The winter's sun was nearing the horizon's edge.
Each moment the tree shadows grew longer in the
forest; each moment the crimson light on the upper
boughs became more red and bright. It was Christmas
Eve, or would be in half an hour, when the sun
should be fairly set; but it did not feel like
Christmas, for the afternoon was mild and sweet, and
the wind in the leafless boughs sang, as it moved
about, as though to imitate the vanished birds. Soft
trills and whistles, odd little shakes and
twitters--it was astonishing what pretty noises the
wind made, for it was in good humor, as winds should
be on the Blessed Night; all its storm-tones and
bass-notes were for the moment laid aside, and
gently
as though hushing a baby to sleep, it cooed and
rustled and brushed to and fro in the leafless
woods.
Toinette stood, pitcher in hand, beside the well.
"Wishing Well," the people called it, for they
believed that if any one standing there
bowed to the East, repeated a certain rhyme and
wished a wish, the wish would certainly come true.
Unluckily, nobody knew exactly what the rhyme should
be. Toinette did not; she was wishing that she did,
as she stood with her eyes fixed on the bubbling
water. How nice it would be! she thought. What
beautiful things should be hers, if it were only to
wish and to have. She would be beautiful, rich,
good--oh, so good. The children should love her
dearly, and never be disagreeable. Mother should not
work so hard--they should all go back to
France--which mother said was si belle. Oh, dear,
how nice it would be. Meantime, the sun sank lower,
and mother at home was waiting for the water, but
Toinette forgot that.
Suddenly she started. A low sound of crying met her
ear, and something like a tiny moan. It seemed close
by but she saw nothing.
Hastily she filled her pitcher and turned to go. But
again the sound
came, an unmistakable sob, right under her feet.
Toinette stopped short.
"What is the matter?" she called out bravely. "Is
anybody there? and if there is, why don't I see
you?"
A third sob--and all at once, down on the ground
beside her, a tiny
figure became visible, so small that Toinette had to
kneel and stoop her head to see it plainly. The
figure was that of an odd little man. He wore a garb
of green bright and glancing as the scales of a
beetle. In his mite of a hand was a cap, out of
which stuck a long pointed feather. Two specks of
tears stood on his cheeks and he fixed on Toinette a
glance so sharp and so sad that it made her feel
sorry and frightened and confused all at once.
"Why how funny this is!" she said, speaking to
herself out loud.
"Not at all," replied the little man, in a voice as
dry and crisp as
the chirr of a grasshopper. "Anything but funny. I
wish you wouldn't
use such words. It hurts my feelings, Toinette."
"Do you know my name, then?" cried Toinette,
astonished. "That's
strange. But what is the matter? Why are you crying
so, little man?"
"I'm not a little man. I'm an elf," responded the
dry voice; "and I
think you'd cry if you had an engagement out to tea,
and found yourself spiked on a great bayonet, so
that you couldn't move an inch. Look!" He turned a
little as he spoke and Toinette saw a long
rose-thorn sticking through the back of the green
robe. The little man could by no means reach the
thorn, and it held him fast prisoner to the place.
"Is that all? I'll take it out for you," she said.
"Be careful--oh, be careful," entreated the little
man. "This is my new dress, you know--my Christmas
suit, and it's got to last a year. If there is a
hole in it, Peascod will tickle me and Bean Blossom
tease, till I shall wish myself dead." He stamped
with vexation at the thought.
"Now, you mustn't do that," said Toinette, in a
motherly tone, "else
you'll tear it yourself, you know." She broke off
the thorn as she
spoke, and gently drew it out. The elf anxiously
examined the stuff. A tiny puncture only was visible
and his face brightened.
"You're a good child," he said. "I'll do as much for
you some day,
perhaps."
"I would have come before if I had seen you,"
remarked Toinette,
timidly. "But I didn't see you a bit."
"No, because I had my cap on," cried the elf. He
placed it on his head as he spoke, and hey, presto!
nobody was there, only a voice which laughed and
said: "Well--don't stare so. Lay your finger on me
now."
"Oh," said Toinette, with a gasp. "How wonderful.
What fun it must be to do that. The children
wouldn't see me. I should steal in and
surprise them; they would go on talking, and never
guess that I was there. I should so like it. Do
elves ever lend their caps to anybody? I wish you'd
lend me yours. It must be so nice to be invisible."
"Ho," cried the elf, appearing suddenly again. "Lend
my cap, indeed! Why it wouldn't stay on the very tip
of your ear, it's so small. As for nice, that
depends. Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't.
No, the only way for mortal people to be invisible
is to gather the fern-seed and put it in their
shoes."
"Gather it? Where? I never saw any seed to the
ferns," said Toinette, staring about her.
"Of course not--we elves take care of that," replied
the little man.
"Nobody finds the fern-seed but ourselves. I'll tell
you what, though. You were such a nice child to take
out the thorn so cleverly, that I'll give you a
little of the seed. Then you can try the fun of
being invisible, to your heart's content."
"Will you really? How delightful. May I have it
now?"
"Bless me. Do you think I carry my pockets stuffed
with it?" said the elf. "Not at all. Go home, say
not a word to any one, but leave your bedroom window
open to night, and you'll see what you'll see."
He laid his finger on his nose as he spoke, gave a
jump like a
grasshopper, clapping on his cap as he went, and
vanished. Toinette lingered a moment, in hopes that
he might come back, then took her pitcher and
hurried home. The woods were very dusky by this
time; but full of her strange adventures, she did
not remember to feel afraid.
"How long you have been," said her mother. "It's
late for a little maid like you to be up. You must
make better speed another time, my child."
Toinette pouted as she was apt to do when reproved.
The children
clamoured to know what had kept her, and she spoke
pettishly and
crossly; so that they too became cross, and
presently went away into the outer kitchen to play
by themselves. The children were apt to creep away
when Toinette came. It made her angry and unhappy at
times that they should do so, but she did not
realize that it was in great part her own fault, and
so did not set herself to mend it.
"Tell me a 'tory," said baby Jeanneton, creeping to
her knee a little
later. But Toinette's head was full of the elf; she
had no time to
spare for Jeanneton.
"Oh, not to-night," she replied. "Ask mother to tell
you one."
"Mother's busy," said Jeanneton wistfully.
Toinette took no notice and the little one crept
away disconsolately.
Bedtime at last. Toinette set the casement open, and
lay a long time waiting and watching; then she fell
asleep. She waked with a sneeze and jump and sat up
in bed. Behold, on the coverlet stood her elfin
friend, with a long train of other elves beside him,
all clad in the beetle-wing green, and wearing
little pointed caps. More were coming in at the
window; outside a few were drifting about in the
moon rays, which lit their sparkling robes till they
glittered like so many fireflies. The odd thing was,
that though the caps were on, Toinette could see the
elves distinctly and this surprised her so much,
that again she thought out loud and said, "How
funny."
"You mean about the caps," replied her special elf,
who seemed to have the power of reading thought.
"Yes, you can see us to-night, caps and all. Spells
lose their value on Christmas Eve, always. Peascod,
where is the box? Do you still wish to try the
experiment of being invisible, Toinette?"
"Oh, yes--indeed I do."
"Very well; so let it be."
As he spoke he beckoned, and two elves puffing and
panting like little men with a heavy load, dragged
forward a droll little box about the size of a
pumpkin-seed.
One of them lifted the cover.
"Pay the porter, please, ma'am," he said giving
Toinette's ear a
mischievous tweak with his sharp fingers.
"Hands off, you bad Peascod!" cried Toinette's elf.
"This is my girl. She shan't be pinched!" He dealt
Peascod a blow with his tiny hand as he spoke and
looked so brave and warlike that he seemed at least
an inch taller than he had before. Toinette admired
him very much; and Peascod slunk away with an
abashed giggle muttering that Thistle needn't be so
ready with his fist.
Thistle--for thus, it seemed, Toinette's friend was
named--dipped his fingers in the box, which was full
of fine brown seeds, and shook a handful into each
of Toinette's shoes, as they stood, toes together by
the bedside.
"Now you have your wish," he said, and can go about
and do what you like, no one seeing. The charm will
end at sunset. Make the most of it while you can;
but if you want to end it sooner, shake the seeds
from the shoes and then you are just as usual."
"Oh, I shan't want to," protested Toinette; "I'm
sure I shan't."
"Good-bye," said Thistle, with a mocking little
laugh.
"Good-bye, and thank you ever so much," replied
Toinette.
"Good-bye, good-bye," replied the other elves, in
shrill chorus. They clustered together, as if in
consultation; then straight out of the window they
flew like a swarm of gauzy-winged bees, and melted
into the moonlight. Toinette jumped up and ran to
watch them but the little men were gone--not a trace
of them was to be seen; so she shut the window, went
back to bed and presently in the midst of her amazed
and excited thoughts fell asleep.
She waked in the morning, with a queer, doubtful
feeling. Had she
dreamed, or had it really happened? She put on her
best petticoat and laced her blue bodice; for she
thought the mother would perhaps take them across
the wood to the little chapel for the Christmas
service. Her long hair smoothed and tied, her shoes
trimly fastened, downstairs she ran. The mother was
stirring porridge over the fire. Toinette went close
to her, but she did not move or turn her head.
"How late the children are," she said at last,
lifting the boiling pot
on the hob. Then she went to the stair-foot and
called, "Marc,
Jeanneton, Pierre, Marie. Breakfast is ready, my
children.
Toinette--but where, then, is Toinette? She is used
to be down long before this."
"Toinette isn't upstairs," said Marie from above.
"Her door is wide open, and she isn't there."
"That is strange," said the mother. "I have been
here an hour, and she has not passed this way
since." She went to the outer door and called,
"Toinette! Toinette!" passing close to Toinette as
she did so. And looking straight at her with
unseeing eyes. Toinette, half frightened, half
pleased, giggled low to herself. She really was
invisible, then. How strange it seemed and what fun
it was going to be.
The children sat down to breakfast, little Jeanneton,
as the youngest, saying grace. The mother
distributed the porridge and gave each a spoon but
she looked anxious.
"Where can Toinette have gone?" she said to herself.
Toinette was conscious-pricked. She was half
inclined to dispel the charm on the spot. But just
then she caught a whisper from Pierre to Marc which
so surprised her as to put the idea out of her head.
"Perhaps a wolf has eaten her up--a great big wolf
like the 'Capuchon Rouge,' you know." This was what
Pierre said; and Marc answered unfeelingly:
"If he has, I shall ask mother to let me have her
room for my own."
Poor Toinette, her cheeks burned and her eyes filled
with tears at
this. Didn't the boys love her a bit then? Next she
grew angry, and
longed to box Marc's ears, only she recollected in
time that she was invisible. What a bad boy he was,
she thought.
The smoking porridge reminded her that she was
hungry; so brushing away the tears she slipped a
spoon off the table and whenever she found the
chance, dipped it into the bowl for a mouthful. The
porridge disappeared rapidly.
"I want some more," said Jeanneton.
"Bless me, how fast you have eaten," said the
mother, turning to the bowl.
This made Toinette laugh, which shook her spoon, and
a drop of the hot mixture fell right on the tip of
Marie's nose as she sat with upturned face waiting
her turn for a second helping. Marie gave a little
scream.
"What is it?" said the mother.
"Hot water! Right in my face!" sputtered Marie.
"Water!" cried Marc. "It's porridge."
"You spattered with your spoon. Eat more carefully,
my child," said the mother, and Toinette laughed
again as she heard her. After all, there was some
fun in being invisible.
The morning went by. Constantly the mother went to
the door, and,
shading her eyes with her hand, looked out, in hopes
of seeing a little figure come down the wood-path,
for she thought perhaps the child went to the spring
after water, and fell asleep there. The children
played happily, meanwhile. They were used to doing
without Toinette and did not seem to miss her,
except that now and then baby Jeanneton said: "Poor
Toinette gone--not here--all gone."
"Well, what if she has?" said Marc at last looking
up from the wooden cup he was carving for Marie's
doll. "We can play all the better."
Marc was a bold, outspoken boy, who always told his
whole mind about things.
"If she were here," he went on," she'd only scold
and interfere.
Toinette almost always scolds. I like to have her go
away. It makes it pleasanter."
"It is rather pleasanter," admitted Marie, "only I'd
like her to be
having a nice time somewhere else."
"Bother about Toinette," cried Pierre.
"Let's play 'My godmother has cabbage to sell.'"
I don't think Toinette had ever felt so unhappy in
her life, as when
she stood by unseen, and heard the children say
these words. She had never meant to be unkind to
them, but she was quick-tempered, dreamy, wrapped up
in herself. She did not like being interrupted by
them, it put her out, and she spoke sharply and was
cross. She had taken it for granted that the others
must love her, by a sort of right, and the knowledge
that they did not grieved over very much. Creeping
away, she hid herself in the woods. It was a
sparkling day, but the sun did not look so bright as
usual. Cuddled down under a rosebush, Toinette sat
sobbing as if her heart would break at the
recollection of the speeches she had overheard.
By and by a little voice within her woke up and
began to make itself
audible. All of us know this little voice. We call
it conscience.
"Jeanneton missed me," she thought. "And, oh, dear!
I pushed her away only last night and wouldn't tell
her a story. And Marie hoped I was having a pleasant
time somewhere. I wish I hadn't slapped Marie last
Friday. And I wish I hadn't thrown Marc's ball into
the fire that day I was angry with him. How unkind
he was to say that--but I wasn't always kind to him.
And once I said that I wished a bear would eat
Pierre up. That was because he broke my cup. Oh,
dear, oh, dear. What a bad girl I've been to them
all."
"But you could be better and kinder if you tried,
couldn't you?" said
the inward voice. "I think you could."
And Toinette clasped her hands tight and said out
loud: "I could.
Yes--and I will."
The first thing to be done was to get rid of the
fern-seed which she
now regarded as a hateful thing. She untied her
shoes and shook it out in the grass. It dropped and
seemed to melt into the air, for it
instantly vanished. A mischievous laugh sounded
close behind, and a beetle-green coat-tail was
visible whisking under a tuft of rushes. But
Toinette had had enough of the elves, and, tying her
shoes, took the road toward home, running with all
her might.
"Where have you been all day, Toinette?" cried the
children, as,
breathless and panting, she flew in at the gate. But
Toinette could not speak. She made slowly for her
mother, who stood in the doorway, flung herself into
her arms and burst into a passion of tears.
"Ma cherie, what is it, whence hast thou come?"
asked the good mother alarmed. She lifted Toinette
into her arms as she spoke, and hastened indoors.
The other children followed, whispering and peeping,
but the mother sent them away, and sitting down by
the fire with Toinette in her lap, she rocked and
hushed and comforted, as though Toinette had been
again a little baby. Gradually the sobs ceased. For
a while Toinette lay quiet, with her head on her
mother's breast. Then she wiped her wet eyes, put
her arms around her mother's neck, and told her all
from the very beginning, keeping not a single thing
back. The dame listened with alarm.
"Saints protect us," she muttered. Then feeling
Toinette's hands and head, "Thou hast a fever," she
said. "I will make thee a tisane, my darling, and
thou must at once go to bed." Toinette vainly
protested; to bed she went and perhaps it was the
wisest thing, for the warm drink threw her into a
long sound sleep and when she woke she was herself
again, bright and well, hungry for dinner, and ready
to do her usual tasks.
Herself--but not quite the same Toinette that she
had been before.
Nobody changes from bad to better in a minute. It
takes time for that, time and effort, and a long
struggle with evil habits and tempers. But there is
sometimes a certain minute or day in which people
begin to change, and thus it was with Toinette. The
fairy lesson was not lost upon her. She began to
fight with herself, to watch her faults and try to
conquer them. It was hard work; often she felt
discouraged, but she kept on. Week after week and
month after month she grew less selfish, kinder,
more obliging than she used to be. When she failed
and her old fractious temper got the better of her,
she was sorry and begged every one's pardon so
humbly that they could not but forgive. The mother
began to think that the elves really had bewitched
her child. As for the children they learned to love
Toinette as never before, and came to
her with all their pains and pleasures, as children
should to a kind
older sister. Each fresh proof of this, every kiss
from Jeanneton,
every confidence from Marc, was a comfort to
Toinette, for she never forgot Christmas Day, and
felt that no trouble was too much to wipe out that
unhappy recollection. "I think they like me better
than they did then," she would say; but then the
thought came, "Perhaps if I were invisible again, if
they did not know I was there, I might hear
something to make me feel as badly as I did that
morning." These sad thoughts were part of the bitter
fruit of the fairy fern-seed.
So with doubts and fears the year went by, and again
it was Christmas Eve. Toinette had been asleep some
hours when she was roused by a sharp tapping at the
window pane. Startled, and only half awake, she sat
up in bed and saw by the moonlight a tiny figure
outside which she recognized. It was Thistle
drumming with his knuckles on the glass.
"Let me in," cried the dry little voice. So Toinette
opened the
casement, and Thistle flew in and perched as before
on the coverlet.
"Merry Christmas, my girl." he said, "and a Happy
New Year when it comes. I've brought you a present;"
and, dipping into a pouch tied round his waist, he
pulled out a handful of something brown. Toinette
knew what it was in a moment.
"Oh, no," she cried shrinking back. "Don't give me
any fern-seeds. They frighten me. I don't like
them."
"Don't be silly," said Thistle, his voice sounding
kind this time, and
earnest. "It wasn't pleasant being invisible last
year, but perhaps
this year it will be. Take my advice, and try it.
You'll not be sorry."
"Sha'n't I?" said Toinette, brightening. "Very well,
then, I will." She
leaned out of bed, and watched Thistle strew the
fine dustlike grains in each shoe.
"I'll drop in to-morrow night, and just see how you
like it," he said.
Then, with a nod, he was gone.
The old fear came back when she woke in the morning,
and she tied on her shoes with a tremble at her
heart. Downstairs she stole. The first thing she saw
was a wooden ship standing on her plate. Marc had
made the ship, but Toinette had no idea it was for
her.
The little ones sat round the table with their eyes
on the door,
watching till Toinette should come in and be
surprised.
"I wish she'd hurry," said Pierre, drumming on his
bowl with a spoon.
"We all want Toinette, don't we?" said the mother,
smiling as she
poured the hot porridge.
"It will be fun to see her stare," declared Marc.
"Toinette is jolly when she stares. Her eyes look
big and her cheeks grow pink. Andre Brugen thinks
his sister Aline is prettiest, but I don't. Our
Toinette is ever so pretty."
"She is ever so nice, too," said Pierre. "She's as
good to play with
as--as--a boy," finished triumphantly.
"Oh, I wish my Toinette would come," said Jeanneton.
Toinette waited no longer, but sped upstairs with
glad tears in her
eyes. Two minutes, and down she came again visible
this time. Her heart was light as a feather.
"Merry Christmas!" clamoured the children. The ship
was presented, Toinette was duly surprised, and so
the happy day began.
That night Toinette left the window open, and lay
down in her clothes; for she felt, as Thistle had
been so kind, she ought to receive him politely. He
came at midnight, and with him all the other little
men in green.
"Well, how was it?" asked Thistle.
"Oh, I liked it this time," declared Toinette, with
shining eyes, "and
I thank you so much."
"I'm glad you did," said the elf. "And I'm glad you
are thankful, for
we want you to do something for us."
"What can it be?" inquired Toinette, wondering.
"You must know," went on Thistle, "that there is no
dainty in the world which we elves enjoy like a bowl
of fern-seed broth. But it has to be cooked over a
real fire, and we dare not go near fire, you know,
lest our wings scorch. So we seldom get any
fern-seed broth. Now, Toinette, will you make us
some?"
"Indeed, I will!" cried Toinette, "only you must
tell me how."
"It is very simple," said Peascod; "only seed and
honey dew, stirred from left to right with a sprig
of fennel. Here's the seed and the fennel, and
here's the dew. Be sure and stir from the left; if
you
don't, it curdles, and the flavor will be spoiled."
Down into the kitchen they went, and Toinette,
moving very softly,
quickened the fire, set on the smallest bowl she
could find, and spread the doll's table with the
wooden saucers which Marc had made for Jeanneton to
play with. Then she mixed and stirred as the elves
bade, and when the soup was done, served it to them
smoking hot. How they feasted! No bumblebee, dipping
into a flower-cup, ever sipped and twinkled more
rapturously than they.
When the last drop was eaten, they made ready to go.
Each in turn
kissed Toinette's hand, and said a word of farewell.
Thistle brushed his feathered cap over the doorpost
as he passed.
"Be lucky, house," he said, "for you have received
and entertained the luck-bringers. And be lucky,
Toinette. Good temper is good luck, and sweet words
and kind looks and peace in the heart are the
fairest of fortunes. See that you never lose them
again, my girl." With this, he, too, kissed
Toinette's hand, waved his feathered cap, and--whir!
they all were gone, while Toinette, covering the
fire with ashes and putting aside the little cups,
stole up to her bed a happy child.
