Fairy Book by Sophie May (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) đ
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Title: Fairy Book
Author: Sophie May
Release Date: November 24, 2008 [EBook #27321]
Language: English
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LITTLE PRUDY SERIES.
FAIRY BOOK.BY
SOPHIE MAY.BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD,
(Successors to Phillips, Sampson, & Co.)
1866.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by
LEE & SHEPARD,
In the Clerkâs Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
CRISTOBAL. Page 32.
THIS
BOOK OF FAIRY TALES
IS DEDICATED
TO LITTLE BESSIE.
LITTLE PRUDY SERIES.
BY SOPHIE MAY.
I.
LITTLE PRUDY.
II.
LITTLE PRUDYâS SISTER SUSY.
III.
LITTLE PRUDYâS CAPTAIN HORACE.
IV.
LITTLE PRUDYâS COUSIN GRACIE.
V.
LITTLE PRUDYâS STORY BOOK.
VI.
LITTLE PRUDYâS DOTTY DIMPLE.
While Prudy was in Indiana visiting the Cliffords, and in the midst of her trials with mosquitoes, she said one day,â
âI wouldnât cry, Aunt âRia, only my heartâs breaking. The very next person that ever dies, I wish theyâd ask God to please stop sending these awful skeeters. I canât bear âem any longer, now, certainly.â
There was a look of utter despair on Prudyâs disfigured face. Bitter tears were trickling from the two white puff-balls which had been her eyes; her forehead and cheeks were of a flaming pink, broken into little snow-drifts full of stings: she looked as if she had just been rescued from an angry beehive. Altogether, her appearance was exceedingly droll; yet Grace would not allow herself to smile at her afflicted little cousin. âStrange,â said she, âwhat makes our mosquitoes so impolite to strangers! Itâs a downright shame, isnât it, ma, to have little Prudy so imposed upon? If I could only amuse her, and make her forget it!â
âOh, mamma,â Grace broke forth again suddenly, âI have an idea, a very brilliant idea! Please listen, and pay particular attention; for I shall speak in a figure, as Robin says. Thereâs a certain small individual who is not to understand.â
âI wouldnât risk that style of talking,â said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; âor, if you do, your figures of speech must be very obscure, remember.â
âWell, ma,â continued Grace with a significant glance at Prudy, âwhat I was going to say is this: We wish to treat certain young relatives of ours very kindly; donât we, now?âcertain afflicted and abused young relatives, you know.
âNow, Iâve thought of an entertainment. Ahem! Yesterday I entered a certain Englishmanâs house,ââhere Grace pointed through the window towards Mr. Sherwoodâs cottage, lest her mother should, by chance, lose her meaning,ââI entered a certain Englishmanâs house just as the family were sitting down to the table,âfestal board, I mean.
âThey were talking about mistle-toe boughs, and all sorts of old-country customs; and then they said what a funny time they had one Christmas, with the youngest, about the mizzle, as he called it: do you remember, ma? do you understand?â
âYou mean little Harvey? Oh, yes.â
âPray do be careful, ma! Then Mr. Sherwood said to hisâI mean, the hat said to the bonnet, that there were some wonderfulâahemâlegends, about genii and sprites andâand so forth; not printed, but written, which the boy liked to hear when he was âovergettingâ the measles. A certain lady, not three inches from your chair, ma, was the one who wrote them; and nowââ
Prudy had turned about, and the only remnants of her face which looked at all naturalâthat is, the irises and pupils of her swollen eyesâwere shining with curiosity.
âThere, now, what is it, Gracie? what is it you donât want me to hear?â
Grace laughed. âOh, nothing much, dear: never mind.â
âYou oughtnât to say âNever mind,ââ pursued Prudy: âmy mother tells me always to mind.â
âI only mean it isnât any matter, Prudy.â
âOh! do you? Then donât you care for my skeeter-bites? You always say, âNever mind!â I didnât know it wasnât any matter.â
âNow, ma,â Grace went on, âI want to ask you where are those I-donât-know-what-to-call-âems? And may I copy them, Cassy and I, into a book, for a certain afflicted relative?â
âYes, yes, on gold-edged paper!â cried Prudy, springing up from the sofa; âoh, do, do; Iâll love you dearly if you will! Fairy stories are just as nice! What little Harvey Sherwood likes, I like, and Iâve had the measles; but I shouldnât think his father and motherâd wear their hat and bonnet to the dinner-table!â
âDeary me!â laughed Grace; âhow happened that little thing to mistrust what I meant?â
âIt would be strange if a child of her age, of ordinary abilities, should not understand,â remarked Mrs. Clifford, somewhat amused. âNext time you wish to ask me any thing confidentially, I advise you to choose a better opportunity.â
âWhen may she, Aunt âRia?â cried Prudy, entirely forgetting her troubles; âwhen may she write it, Aunt âRia, she and Cassy?â
âA pretty piece of folly it would be, wouldnât it, dear, when you canât read a word of writing?â
âBut Susy can a little, auntie; and mother can a great deal: and Iâll never tease âem, only nights when I go to bed, and days when I donât feel well. Please, Aunt âRia.â
âYes, ma, I know you canât refuse,â said Grace.
Mrs. Clifford hesitated. âThe stories are yellow with age, Grace; they were written in my girlhood: and they are rather torn and disarranged, if I remember. Besides, my child, my flowing hand is difficult to read.â
âOh, mamma, I think you write beautifully! splendidly!â
âAnother objection,â continued Mrs. Clifford: âthey are rather too old for Prudy, I should judge.â
âBut I keep a-growing, Aunt âRia! Donât you sâpose I know what fairy stories mean? They donât mean any thing! You didnât feel afraid Iâd believe âem, did you? I wouldnât believe âem, I promise I wouldnât; just as trueâs Iâm walking on this floor!â
âIndeed, I hope you would not, little Prudy; for I made them up as I went along. There are no fairies but those we have in our hearts. Our best thoughts are good fairies; and our worst thoughts are evil fairies.â
âOh, yes, auntie, I know! When we go bathing in the ocean, Susy says, âLetâs be all clean, so the spirit of the water can enter our hearts.â And it does; but it goes in by our noses.â
Mrs. Clifford had tacitly given her consent to Graceâs copying the stories. This task was performed accordingly, much to the disgust of Horace, who declared that of the whole number only the tale of âWild Robinâ was worth reading.
âAnd âWild Robin,ââ said Grace, instructively, âis the only one that has a moral for you, Horace. When our soldiers are starving so, it is really dreadful to see how you dislike corned beef and despise vegetables! Such a dainty boy as you needs to be stolen a while by the fairies.â
âWell, Gracie, I reckon youâd run double-quick to pull me off the milk-white steed. You couldnât get along without me two days. Look here! what story has a moral for you, miss? Itâs the âWater-kelpie.â You are like the man that married Moneta: youâre always wanting money.â
âBut itâs for the soldiers, Horace,â said Grace, with a smile of forbearance toward her brother. âIâm willing to give all my pocket-money; and I mean the other girls shall. If weâre stingy to our country these days, we ought to be shot! âPrincess Hildaâsâ the best story in the book. I wish Isa Harrington could read it! She wouldnât make any more mischief between Cassy and me!â
âI like âThe Lost Sylphidâ the best,â said Prudy; âbut was she a great butterfly, do you sâpose? The stories are all just as nice; just like book stories. I shouldnât think anybody made âem up. Aunt âRia can write as good as the big girls to the grammar-school. I promised not to believe a single word; and I shaânât. Iâm glad she called it my Fairy Book.â
CRISTOBAL. A CHRISTMAS LEGEND.Long ago, in fair Burgundy, lived a lad named Cristobal. His large dark eyes lay under the fringe of his lids, full of shadows; eyes as lustrous as purple amethysts, and, alas! as sightless.
He had not always been blind, as perhaps a wild and passionate lad, named Jasper, might have told you. On a certain Christmas Eve, a merry boy was little Cristobal, as he pattered along to church, trying with his wooden shoes to keep time to the dancing bells. In his hand he carried a Christmas candle of various colors. Never, he thought, was a rainbow so exquisitely tinted as that candle. Carefully he watched it when it winked its sleepy eye, eagerly begging his mamma to snuff it awake again. How gayly the streets twinkled with midnight lanterns! And how mortifying to the stars to be outdone by such a grand illumination!
A new painting had just been hung in the church,âthe Holy Child, called by the people âLittle Jesus,â with an aureola about his head. Cristobal looked at this picture with reverent delight; and, to his surprise, the Holy Child returned his gaze: wherever he went, the sweet, sorrowful eyes followed him. There was a wondrous charm in that pleading glance. Why was it so wistful? What had those deep eyes to say?
The air was cloudy with the breath of frankincense and myrrh. Deep voices and the heavy organ sounded chants and anthems. There were prayers to the coming Messiah, and the sprinkling of holy water; and, at last, the midnight mass was ended.
Then, in tumult and great haste, the people went home for merry-makings. Cristobal, eager to see what the Yule-log might have in store for him, rushed out of the church with careless speed, stumbling over a boy who stood in his way,âthe haughty, insolent Jasper. Jasperâs beautiful Christmas-candle was cracked in twenty pieces by his fall.
âIâll teach you better manners, young peasant!â cried he, rushing upon Cristobal in a frenzy, and dealing fierce blows without mercy or reason.
It was then that Cristobalâs eyes went out like falling stars. Their lustre and beauty remained; but they were empty caskets, their vision gone.
Then followed terrible anguish; and all Cristobalâs mother could do was to hold her boy in her arms, and soothe him by singing. At last the fever was spent; but the pain still throbbed on, and sometimes seemed to burn into Cristobalâs brain. He cried out again and again, âWhat right had that fierce Jasper to spring upon me so? I meant him no harm; and he knew it. Oh, I would like to see him chained in a den! He is like the wicked people who are turned into wolves at Christmas-tide. I would cry for joy if I could hear him groan with such pain as mine!â
Poor Cristobal never hoped to see again. He carried in his mind pictures
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