LITTLE KAREN AND HER BABY.
THE cottage in which little Karen lived stood high up on the hillside,close to the edge of a great forest. It was a strange, lonely place fora young wife, almost a girl, to be so happy in; but Karen was not afraidof the forest, and never thought her home lonely, not even when thestrong winds blew in winter-time, and brought the far-off baying ofwolves from the mountains beyond. Her husband, her boy, her housewifelycares, her spinning-wheel, and her needle kept her busy all day long,and she was as cheerful as busy. The cottage was not large, but it wasstrongly built of heavy beams and stones. Its low walls seemed to hugand clasp the ground, as if for protection in time of storm. Thecasement windows, with their very small panes of thick glass, let inlittle sun, but all summer long they stood open, and in winter, whatwith the crackling fire, the hum of the wheel, and Karen's bright face,the living-room never looked dark, and, for all its plainness, had anair of quaint comfort about it. Fritz, Karen's husband, who was skilfulwith tools, had ornamented the high-backed chair, the press for clothes,and the baby's oaken cradle, with beautiful carving, of which littleKaren was exceedingly proud. She loved her cottage, she loved the greatwood close by; her lonely life was delightful to her, and she had notthe least wish to exchange it for the toy-like village in the valleybelow.
But Karen was unlike other people, the neighbors said, and the oldgossips were wont to shake their heads, and mutter that there was areason for this unlikeness, and that all good Christians ought to pityand pray for the poor child.
Long, long ago, said these gossips,--so long that nobody now couldremember exactly when it was,--Karen's great-great-great-grandfather,(or perhaps _his_ grandfather--who could tell?) when hunting in the highmountains, met a beautiful, tiny maiden, so small and light that a mancould easily carry her in the palm of one hand. This maiden he fell inlove with, and he won her to be his wife. She made a good wife; kept thehouse as bright as new tin; and on her wheel spun linen thread so finethat mortal eye could hardly see it. But a year and a day from the timeof her marriage she went out to walk in the wood, and never came backany more! The reason of this was, that she was a gnomide,--daughter ofone of the forest gnomes,--and when her own people encountered her thusalone, they detained her, and would not suffer her to return to herhusband. The baby she left in the cradle grew to be a woman,--biggerthan her gnome mother, it is true, but still very small; and all thewomen of the race have been small since that time. Witness little Karenherself, whose head only came up to the shoulder of her tall Fritz. Thenher passion for woods and solitary places, her beautiful swift spinning,her hair, of that peculiar pale white-brown shade,--all these wereproofs of the drops of unearthly blood which ran in her veins. Gnomesalways had white hair. This was because they lived in holes and darkplaces. Even a potato would throw out white leaves if kept in acellar,--everybody knew that,--and the gossips, ending thus, would shaketheir heads again, and look very wise.
Karen had heard these stories, and laughed at them. No fairy or gnomehad ever met her eyes in the woods she loved so well; and as for hair,Rosel Pilaff's, and Gretchen Erl's too, was almost as pale as hers. Fairhair is common enough in the German mountains. Her little boy--blesshim!--had downy rings which promised to become auburn in time, thecolor of his father's beard. She did not believe in the gnome story abit.
But there came a time when she almost wished to believe it, for thegnomes are said to be wise folk, and little Fritz fell ill of a strangedisease, which neither motherly wisdom nor motherly nursing was able toreach. Each day left him thinner and weaker, till he seemed no more thanhalf his former size. His very face looked strange as it lay on thecradle-pillow, and Karen was at her wits' end to know what to do.
"I will go to the village and ask Mother Klaus to come and see thechild," said Fritz. "She may know of a remedy."
"It will be of no use," declared Karen, sadly. "She went to the Berards'and the baby died, and to Heinrich's and little Marie died. But go, go,Fritz!--only come back soon, lest our angel take flight while you areaway!"
She almost pushed him from the door, in her impatience to have himreturn.
A while after, when the baby had wailed himself to sleep, she went againto the door to look down the path into the valley. It was too soon tohope for Fritz, but the movement seemed a relief to her restlessness. Itwas dusk, not dark,--a sweet, mild dusk, with light enough left to showthe tree-branches as they met and waved against the dim yellow sky. Deepshadows lay on the moss-beds and autumn flowers which grew beneath; onlya faint perfume here and there told of their presence, and the night wasvery near.
Too unhappy to mind the duskiness, Karen wandered a little way up thewood-path, and sat down on the root of an old oak, so old that therangers had given it the name of "Herr Grandfather." It was only toclear her brimming eyes that she sat down. She wiped them with herkerchief, and, with one low sob, was about to rise, when she becameaware that somebody was standing at her side.
This somebody was a tiny old woman, with a pale, shadowy, but sweetface, framed in flossy white hair. She wore a dark, foreign-lookingrobe; a pointed hood, edged with fur, was pulled over her head; and thehand which she held out as she spoke was as white as the stalk ofcelery.
"What is the matter, my child?" she asked, in a thin, rustling voice,which yet sounded pleasantly, because it was kind.
"My baby is _so_ ill," replied Karen, weeping.
"How ill?" inquired the old woman, anxiously. "Is it cold? Is it fever?Do its eyes water? My baby once had a cold, and her eyes--" She stoppedabruptly.
"His eyes do not water," said Karen, who felt singularly at home withthe stranger. "But his head is hot, and his hands; he sleeps ill, andfor these ten days has hardly eaten. He grows thinner and whiter everyhour, and wails whenever he is awake. Oh, what am I doing? I must goback to him." And, as she spoke, she jumped from her seat.
"One minute!" entreated the little old woman. "Has he pain anywhere?"
"He cries when I move his head," said Karen, hurrying on.
The stranger went too, keeping close beside her in a swift, soundlessway.
"Take courage, Liebchen, child to her who was child of my child'schild," she said. "Weep not, my darling. I will send you help. Out ofthe wisdom of the earth shall come aid for the little dear one."
"What _do_ you mean?" cried Karen, stopping short in her surprise.
But the old woman did not answer. She had vanished. Had the wind blownher away?
"How could I wander so far? How could I leave my baby? Wicked motherthat I am!" exclaimed Karen, in sudden terror, as she ran into thecottage.
But nothing seemed disturbed, and no one had been there. The baby layquietly in his cradle, and the room was quite still, save for the hissof the boiling pot and the fall of an ember on the hearth. Gradually herheart ceased its terrified beating; a sense of warmth and calm creptover her, her eyes drooped, and, seated at the cradle-foot, she fellasleep in her chair.
Whether it was an hour or a minute that she slept, she never knew.Slowly and dimly her waking senses crept back to her; but though sheheard and saw and understood, she could neither stir nor speak. Twoforms were bending over the cradle, forms of little men, venerable andshadowy, with hair like snow, and blanched, pale hands, like her visitorof the afternoon. They did not look at Karen, but consulted togetherabove the sleeping child.
"It is _here_, brother, and _here_," said one, laying his finger gentlyon the baby's head and heart.
"Does it lie too deep for our reaching?" asked the second, anxiously.
"No. The little herb you know of is powerful."
"And the crystal dust _you_ know of is more powerful still."
Then they took out two minute caskets, and Karen saw them open thebaby's lips, and each drop in a pinch of some unknown substance.
"He is of ours," whispered one, "more of ours than any of them have beensince the first."
"He has the gift of the far sight," said the other, lightly touching theclosed eyes, "the divining glance, and the
lucky finger."
"I read in him the apprehension of metals," said the second old man,"the sense of hidden treasures, the desire to penetrate."
"We will teach him how the waters run, and what the birds say--yes, andthe way in and the way out!"
"Put the charm round his neck, brother."
Then Karen saw the little men tie a bright object round the baby's neck.She longed to move, but still she sat mute and powerless, while the oddfigures passed round the cradle, slowly at first, then faster andfaster, crooning, as they went, a song which was like wind in branches,and of which this scrap lodged in her memory:--
"Eyes to pierce the darkness through, Wit to grasp the hidden clew, Heart to feel and hand to do,-- These the gnomes have given to you."
So the song and the circling movement went on, faster and more fast, andround and round, till Karen's head swam and her senses seemed to spin ina whirling dance; and she knew no more till roused by the opening of thedoor, and Fritz's voice exclaiming: "Come in, Dame Klaus--come in!Karen! Where are you, wife? Ah, here she is, fast asleep, and the littleman is asleep too."
"I am not asleep," said Karen, finding her voice with an effort. Then,to her husband's surprise, she began to weep bitterly. But, for all hisurgings, she would not tell the cause, for she was afraid of DameKlaus's tongue.
The dame shook her head over the sick baby. He was very bad, she said;still, she had brought through others as bad as he, and there was notelling. She asked for a saucepan, and began to brew a tea of herbs,while Karen, drawing her husband aside, told her wonderful tale in awhisper.
"Thou wert dreaming, Karen; it is nothing but a dream," declared theastounded Fritz.
"No, no," protested Karen. "It was not a dream. Baby will be well again,and great things are to happen! You will see! The little men know!"
"Little men! Oh, Karen! Karen!" exclaimed Fritz.
But he said no more, for Karen, bending over the cradle, lifted thestrange silver coin which was tied round the baby's neck, and held it upto him with a smile. A silver piece is not a dream, as every one knows;so Fritz, though incredulous, held his tongue, and neither he nor Karensaid a word of the matter to Mother Klaus.
Baby _was_ better next day. It was all the herb-tea, Mother Klausdeclared, and she gained great credit for the cure.
This happened years ago. Little Fritz grew to be a fine man, sound andhearty, though never as tall as his father. He was a lucky lad too, thevillagers said, for his early taste for minerals caught the attention ofa rich gentleman, who sent him to the school of mines, where he gotgreat learning. Often when the mother sat alone at her wheel, a smilecame to her lips, and she hummed low to herself the song of the littleold men:--
"Eyes to pierce the darkness through, Wit to grasp the hidden clew, Heart to feel and hand to do,-- These the gnomes have given to you."