He went to a jockey and asked him if he would like to buy a trotter.

"Where is your trotter?" asked the jockey.

"Me's him," said the rocking-horse. That was all the grammar he knew.

"Oh!" said the jockey. "You are the trotter, eh?"

"Yes," said the rocking-horse. "What will you give me for myself?"

"A bushel of shavings," said the jockey.

The rocking-horse thought that was better than nothing, so he sold himself. Then the jockey took him to another jockey who was blind, and told him (the blind jockey) that this was the Sky-born Snorter of the Sarsaparillas, and that he could trot two miles in a minute. So the blind jockey bought him, and paid ten thousand dollars for him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Me's him,' said the rocking-horse."]

There was a race the next day, and the blind jockey took the Sky-born Snorter to the race-course, and started him with the other horses.

The other horses trotted away round the course, but the Sky-born Snorter stayed just where he was, and rocked; and when the other horses came round the turn, there he was waiting for them at the judge's stand. So he won the race; and the judge gave the prize, which was a white buffalo, to the blind jockey.

The jockey put the Sky-born Snorter in the stable, and then went to get his white buffalo; and while he was gone, the other jockeys came into the stable to see the new horse.

"Why, he's a rocking-horse!" said one of them.

"Hush!" said the Sky-born Snorter. "Yes, I am a rocking-horse, but don't tell my master. He doesn't know it, and he paid ten thousand dollars for me."

"Whom did he pay it to?" asked the jockeys.

"To the other jockey, who bought me from myself," replied the Snorter.

"Oh! and what did _he_ give for you?"

"A bushel of shavings," said the Snorter.

"Ah!" said one of the jockeys. "A bushel of shavings, eh? Now, how would you like to have those shavings turned into gold?"

"Very much indeed!" cried the Sky-born.

"Well," said the jockey, "bring them here, and we will change them for you."

So the rocking-horse went and fetched the shavings, and the jockeys set fire to them. The flames shot up, bright and yellow.

"See!" cried the jockeys. "The shavings are all turned into gold. Now we will see what we can do for you." And they took the Sky-born Snorter and put him in the fire, and he turned into gold too, and was all burned up. And the blind jockey drove the white buffalo all the rest of his life, and never knew the difference.

Moral: don't be ambitious.

They all laughed heartily at the fate of the Sky-born Snorter; and the wood-pigeon said, "Both your stories have a most melancholy ending, Toto. One hero boiled and eaten up, and the other burned! It is quite dreadful. I think I must tell the next story myself, and I shall be sure to tell one that ends cheerfully."

"Yes, yes!" cried all the others. "Pigeon Pretty shall be the next story-teller!"

"And now," continued the pigeon, "my Chucky must go home to his supper, for he is not well yet, by any means, and must be very careful of himself. Climb up on Bruin's back, Chucky dear! so, that is right.

Good-night, Toto. Good-night, dear madam. Now home again, all!" and flying round and round the bear's head, Pigeon Pretty led the way towards the forest.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Is this one of your own stories that you are going to tell us, Pigeon Pretty?" inquired the squirrel, when they were next a.s.sembled around the cottage door.

"No," replied the wood-pigeon. "This is a story I heard a short time ago. I was flying home, after paying a visit to some cousins of mine who live in a village some miles away. As I pa.s.sed by a pretty white cottage, something like this, I noticed that there were crumbs scattered on one of the window-sills. 'Here lives somebody who is fond of birds!' said I to myself, and as I was rather hungry, I stopped to pick up some of the crumbs. The window was open, and looking in, I saw a pretty and neatly furnished room. Near the window was a bed, in which lay a boy of about Toto's age. He was evidently ill, for he had a bandage tied round his head, and he looked pale and thin. Beside the bed sat a little girl, apparently a year or two older; a sweet, pretty girl, as one would wish to see. She was reading aloud to her brother (I suppose he was her brother) from a large red book. Neither of the children noticed me, so I sat on the window-sill for some time, and heard the whole of this story, which you shall now hear in your turn.

It is called

THE STORY OF THE TAIL OF THE BARON'S WAR-HORSE.

Many years ago there lived a Baron, famous in peace and war, but chiefly in the latter. War was his great delight, fighting his natural occupation; and he was never so much in his element as when leading his valiant troops to battle, mounted on his n.o.ble iron-gray charger.

Ah! what a charger that was!--stately and strong, swift and sure, fiery and bold, yet ready to obey his master's lightest touch or softest word; briefly, a horse in ten thousand. Right proud the Baron was of his gallant steed; and right well did they love each other, horse and master.

The va.s.sals of the Baron knew no greater pleasure than to see their lord ride by mounted on Gray Berold; it filled their souls with joy, and caused them to throw up their caps and shout "Hi!" in a hilarious manner. As for the lovely Ermengarde, the Baron's young and beautiful wife, she would far rather have gone without her dinner than have missed the sight. Whenever Gray Berold was brought to the door, she hastened out, and overwhelmed him with caresses and words of endearment, proffering meanwhile the toothsome sugar and the crisp and sprightly apple, neither of which the engaging animal disdained to accept. In truth, it was a goodly sight to see the golden locks of the lady (for was she not known in all the country as Ermengarde of the Fair Tresses?) mingling with the wavy silver of the charger's mane as he bent his head lovingly over his fair young mistress,--a goodly sight, and one which often sent the bold Baron rejoicing on his way, with a tender smile on his otherwise slightly ferocious countenance.

It chanced one day that a great tournament was about to take place in the neighborhood. All the knights in the country round, and many bold champions from a greater distance, were to show their prowess in riding at the ring, and in friendly combat with each other. Among the gallant knights, who so ready for the tournament as our bold Baron? He fairly pranced for the fray; for there had been no war for two months, and he was very weary of the long peaceful days. He had been practising for a week past, riding at any number of rings of different sizes, and tilting with his squire, whom he had run through the body several times, thereby seriously impairing that worthy's digestive powers.

And now the eventful morning was come. The va.s.sals were a.s.sembled in the courtyard of the castle, a goodly array, to see their master depart in pomp and pride.

Gray Berold was brought round to the door, magnificently caparisoned, his bridle and housings glittering with precious stones. The gallant steed pawed the ground, and tossed his head proudly, as impatient of delay as his master. From a balcony above leaned the lovely Ermengarde, her golden tresses crowned with a nightcap of rare and curious design; for the Baron was making an early start, and his fair lady had not yet completed her toilet.

Amid the vociferous cheers of his va.s.sals, the Baron descended the steps, armed _cap-a-pie_, his good sword by his side, and his mace, battle-axe, cutla.s.s, and shillalah displayed about his stately person in a very imposing manner. He could scarcely walk, it is true, so many and so weighty were his accoutrements; but then, as he himself aptly observed, he did not want to walk.

He got into the saddle with some difficulty, owing to the tendency of his battle-axe to get between his legs; but once there, the warrior was at home. An attendant handed him his lance, with its glittering pennon. Gray Berold pranced and curvetted, making nothing of the enormous weight on his back; the Lady Ermengarde waved her broidered kerchief; and, with a parting glance at his lovely bride, the Baron rode slowly out of the courtyard.

But, alas! he was not destined to ride far. Alas for the proud Baron!

Alas and alack for the gallant steed!

He had scarcely ridden a hundred paces when he heard a fearful growl behind him, which caused him to turn quickly in his saddle. What was his horror to see a huge bear spring out of the woods and come rushing towards him!

For one moment the Baron was paralyzed; the next, he wheeled his horse round, and couching his lance, prepared to meet his savage a.s.sailant.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The bear caught the charger by the tail."]

But Gray Berold had not bargained for this. Many a fair fight had he seen in battle-field and in tourney; many a time he had faced danger as boldly as his rider, and had borne the brunt of many a fierce attack. But those fights were with men and horses. He knew what they were, and how they should be met; but this was something very different. This great creature, that came rushing along with its head down and its mouth open, was something Berold did not know; moreover, it was something he did not like. Stand there and be rushed at by a thing that was neither horse nor man? Not if he knew it! And just when the bear was close upon him, Gray Berold, with a squeal of mingled terror and anger, wheeled short round. The bear made a spring, and caught the charger by the tail. The terrified animal bounded forward; the Baron made a downward stroke with his battle-axe that would have felled an ox, and Master Bruin (no offence to you, my dear fellow!

it's the name of all your family, you know) rolled over and over in the dust.

But alas! and alas! _he took the tail with him_! That n.o.ble tail, the pride of the stable-yard, the glory of the grooms, lay in the road, a glittering ma.s.s of silver; and it was a tailless steed that now galloped frantically back into the castle-court, from which only a few short minutes ago he had so proudly emerged.

The Baron was mad with fury. Pity for his gallant horse, rage and mortification at the ridiculous plight he was in, anxiety lest he should be late for the tournament, all combined to make him for a time beside himself; he rushed up and down the courtyard, whirling his battle-axe round his head, and uttering the most fearful imprecations. Finally, however, yielding to the tears and entreaties of his retainers, he calmed his n.o.ble frenzy, and set himself to think what was best to be done. "Give up the tournament? Perish the thought! Ride another horse than Berold? Never while he lives!

Ride him tailless and unadorned? Shades of my ancestors forbid!" thus cried the Baron at every new suggestion of his sympathizing retainers.