The Fairy Mythology Illustrative of the Romance and...

Quick, daughter, quick! spin off what's on your rock. 'Tis Saturday night, and with the week you know Our work must end; we shall the more enjoy To-morrow's rest when all's done out of hand.[305] Quick, daughter, quick! spin off what's on your rock.

True, mother, but every minute sleep Falls on my eyes as heavy as lead, and I Must yawn do what I will; and then God knows I can't help nodding though 'twere for my life; Or ... oh! it might be of some use if you Would once more, dearest mother, tell about The wonderful, good-natured little Dwarfs, What they here round the country used to do, And how they showed their kindness to the hinds.

See now! what industry!—your work itself Should keep you waking. I have told you o'er A thousand times the stories, and we lose, If you grow wearied of them, store of joy Reserved for winter-nights; besides, methinks, The evening's now too short for chat like this.

There's only one thing I desire to hear Again, and sure, dear mother, never yet Have you explained how 'twas the little men Lived in the hills, and how, all through the year, They sported round the country here, and gave Marks of their kindness. For you'll ne'er persuade Me to believe that barely, one by one, They wandered in the valleys, and appeared Unto the people, and bestowed their gifts: So, come now, tell at once, how 'twas the Dwarfs Lived all together in society.

'Tis plain, however, of itself, and well Wise folks can see, that such an active race Would never with their hands before them sit. Ah! a right merry lively thing, and full Of roguish tricks, the little Hill-man is, And quickly too he gets into a rage, If you behave not toward him mannerly, And be not frank and delicate in your acts. But, above all things, they delight to dwell, Quiet and peaceful, in the secret clefts Of hills and mountains, evermore concealed. All through the winter, when with icy rind The frost doth cover o'er the earth, the wise And prudent little people keep them warm By their fine fires, many a fathom down Within the inmost rocks. Pure native gold, And the rock-crystals shaped like towers, clear, Transparent, gleam with colours thousandfold Through the fair palace, and the Little-folk, So happy and so gay, amuse themselves Sometimes with singing—Oh, so sweet! 'twould charm The heart of any one who heard it sound. Sometimes with dancing, when they jump and spring Like the young skipping kids in the Alp-grass. Then when the spring is come, and in the fields The flowers are blooming, with sweet May's approach, They bolts and bars take from their doors and gates,

That early ere the hind or hunter stirs, In the cool morning, they may sport and play; Or ramble in the evening, when the moon Lights up the plains. Seldom hath mortal man Beheld them with his eyes; but should one chance To see them, it betokens suffering And a bad year, if bent in woe they glide Through woods and thickets; but the sight proclaims Joy and good luck, when social, in a ring, On the green meads and fields, their hair adorned With flowers, they shout and whirl their merry rounds. Abundance then they joyously announce For barn, for cellar, and for granary, And a blest year to men, to herds, and game. Thus they do constantly foreshow what will Befall to-morrow and hereafter; now Sighing, and still, by their lamenting tones, A furious tempest; and again, with sweet And smiling lips, and shouting, clear bright skies.[306] Chief to the poor and good, they love to show Kindness and favour, often bringing home At night the straying lambs, and oftener still In springtime nicely spreading, in the wood, Brushwood, in noble bundles, in the way Of needy children gone to fetch home fuel. Many a good little girl, who well obeyed Her mother,—or, mayhap, a little boy,— Has, with

surprise, found lying on the hills Bright dazzling bowls of milk, and baskets too, Nice little baskets, full of berries, left By the kind hands of the wood-roaming Dwarfs. Now be attentive while I tell you one Out of a hundred and a hundred stories; 'Tis one, however, that concerns us more Than all the rest, because it was my own Great-great-grandfather that the thing befell, In the old time, in years long since agone. Where from the lofty rocks the boundary runs Down to the vale, Barthel, of herdsmen first In all the country round, was ploughing up A spacious field, where he designed to try The seed of corn; but with anxiety His heart was filled, lest by any chance His venture should miscarry, for his sheep In the contagion he had lost, now poor And without skill, he ventures on the plough. Deliberate and still, at the plough-tail, In furrows he cuts up the grassy soil, While with the goad his little boy drives on The panting ox. When, lo! along the tall Rocky hill-side, a smoke ascends in clouds Like snow-flakes, soaring from the summit up Into the sky. At this the hungry boy Began to think of food, for the poor child Had tasted nothing all the live-long day For lunch, and,

looking up, he thus began: "Ah! there the little Dwarf-folk are so gay At their grand cooking, roasting, boiling now, For a fine banquet, while with hunger I Am dying. Had we here one little dish Of the nice savoury food, were it but as A sign that there's a blessing on our work!" 'Twas thus the boy spake, and his father ploughed Silently on, bent forwards o'er his work. They turn the plough; when huzza! lo! behold A miracle! there gleamed right from the midst Of the dark furrow, toward them, a bright Lustre, and there so charming! lay a plate Heaped up with roast meat; by the plate, a loaf Of bread upon the outspread table-cloth, At the disposal of the honest pair. Hurra! long live the friendly, generous Dwarfs! Barthel had now enough—so had the boy— And laughing gratefully and loud, they praise And thank the givers; then, with strength restored, They quick return unto their idle plough. But when again their day's task they resume, To break more of the field, encouraged now To hope for a good crop, since the kind Dwarfs Had given them the sign of luck they asked— Hush! bread and plate, and crums, and knife and fork, Were vanished clean; only—just for a sign For ever of the

O mother! mother! what? the glittering plate And real? and the cloth with their own hands Spun by the generous Dwarfs? No, I can ne'er Believe it!—Was the thread then, real drawn And twisted thread, set in it evenly? And was there too a flower, a pretty figure, Nicely wrought in with warp and crossing woof? Did there a handsome border go all round. Enclosing all the figures?—Sure your great- Great-grandfather, if really he was The owner of the curious little cloth, He would have left it carefully unto His son and grandson for a legacy, That, for a lasting witness of the meal Given by the Dwarfs, it might to distant years, The praise and wonder of our vale remain.

Odds me! how wise the child is! what a loss And pity 'tis that in old times the folk Were not so thoughtful and so over-knowing! Ah! our poor simple fathers should rise up Out of their graves, and come to get advice And comfort from the brooders that are now,— As if they knew not what was right and fit! Have but a little patience, girl, and spin What's on your rock; to-morrow when 'tis day I'll let you see the Dwarfs' flowered table-cloth, Which, in the chest laid safe, inherited From mother down to daughter, I have long Kept treasured under lock and key, for fear Some little girl, like some one that you know, Might out of curiosity, and not Acquainted with its worth, set it astray.

Ah, that is kind, dear mother; and see now How broad awake I am, and how so smart I'm finishing my work since you relate These pretty tales; but I will call you up Out of your bed to-morrow in the morning So early! Oh, I wish now it were day Already, for I'm sure I shall not get One wink of sleep for thinking of the cloth.[307]