THE GARDEN OF THE PRINCESS MARY RADIANT

No man shall be admitted here, Till he a fine doth pay.

And he that will not pay the fine, From hence must swim away.

By him that rides here over land, A silver bell is paid.

He that flies. .h.i.ther through the air, Must bring a dark-faced maid.

While he that through the sea doth swim, Must bring a c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l with him.

By order, M. R.

"'He that through the sea doth swim, Must bring a c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l with him.'

Well, here it is," said the King. "So I will just walk in."

This time the old man did not appear, and the King walked straight into the garden, holding the sh.e.l.l in his hand.

"Ah-h-h, this is the garden I should like to have, perhaps the Princess could have it transplanted to my palace," said the King. "What a number of gardeners they must employ here!"

"No, only myself," said a soft voice behind him, "a few Bees, a few Byrdes and the nymphs Wynde and Worta."

The King turned, but could see no one, though he thought he caught a glimpse of a gold skirt among the bushes.

He threw down the sh.e.l.l by the path, and running forward, cried--"Oh Princess, come with me to my back-yard, and make it into a lovely garden such as this."

Then, for one moment through the arching branches of the trees, there appeared before him a maiden so beautiful that he was almost blinded with the sight of her. She was all gold and shining, like the pictures of Queen Elizabeth. She was smiling, too, but oh, so sadly!

"I will come," she said, "but you, yourself, must prepare the place for the garden. When it is ready I will smile on it and you. Till then, though I will come back with you and tell you what to do, you will never see my face."

As she spoke, a veil of mist shrouded her face and her shining golden dress. The flowers grew dim, the fruits ceased to shine, the fair maids to curtsey, the fountains to play, and the birds to sing. The King shivered. "I thought that when you came I would have my garden at once," he muttered.

"Come," said the Princess gently.

Together they swam back to the Palace. The King was angry and disappointed, but the beautiful picture of the golden Princess smiling at him through the trees was fixed for ever in his mind. He began to think that he would not mind doing a little digging, if only he might see her face again. The first thing to be done the next day was to dismiss all the gardeners; and of all the court only Sir Richard Byrde and Sir Hunny Bee were allowed to stay in the back-yard, where the King was going to work with his own hands.

Sometimes in the long days that followed, the Princess sent out her two nymphs, Wynde and Worta to help him--but all the really hard work he had to do quite alone. Long days they were, for first there was so much, much, digging to be done. All the patent soils had got mixed up, and twisted and turned the King's spade as he tried to dig. He was not accustomed to digging either, and disliked getting hot, and also getting blisters on his kingly hands--but as he toiled on he thought of the Princess and her lovely garden.

Day after day he worked and worked. He felt as if each little tiny task took him years and years; and then he had to wait what seemed to him an eternity before anything happened at all; and then another eternity before the Princess would come and smile upon his garden.

"Will it _never_ be a garden?" he said at last. "Will you _never_ come and smile on it, and shall I _never_ see your face again."

"Not to-day," she said.

At last, one day, after a long time, when his back was bowed with digging and his hands h.o.r.n.y with working, he suddenly stopped, for a strange light seemed to be shining from the Palace steps behind him.

"Do not look round yet," said the Princess' soft voice. "Look straight in front of you first."

He stood quite still, staring at what had been, until now, the backyard.

As he gazed there appeared before him paths of gra.s.s, green as emeralds and sparkling with dew, and bordered on each side with sh.e.l.ls that glowed like mother-o'-pearl. Flowers, flowers everywhere, Canterbury bells, and sunflowers, roses, lilies and lavender. Fruit trees of gold and silver glittering in the sunshine, and behind, great dark leafy trees inviting to shade and coolth. Fountains splashing, and birds singing. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he must be dreaming.

Then he turned--and there, standing on the Palace steps, was the Princess. No veil covered her face now. There she stood in all her glorious golden beauty--smiling, radiant, as her name.

"You have your garden at last," she said.

Now this story might have been written about any garden, yours or mine.

For the honey bee still helps to grow the Canterbury bells, and the birds still help to scatter seeds, and people still line their paths with c.o.c.kle sh.e.l.ls, and sunflowers are still called "fair maids" in the country. As for the Princess Mary Radiant--why, it's only in the sunshine that the bells look like silver, and the c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.ls like mother-o'-pearl, and it's only to the sun that the sunflowers turn their heads every day . . . and we all know the sun can be "contrary"

enough!

JACK AND JILL

"_When the well is dry, they know the worth of water_"

Jack and Jill Went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down And broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after.

"Oh dear, how I hate the rain," said Jack to Jill, as they stood at the window watching the drops trickling down the window-pane. "We can't do anything really nice when it is raining. I wish someone would take all the rain away so that we could have nothing but fine days."

I _have_ heard Jacks and Jills say much the same things nowadays! But this particular Jack and Jill do not live nowadays at all. They lived a very long time ago, in a far-off country. So long ago, and so far off, that witches were still alive, and one of them actually lived in their own village!

The village straggled up the side of a hill, and the Witch's cottage was at the top of it.

It was a queer-looking, tumble-down place, but people said that from it there were trap doors and pa.s.sages leading to all sorts of caves and cellars dug out of the ground underneath. It was surrounded by very high branching palings with skull-shaped k.n.o.bs on the top of them.

The people in the village hardly ever saw the old Witch, except during thunderstorms and after late winter parties; but everyone who had seen her, declared that she was very ugly, and beyond a doubt very wicked.

She had an uncomfortable way, too, of sometimes appearing suddenly when she was not wanted, and granting people's wishes. This sounds very nice, but it may be horribly inconvenient. The villagers realised this, and it had become the fashion never to wish for anything; and so, despite the presence of the Witch, the village was a happy and contended place enough.

Jack was certainly not thinking about the old Witch when he said, "Oh dear, how I hate the rain," on that particular afternoon.

And Jill was certainly not thinking about the old Witch, when, a few minutes later, she heard a "tap-tap" on the door, louder and more insistent than the pattering of the raindrops on the window-pane.

So they were both of them distinctly frightened when they went to the door and saw--who but the old Witch herself, on the doorstep!

"Oh dear," said Jack.

"Won't you come in?" said Jill.

And in she came.

She was certainly very ugly. She had a hooked nose and pointed chin.

Grey wisps of hair straggled out from beneath her poke bonnet. Her eyes were like two snakes, and when she opened her mouth to speak she showed her long pointed iron teeth. She was dressed in a black cloak, from which protruded her long skinny arms and claw-like hands. She carried a broom-stick, and behind her slunk her cat, all draggled with the wet, and mewing frightfully. She sat down on the chair Jill offered her.

"Thank you, my dear," she said, in a voice so harsh and grating that it sounded like a saw sc.r.a.ping over a stone.

"Surely you wouldn't grudge a poor old woman a rest on the way up to her cottage." This with a leering grin at Jack, who was obviously disconcerted at her presence.