The Water-Sprite

A little brother and sister were playing one day on the edge of a well that belonged to a water-sprite. The little girl held her brother’s hand, and leaned far over to look down into it.

“It seems to me that down below there I can see green meadows and flocks of sheep moving over them,” she said.

“It is only the reflection of the clouds,” said the little boy. “But be careful. I fear you will fall in.”

Even as he spoke the little girl slipped and fell into the well, and as she had hold of her brother’s hand she pulled him in after her.

The two children went down—down—down—through the waters, and when they came to the bottom they found themselves in a country of green meadows and trees and streams, and before them stood a shining castle with domes and towers.

This castle belonged to the water-sprite who owned the well.

The little brother and sister went up to the castle and knocked at the door, and at once the water-sprite opened it to them.

“Come in, come in,” said she. “I saw you playing on the edge of the well, and it was I who caused you to fall in. I am lonely here, so you shall stay with me and be my servants, and whatever I bid you do that you must do.”

The water-sprite would have been beautiful if only she had not been so green. Her face was green and her hair was green, and her eyes were green. Only her teeth were white.

The sprite led the children into the kitchen and there she gave the little girl a bucket that had no bottom. “Go,” said she, “and fetch me some water to boil the dumplings for supper. And you,” said she to the boy, “must cut me some wood,” and she gave him an ax that had no edge. It was as blunt as a hammer.

The little sister went out to the spring that the water-sprite showed her, and tried to dip up water, but as fast as she dipped it up it ran out again, for the bucket had no bottom.

The brother began to chop at a tree near by. He chopped and he chopped and he chopped, but he could scarcely make a dent, the ax was so blunt.

When the children came back to the castle without either wood or water, the sprite was very cross with them. “I can easily see that you are both very stupid,” said she. “But sit down; sit down at the table. Even if you are stupid I suppose you must eat.”

The children sat down at the table, and the water-sprite set before them a dish of dumplings, but as the dumplings had not been cooked and were only dough the children could not eat them. They slipped them into their pockets, and then, when the sprite was not looking they gave the dumplings to the water-cat that rubbed about their chairs.

After that the children went to bed and slept.

The next day it was the same thing over again. The water-sprite set them tasks that they could not possibly do, and gave them only dough to eat, so the children made up their minds to run away. They waited, however, until afternoon, when the water-sprite went up to the top of the well to look about her.

When they were about to set out, the water-cat said to them, “You do well to run away. You would not be happy here. But do not think my mistress will allow you to escape if she can help it. When she comes home and finds you gone, she will at once set out in pursuit of you. She can go very much faster than you, and she will certainly catch you unless you take with you her comb, her brush, and her mirror. These are magic things. Each time you find she is about to catch you, throw one or other of these things over your shoulder. By this means, and by this means only, can you hope to escape.”

The children thanked the little cat, and did as it advised them. They took the water-sprite’s brush and comb and mirror, and carried them off with them, and ran as fast as they could along the road that led to the upper world.

Soon after they had left, the water-sprite came home. When she found them gone she only stopped long enough to scold the cat, and then she put on her shoes of swiftness and started after them.

Presently the children looked behind them and saw her coming. She came so fast on her shoes of swiftness, that it seemed as though they could not possibly escape her.

However, the children remembered what the water-cat had told them. They threw the comb behind them, and at once it spread and grew into a wall of spikes, tremendously stiff and high. It took the water-sprite a long time to climb over this wall, and the children were well on their way before they heard her behind them again.

Then the little girl threw the brush over her shoulder. At once the brush became a great thick forest, through which the water-sprite could hardly find her way.

But she got through it at last, and then it did not take her long to be at their heels again.

“And now we have only one more thing left,” said the brother, and he threw the mirror behind him.

At once the mirror became a hill of glass so steep and smooth that no one could possibly climb it. The sprite tried to run up it, but no sooner had she gone a step or so than she slipped back again. At last, with a shriek of rage, she turned and fled back to her castle, and that was the last of her.

But the children went on their way, and the road led them straight to the upper world and the door of their home. After that they were always careful to keep away from the edge of the water-sprite’s well.

A little girl once lived all alone with her old grandmother upon the borders of a forest. They were so poor that they were scarcely able to buy food for their mouths, or clothes to cover them.

“Never mind, Granny,” the little girl would say. “Some day I will be big enough to work, and then I will earn so much that I will be able to buy everything that we need, and to give something to other poor folk as well.”

One day the child went off into the forest to gather fagots. These she hoped to sell for a few pennies in the town over beyond the hill. She was to be gone all day, so she took with her into the forest a bit of the black bread, which was all they had left to eat.

It was winter, and the air was bitterly cold. The child wrapped her little shawl about her, and ran on as fast as she could. She was hungry, but she intended to save her crust until after the fagots were gathered.

Just as she reached the edge of the forest she met a boy, even smaller than she herself, and he was crying bitterly.

The little girl had a tender heart. She stopped and asked the child why he was weeping.

“I am weeping,” he answered, “because I am hungry.”

“Have you had nothing to eat to-day?” she asked.

“I have had nothing, and I am like to starve, for I know not where to go for food.”

The little girl sighed. “You are, perhaps, hungrier than I,” she said, and she took the crust from her pocket and gave it to the boy. Then she again hurried on.

A little farther on, she met another child who was even more miserable-looking than the first, for this child seemed almost frozen with cold. Her clothing hung about her in rags, and her skin looked blue through the rents.

“Ah,” cried she, “if I had but a warm little dress like yours! Help me, I pray of you, or I will certainly die of cold.”

The good little girl was filled with pity. “It is not right,” thought she, “that I should have both a dress and a shawl. I will give one of them to this poor child.”

She took off her dress and gave it to the child, and then wrapped the shawl closely about her shoulders. In spite of the shawl she felt very cold. Still she was near the place where the fagots were to be found, and as soon as she had gathered them she would run home again.

She hastened on, but when she reached the place where the fagots were she saw an old woman already there, gathering up the fallen wood. The old woman was so bent and poor and miserable-looking that the little girl’s heart ached for her.

“Oh, oh!” groaned the old woman. “How my poor bones do ache. If I had but a shawl to wrap about my shoulders I would not suffer so.”

The child thought of her own grandmother, and of how she sometimes suffered, and she had pity on the old woman.

“Here,” said she, “take my shawl”; and slipping it from her shoulders she gave it to the old woman.

And now she stood there in the forest with her arms and shoulders bare, and with nothing on her but her little shift. The sharp wind blew about her, but she was not cold. She had eaten nothing, but she was not hungry. She was fed and warmed by her own kindness.

She gathered her fagots and started home again. It was growing dusk, and the stars shown through the bare branches of the trees. Suddenly an old man stood beside her. “Give me of your fagots,” said he, “for my hearth is cold, and I am too old to gather wood for myself.”

The little girl sighed. If she gave him the fagots she would have to stop to gather more. Still she would not refuse him. “Take them,” she said, “in heaven’s name.”

No sooner had she said this than she saw it was not an old man who stood before her, but a shining angel.

“You have fed the hungry,” said the angel, “you have clothed the naked, and you have given help to those who asked it. You shall not go unrewarded. See!”

At once a light shone around the child, and it seemed to her that all the stars of heaven were falling through the bare branches of the trees, but these stars were diamonds and rubies and other precious stones. They lay thick upon the ground. “Gather them together,” said the angel, “for they are yours.”

Wondering, the child gathered them together—all that she could carry in the skirt of her little shift.

When she looked about her again the angel was gone, but the child hastened home with her treasure. It was enough to make her and her old grandmother rich. From then on they lacked for nothing. They were not only able to have all they wished for, but to give to many who were poor. So they were not only rich, but beloved by all who knew them.