three great heaps The third hoop dropped off; the cask fell asunder, and a dragon flew out Then the youth clambered down and took the Vila home Drive the sheep slowly, one by one, to the other side When he beheld the basil-plant he felt an extraordinary love for it 157 158 186 190 197 205 [xvii] 214 231 232 239 245 253 260 264 275 284 288 299 [xix] [Contents] Frontispiece FACING PAGE 10 46 106 172 194 240 288 [1] THE RUSSIAN GRANDMOTHER’S WONDER-TALES CHAPTER I THE LITTLE BOY AND THE GRANDMOTHER The little boy’s father was starosta, that is, Elder of the village, and the house the little boy lived in was grander than any other, on whichever side of the long street you might look. For it had two rooms opening into the court, and all the other houses, even that of the pop, who said Mass in the church on Sunday, had only one. And this grand house was not crowded like the other houses, where the grandparents and the parents and all the married sons and their wives and children lived in the one room. The starosta was not a bolshak, or head of a family, of the old-fashioned sort. He did not consider that he had a right to rule his children like a despot and make them work for him, however old they might be, as many of the fathers in the village did. He even approved of young people setting up housekeeping by themselves. Therefore, though some of the older bolshaks shook their heads and said harm would come of it, when the little boy’s elder brother married he permitted him to have a house of his own. It was at the far end of the village. Thus, in the little boy’s house there were only the grandmother, the father and mother, the three daughters, the half-grown son, and the little boy. They were not at all crowded, you see, for they had two rooms. The cowherd woman and the two moujiks who helped the starosta on the land, slept, of course, in the stalls with the cattle under the shed that went around three sides of the court. In their warm sheepskin coats, made with the wool outside, they would not have been at all cold, even if the cows beside which they slept had not kept them warm. The family always slept warm, too, for father, mother, and all the children slept on the great tile stove which occupied the centre of the larger room, and in this stove the fire never went entirely out. The grandmother did not sleep on this stove, however. The starosta greatly honored his old mother, and to her he gave the second room in the house for herself alone. She had a stove all to herself, and slept on it all alone, except when the little boy ran away from the great room and cuddled down beside his grandmother for the night. She did not tell him stories then, for night is the time for sleeping, and grandmother was tired after a long day in the fields. But on rainy days, when the starosta would not permit his old mother to do field work, grandmother would sit at home and spin, and then for happy times! It was growing cold weather; the harvests were all in, the rains had begun, and grandmother was sitting by the stove, with her distaff and spindle and a basket of wool by her side. In came the little boy, settled himself in a snug place on the stove-top, and said, very coaxingly: “Tell me a story, little grandmamma!” The grandmother ceased the song she had been singing, and answered: “Shall I tell you about the Wolf that wanted to be a Roman?” “Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed the little boy. “Tell me about the wolf!” So the grandmother began. THE WOLF AS A ROMAN Once upon a time, Isegrim, the Wolf, sat in the forest and thought to himself, “Why should I be a wolf and go around devouring the other beasts? It would be much better for me to go out into the world. What if I should go to Rome? Yes, that’s it, I will be a Roman!” Off he set in the best of spirits, and on the way he met a Sow. The Sow bristled up in terror, but Isegrim cried out, “Don’t be frightened, Gruntelind! I am done with Gruntelinds forever. I am going to be a Roman.” [Contents] [2] [3] [4] [Contents] [5] Not long after he met a He-goat. The He-goat was greatly frightened when he saw Isegrim, but the Wolf cried out, “Don’t be frightened, Longbeard! I’m not bothering myself with Longbeards. I am going to be a Roman.” Next he met an old Mare. She was horribly frightened, but he quieted her, saying, “Don’t be frightened, Skinny-bones! I don’t waste my time with old jades like you. I am going to be a Roman.” On went the Wolf for two whole days, when he began to feel a mighty hunger. So he turned back, and presently he came to the pasture where he had met the old Mare. Now was the Mare terrified. She quaked with fear, and well she might, for the Wolf said to her, “Mare, I am going to devour you!” “How dare you say so!” exclaimed the Mare. “You told me you were a Roman.” “Roman here or Roman there,” snarled Isegrim, “I am going to gnaw your bones.” “Very well,” returned the Mare; “if there is no help for it, come again by and by, when I am plumper and juicier.” So the Wolf went on his way. Presently he met the He-goat. “Ho, Longbeard,” cried he, “your time has come!” “I dare you to touch me!” replied the He-goat. “You are not a Wolf; you are a Roman.” “Roman here or Roman there,” retorted the Wolf, “I shall dine on you to-day.” “What must be, must,” replied the He-goat; “but since you are bound to eat me, just grant me life till the woods are green again.” The Wolf was beguiled, and on he went till he met the Sow. “Listen to me, Gruntelind,” said he; “I am going to make short work with you now.” “You daren’t do it,” replied the Sow. “You are no Wolf; you are a noble Roman.” “Roman here or Roman there,” said the Wolf, “I am bound to eat you.” “Very well,” replied the Sow; “since you insist, come another day, when I am fatter.” The Wolf consented, and away he went to look for that Mare again. “Listen now, Skinny-bones,” said he; “you are to die on the spot.” “If your mind is really made up,” replied the Mare, “I have nothing to say; but first look at my left hind hoof, for my master had me shod the other day, and the smith marked my age upon the horseshoe. Read how old I am, and then you will be able to boast what an old Mare you have eaten.” The Wolf thought this a fine plan, and he drew near. Then the Mare raised her hoof and dealt Isegrim so smart a blow on the head that he ran off with a cracked crown, as fast as his heels could carry him. On the way he met the Sow. “See here, Gruntelind,” he said to her, “there is no escape this time.” “Very well,” replied the Sow; “since there is no help for it, just lead me around by the ear until I say good-by to all my kith and kin.” Isegrim seized her by the ear, when she set up so shrill and piteous a squealing that the Swine all rushed to the spot from far and near, and falling upon Cousin Isegrim they almost tore him in pieces. Mangled and bleeding, he made his escape, and meeting the He-goat, he said, “Your time has come.” “If that is the case,” replied the He-goat, “just stand in the middle of the field, with your mouth wide open, and my brothers and I will jump down your throat, one after the other. Then you won’t be hungry again for many a long day.” This plan greatly pleased Isegrim, and he took his place in the middle of the field, with his mouth wide open. Then all the He-goats ran against him, butting at him, before and behind, till he could neither hear nor see, and it was all he could do to escape to the nearest wood. There he spied a Cock, and said to him, “Now, see here, Gockeling, I am not to be fooled by you, at any rate.” The Cock replied, “Just look at me once, how thin I am and what big feathers I have. Why should you bother to pluck me? It would save you a world of trouble if I got up into this tree and just flew down your throat.” [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] Isegrim thought this a fine idea. So Gockeling flew up into the tree. He hopped from branch to branch until he was in perfect safety, and then crowed loud and lustily to proclaim his escape. At this the Wolf sank into deep thought. “My father lived comfortably,” he said to himself, “and was never a Roman; neither should I have been one—it has served me right. My father was no expert in Mares’ paces, yet he lived in peace and happiness; neither should I have been one—it has served me right. My father was no Swine musician, but he lived well for all that; neither should I have been one —it has served me right. My father never measured a field with He-goats, but he grew gray honorably for all that; only one thing rankles—that this scoundrel up in the tree crows over me so. It would be none too good for me if some one should jump from behind the tree and knock me over the head.” Took his place in the middle of the field, with his mouth wide open Took his place in the middle of the field, with his mouth wide open As luck would have it, a moujik was standing behind the tree, and he fetched the Wolf a blow on the head with his axe. Then Isegrim cried out with his last breath, “Well, I vow, on this blessed day one can’t even talk to himself without being made sorry for it!” The little boy was thoughtful for a few minutes. “Did you know that Wolf, little grandma?” he asked at length. “No, not I,” replied the grandmother; “it was my great-great-grandmother who knew him.” CHAPTER II [11] [12] [Contents] THE MOTHER’S FÊTE-DAY It was the fête-day of the little boy’s mother, and she was dressed in the beautiful clothes that had been her mother’s and her grandmother’s festival clothes. Her gown, which she called her sarafam, was of a lovely light-blue stuff, and on her head she wore a diadem of gold, all studded with little pearls. Many of the village people came to kiss the baboushka’s hand and to bring her gifts, so that the house was quite crowded with people drinking coffee and talking loudly. When the baboushka went to church to offer thanks she put on her long fur-trimmed chougaii (we should call it a coat), and over that a thick, wadded duchegreika, or hug-me-tight. It was a cold day, and she was not too warmly clothed, but if her fête-day had come in the heat of summer she would have worn these things just the same. The little boy went to church with his mother, and when they came back he was very hungry. But the feast-table was not yet spread, for the starosta and the older children were still in the fields pulling stubble. The grandmother was not in the fields, for the day was too cold, so the little boy went into her room. She had on her festival clothes in honor of the feast, but she was spinning as usual and humming a little song. “I’m so hungry, grandmother,” said the little boy. “Would you spoil the feast by eating now?” asked the grandmother. “The best way is to forget all about being hungry till the feast begins.” “How can I forget?” asked the little boy. “My mouth cries ‘food!’” “If little grandmother puts a story in your ears will your mouth cease crying?” asked the grandmother. “Oh, yes, yes!” cried the little boy. So grandmother told the story of THE SICK LION Once upon a time a Lion lay sick in his den. Master Petz, the Bear, called to pay his respects; whereupon the Lion thus spoke: “Dear Bruin, tell me the honest truth—is it, or is it not very close in this den?” “Yes, indeed!” replied Petz, “it does smell horribly here.” Upon this the Lion flew into a rage and tore the Bear into a thousand pieces. Lampe, the Hare, was standing near the door of the den, and observed this mishap. Tremblingly he approached the Lion, who asked him, “Tell me, dear Lampe, is it not close in my den?” “Oh, dear, no!” replied the Hare; “why should it be close? On the contrary, the air seems to me delightfully fresh.” “You lie!” retorted the Lion, in high dudgeon; “it is not delightfully fresh; on the contrary, it is disgustingly close,” and he tore the Hare limb from limb. Isegrim, the Wolf, saw and heard all this, for he was standing near the door of the den. He stepped in, and bowed low before the Lion, who immediately put the same question to him, “See here, Isegrim, tell me truly and honestly, is it close in my den or not?” “Neither, sire!” replied the obsequious Wolf. “Oh, you good-for-nothing liar!” roared the Lion, “it must be either one or the other; either it is close or it is not,” and he seized him and tore him to pieces. Reinecke, the Fox, was looking in from outside, and now he drew near to pay his respects. So the Lion asked him, “See here, Master Reinecke, do you tell me now, is it close in my den or not?” “Pardon me, august monarch,” replied Reinecke very humbly, “but by all I hold blessed I am not able to tell you, for I have taken such a cold that, upon honor, I cannot smell. But I do hate a lie from the bottom of my heart.” [13] [14] [Contents] [15] [16] And the Lion spared Reinecke’s life because he had such a clever wit. “Will the Báby and the little boy graciously come to supper?” asked the cow-herd woman, opening the door. “The gracious baboushka’s feast is ready.” So the little boy and his grandmother, whom they call the Báby in Russia, gayly went in to the feast. CHAPTER III SATURDAY AFTERNOON It was Saturday afternoon, and the little boy had been with his mother to the village vapor-bath. After that he had been dressed in his Sunday clothes. His white shirt, which he called his roubachka, hung outside of his best portki, or loose, colored trousers. His legs were wound round with many bands of colored cloth, called onontchi, and on his feet he wore bachmaki, or shoes. When he grew to be a man he would wear very high, large-topped sapoghi, with his trousers tucked into them, like his father, and then he would not need onontchi on his legs. But he was only a little boy yet. The popod’ya had come to call on his mother. She was the priest’s wife, and was very old, and the little boy did not care for what she and his mother were talking about. So he stole away into his grandmother’s room. The grandmother was kneeling before the ikon, the sacred picture of the Virgin and Child, which hung on the wall with a tiny lamp lighted before it. The little boy would not disturb his grandmother while she was saying her Saturday evening prayer, but he hoped she would not be long. Perhaps she was almost through, for presently she rose from her knees, lifting herself by her stick. The little boy ran to help her, and led her to the stove. She sat down upon it, for her knees were cold from the clay floor, and the little boy climbed up beside her. “Now the work is all done, little grandma,” he said, putting his hands on either side of her face, “and you can tell me a long story, can’t you?” “Hum, hum!” said the grandmother, pretending to look cross. “Why should I tell you a long story?” “Oh, because I have my Sunday clothes on, and must not play in the dirt!” replied the little boy. “Don’t you know a long story, grandma?” “Would you like to hear about “WHITELING’S WAR WITH ISEGRIM?” asked the Báby. “Yes, indeed, that I should!” cried the little boy. So the grandmother began: Once upon a time there was a moujik who had a perfectly white Dog, which he called Whiteling. Now Whiteling had struck up a great friendship with Isegrim, the Wolf, and one day each made a solemn compact never to betray the other in any of their stealings. Not long after, Isegrim said to Whiteling one day, “I intend to make a call upon your master’s swine to-night; so do you keep no watch, but just lie as still as possible, and don’t wake up the whole family with your barking, as you usually do, for you know that they will move heaven and earth to capture me.” “Kill all the swine, if you like,” replied Whiteling; “I won’t betray you.” “A word is enough, brother; I shall be there,” said Isegrim; and so the friends parted. Punctually at nightfall Isegrim appeared and greeted Whiteling heartily, saying, “I gave you my word, [17] [Contents] [18] [19] [Contents] [20] and as you see, here I am.” “Get to work, then,” replied Whiteling; “you have nothing to fear from me.” Isegrim crept cautiously to the swine-pen. He had all the work in the world to get in, and once in, he had hardly begun his meal when the swine broke out in fearful squealings and gruntings. Whiteling, at the house-door, no sooner heard the noise than he began to bark and whine with all his might, waking all the family with his noise. “What makes our Whiteling howl so?” they said. “We must go out and see what the trouble is.” So all the family went out, and hearing the squealing of the swine, they hastened to the pigpen. Peeping in, they saw the Wolf and set upon him with clubs and fists, belaboring him so soundly that he barely escaped with a whole skin. Waiting till the family had returned to bed, Isegrim crept back, and seizing Whiteling by the throat, “Aha!” he cried, “I have caught you now. You pledged me your word not to bark, and you broke your promise. No, I’ll never forgive you. Just look at me once, what a plight I’m in.” Whiteling began to beg. “Ah, let me go, let me go, dear, sweet brother Isegrim; forgive me just this once; I’ll never do it again; come again and steal whenever you like; you may be perfectly sure of me!” “Will you ever play me another such trick?” asked Isegrim. “Never, never again!” said Whiteling. “Very well, then,” said the Wolf, “you may go free this once; but next time, remember, hold your tongue!” A few days later Isegrim paid the swine a second visit, but he had hardly crept into the pen when Whiteling set up a howl so loud and clear that all the household sprang out of bed to see what was the matter. A second time they found the Wolf, fell upon him, and beat him half-dead. The unlucky visitor barely escaped with his life, and full of wrath, he hid behind the hedge and waited till the household were asleep. Then, seeing Whiteling before the house-door, he cried to him, “Just wait once, Whiteling; your last half-hour strikes when you fall into my clutches! If you weren’t just where you are, safe at the house-door, I’d soon pay you off; but my time will come before long.” Again Whiteling began to beg. “Dearest Isegrim, it is indeed true that I have brought you into a terrible pickle, but don’t kill me; let me go this time. I’ll never do it again.” But the Wolf replied, “Neither now nor ever; you cheated me out of that meal of swine’s flesh, and three days from now you must meet me in battle. I will summon my forces, and do you summon yours —that is, if you can muster any. If you don’t show up, I’ll soon know where to find you, and I’ll drag you there myself!” “All right,” returned Whiteling, “come what may, I’ll be there without fail.” So Isegrim hastened away to get his troops together, and meeting the Wild Boar he said to him, “Will you be on my side? There is going to be war between me and Whiteling three days from now.” “Oh,” replied the Wild Boar, “indeed I will be on your side!” A little farther Isegrim met Master Petz, the Bear, told him the whole matter, and begged him to be on his side. Petz most cheerfully promised his help. Later, he met Reinecke, the Fox, and told him the whole story. Reinecke assured him that he might certainly count upon his help—how could he ever hesitate to stand by his old crony against the common enemy? Then said Isegrim, “Now we are quite enough; but I must spy out Whiteling and learn what forces he has. Then I will let you know that we are all ready for war.” Isegrim betook himself to Whiteling’s house, and standing in the lane looked over the hedge. “Are you ready, Whiteling?” he asked. “To-morrow is the day.” “I shall be ready,” replied Whiteling in a tone of deepest dejection; “but tell me precisely, where is the battle to be?” “You know very well,” replied Isegrim; “yonder, under the tree we agreed upon.” “Very well,” said the Dog, and slunk sorrowfully away to the other side of the farm-yard. There the [21] [22] [23] [24] [25] Tomcat met him and said, “Why, my dear Whiteling, what can be the matter, what makes you so sad?” And Whiteling answered, “My dear Grimalkin, you don’t know where the shoe pinches. Will you come to my aid?” “Why, what are you talking about?” asked the surprised Cat. “Just think of it,” replied the Dog, “to-morrow I have to fight Isegrim; we have declared war to the knife.” “Oh, oh, my Whiteling, cheer up! I’ll stand by you to the death. Just you go to friend Quacker, the Drake, and engage his help.” With a lighter heart Whiteling sought friend Quacker and begged his friendly aid. “To be sure, to be sure; I am your comrade. Why should I leave a friend in the lurch? Go to friend Ganner, the Gander, and ask him if he feels like having a part in the war.” So said and so done. Whiteling found the Gander, explained the affair and begged for his help. “Of course, why should I not be ready to help? Aren’t you our guard every night to keep Reinecke from making off with us?” “Now,” said Whiteling, “I think we are strong enough.” Early next morning Isegrim met his allies upon the battle-field under the appointed tree. He hid the Wild Boar beneath a thick bed of moss which grew upon the ground, and bade Reinecke climb into the tree, saying, “You must be our sentinel, Master. Keep watch when Whiteling appears with his troop, and give us secret intelligence. You, too, Petz, must scramble up the tree, but I will crouch down in ambush behind the trunk.” Meanwhile Whiteling was also disposing his forces. “Grimalkin and Ganner, you are the infantry. I see that your weapon is ready, Grimalkin” (for Grimalkin held his tail upright, by way of musket); “and you, Ganner, must hiss your very best. Quacker, you shall be the drummer. I reserve to myself the command. March according to orders, and fall to when I give the word.” So Whiteling and his comrades went gayly to the battle—Whiteling and his drummer in front, Grimalkin and Ganner bringing up the rear. Quacker drummed his prettiest—“Quack-quack, quack- quack, quack-quack!” The Gander hissed and the Tomcat strutted along in dignified silence, carrying his tail straight upright like a musket. When Reinecke perceived the approaching company he cried to Isegrim, “Cousin, cousin, here come two soldiers with a drummer and a captain!” “What’s that you say?” asked Isegrim in dismay. “I say, here come two soldiers with a drummer and a captain,” replied Reinecke. “The soldier is loading his gun, he takes aim, he is about to fire——” “Alas! woe be to us poor fellows,” moaned the Wild Boar from under the moss. “It’s all over with us! We fight with unequal forces!” “Courage, courage, fellows,” cried Isegrim, trying to rally his troops; “just bear yourselves bravely; all is not lost; we’ll make short work of them yet!” In the midst of all this confusion Whiteling and his troops reached the spot unperceived. Grimalkin, catching a glimpse of the Wild Boar’s ear sticking out of the moss, took it for a mouse, and springing upon it, bit into it with his sharp teeth. The Wild Boar sprang up in terror and took wildly to flight, while Grimalkin, no less terrified, scrambled frantically up the tree into the very face of Master Petz. The Bear, not prepared for this unexpected encounter, lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, half-killing himself by the fall. More frightened than ever, the Tomcat scrambled blindly up to the tree- top. “Now, it’s my turn,” thought Reinecke to himself, and immediately tumbled down in affright. Grimalkin tumbled after, while the Drake kept drumming, “Quack-quack, quack-quack, quack- quack,” and Ganner hissed with all his might. Thus was Isegrim’s host ignominiously routed. The Wolf himself, however, still cowered behind the tree, his head buried in the moss. When the besiegers had withdrawn, Isegrim’s scattered forces drew together and began to count their honorable scars. Said Master Petz, “More dead than alive from my heavy fall, I barely managed to make my escape.” [26] [27] [28] [29] [30]