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Title: Fairy Tales for Workers' Children

Author: Hermynia Zur Mühlen

Illustrator: Lydia Gibson

Translator: Ida Dailes

Release date: November 7, 2021 [eBook #66687]

Language: English

Credits: Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAIRY TALES FOR WORKERS' CHILDREN ***




                              FAIRY TALES
                                  for
                           WORKERS’ CHILDREN

                                   by
                          HERMINIA ZUR MÜHLEN

                TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY IDA DAILES
            COVER DRAWINGS AND COLOR PLATES BY LYDIA GIBSON


                            PUBLISHED BY THE
                      DAILY WORKER PUBLISHING CO.
              1113 West Washington Boulevard Chicago, Ill.








                             The Rose-bush
                              The Sparrow
                          The Little Grey Dog
                                  Why?








FOREWORD


Dear Little Comrades:

The work of translating this little book of fairy tales for workers’
children is very small in comparison to the joy I get from the
knowledge that you, my beloved young comrades, are going to enjoy it.

You have read many fairy tales, some of them very beautiful and some
that frightened you with their horrible giants and goblins. But never,
I am sure, have you read such lovely stories about real everyday
things. You see poor people suffering around you every day; some of you
have yourselves felt how hard it is to be poor. You know that there are
rich people in the world, that they do not work and have all the good
things of life. You also know that your fathers work hard and then
worry about what will happen if they lose their jobs.

Comrade zur Mühlen, who wrote these fairy tales, tells us in a
beautiful way how these things can be stopped. All of us who work must
learn that we can make the world a better place for workers and their
children to live in if we will help one another. She shows us that the
rich people who do not work but keep us enslaved are our enemies; we
must join together, we workers of the world, and stop these wrongs.

Even the pretty, delicate Rose-bush knew how to use her thorns when the
rich lady came near her. The little Sparrow died while seeking a better
land for the Sparrow brothers, but he did not die in vain. The faithful
little grey dog gave his life for the Negro boy who had saved him from
being drowned; and the Crocodile proved that even an ugly, hungry beast
can be more kind than a rich slave-owner. And our little lonely friend
Paul learned that he must not stop asking why things were wrong in the
world, but that he must make comrades of all the workers and teach them
also to ask why, until millions would be asking that question and
seeking to find the answer to it.

When you read these stories, I am sure you will want to lend the book
to all your friends, so that they too may spend some happy hours with
the new friends you have found in the book.


Your loving comrade,

Ida Dailes.








THE ROSE-BUSH


The Rose-bush did not know where she was born and where she spent her
early days—it is a well known fact that flowers have a bad memory, but
to make up for that they can see into the future. When she first became
conscious of herself, she stood in the middle of a magnificent green
lawn. To one side of her she saw a great white stone house, that
gleamed through the branches of linden trees, to the other side stood a
high trellised gate through which she could see the street.

A thin tall man carefully tended the Rose-bush; he brought manure,
bound the drooping twigs of the Rose-bush together with bark, brought
water for the thirsty roots of the Rose-bush to drink. The Rose-bush
was grateful to the man, and as the buds she was covered with opened
into dainty red roses, she said to her friend, “You have taken care of
me, it is because of you that I have become so beautiful. Take some of
my loveliest blossoms in return.”

The man shook his head. “You mean well, dear Rose-bush, and I would
gladly take some of your beautiful blossoms for my sick wife. But I
dare not do it. You don’t belong to me.”

“I don’t belong to you!” exclaimed the Rose-bush. “Don’t I belong to
the person who has taken care of me and troubled himself about me? Then
to whom do I belong?”

The man pointed with his hand to the gleaming white house among the
trees and replied, “To the gracious lady who lives there.”

“That can’t be,” replied the Rose-bush. “I have never seen this lady.
It is not she who has sprinkled water on me, loosened the earth at my
roots, bound together my twigs. Then how can I belong to her?”

“She has bought you.”

“That is something different. Then the poor woman must have worked hard
to save so much money. Good! Half of my blossoms shall belong to her.”

The man laughed a little sadly, saying, “Oh, beloved Rose-bush, you
don’t yet know the world, I can see that. The lady did not lift a
finger to earn the money.”

“Then how did she get it?”

“She owns a great factory in which countless workers drudge; from there
comes her wealth.”

The Rose-bush became angry, lifted a bough up high, threatened the man
with her thorn-claws, shouting, “I see you enjoy yourself at my expense
because I am still young and inexperienced, telling me untruths about
the world of men. Still I am not so stupid, I have observed ants and
bees, and know that to each belongs the things for which he has
worked.”

“That may be so among bees and ants,” the man sighed deeply, “yet among
men it is different. There the people receive just enough to keep them
from starving—all else belongs to the master. The master builds
splendid mansions, plants lovely gardens, buys flowers.”

“Is that really true?”

“Yes.”

The man went back to his work and the Rose-bush began to meditate. Yet
the longer she thought, the worse her temper grew. Yes, even though she
usually had very fine manners, she spoke roughly to a bee who wished to
visit her. The bee was still young and timid, and flew off in fright as
fast as his wings could carry him. Then the Rose-bush was sorry for her
rough behavior, because she was naturally friendly, and also because
she might have asked the bee whether the man had spoken the truth.

While she was so engrossed in thought, suddenly some one shook her and
a mischievous voice asked, “Well, my friend, what are you dreaming
about?”

The Rose-bush looked up with her countless eyes and recognized the
Wind, that stood laughing before her shaking his head so that his long
hair flew about.

“Wind, beloved Wind!” joyfully exclaimed the Rose-bush, “You come as
though you had been called. Tell me whether the man has spoken the
truth.” And she reported everything the man had said to her.

The Wind suddenly became serious and whistled through his teeth so
violently that the branches of the Rose-bush began to tremble. “Yes,”
declared he, “all this is true, and even worse. I come here from all
over the whole world and see everything. Often I am so seized with
anger that I begin to rave; then the stupid people say, ‘My! what a
storm!’”

“And the rich people can really buy everything?”

“Yes,” growled the wind. Then suddenly he laughed. “Not me. They can’t
capture and imprison me. I am the friend of the poor. I fly to all
lands. In big cities, I station myself before ill-smelling cellars and
roar into them ‘Freedom! Justice!’ To tired, overworked people I sing a
lullaby, ‘Be courageous, keep together, fight, you will conquer!’ Then
they feel new strength, they know a comrade has spoken to them.” He
tittered, and all the leaves in the garden stirred. “The rich would
like to imprison me, because I carry the message, but I whistle at
them. At night I rattle their windows so that they become frightened in
their soft beds, and then I cry, ‘Ho ho, you idlers, your time is
coming. Make room for the workers of the world!’ At that they are very
frightened, draw the silken covers over their ears, try to comfort
themselves: ‘It was only the wind!’”

The Wind lifted one of his legs high and pushed it with all his weight
against the magnificent white house. The windows clattered, many things
in the house were broken, a woman’s voice shrieked. The Wind laughed,
then drew his leg back and said to the Rose-bush: “You also can do
something, you flowers. Do not bloom for the rich idlers, and the fruit
trees should not bear fruit. But you are pleasure-loving and lazy
creatures. Look at the Tulips that stand up so sturdily all day, always
saying nothing but ‘How lovely we are!’ They have no other interests.”

The petals of the Rose-bush became a deeper red, so ashamed was she of
her sister-flower.

The Wind noticed this and tried to comfort her. “You appear to be a
sensible, kind-hearted bush. I shall visit you more often. Give me one
of your petals as a parting gift.” He took a deep red petal from a full
blown rose. “Be happy—now I must leave.”

At that moment two poorly-dressed pale children came along the street.
They stopped before the gate and cried as though with one voice, “Oh,
the beautiful roses!” The little girl stretched her hands longingly
toward the blossoms.

“Wind, beloved Wind,” called the Rose-bush, as loud as she could.
“Before you fly away, break off two of my loveliest roses and throw
them to the children. But be careful that the petals do not drop off.”

“Do you think I am so clumsy?” grumbled the insulted Wind, breaking off
two handsome roses, and blew them lightly, gently to the children.

The children shouted joyfully, the Wind flew away, and the Rose-bush
enjoyed the happiness of the children. Her enjoyment did not last long.
An angry voice scolded the children. “What impudence is this, to steal
the flowers out of my garden!”

The Rose-bush saw a silk-clad lady with fingers that were covered with
rings threatening the children. Her smooth face was red with anger. The
children were frightened and ran off crying.

The Rose-bush breathed deep with indignation and her breath blew
sweeter perfume towards the lady’s face. She stepped closer. “Ah, the
beautiful roses. I had better pick them, otherwise the rabble from the
streets will steal them. And they are such an expensive kind.”

At this the Rose-bush became enraged, so that her blossoms blazed a
fiery red. “If I were only strong as the wind,” thought she, “I would
get hold of this evil woman and shake her so that she would become deaf
and blind. Such a common creature has a whole garden full of the most
gorgeous flowers and begrudges the children for two paltry roses. But
you shall not have even one of my blossoms, you bad woman, just wait.”

And as the woman bent down to pick the flowers, the Rose-bush hit her
in the face with a twig, stretching out all her thorns like a cat
stretches out its claws, and scratched up the woman’s face.

She screamed aloud. The woman did not want to cease from her task, but
the Rose-bush was as willful as she; wherever the hand of the woman
reached, a large thorn sprang out and scratched her till she bled.

At last the woman, with torn clothes, with scratched, dirty hands, had
to turn back home.

The Rose-bush was completely tired from the heated struggle. Her many
green arms hung limply, her flowers were paler, she sighed softly. Yet
she thought more deeply and arrived at a mighty resolution.

Late in the evening the Wind came flying to bid the Rose-bush
good-night, and the Rose-bush said to him solemnly, “Listen to me,
Brother Wind, I will follow your advice, I will no longer bloom for the
idlers.”

The Wind caressed the leaves and flowers of the Rose-bush with gentle
hands, saying earnestly, “Poor little Rose-bush, will you have the
strength for that? You will have to suffer a great deal.”

“Yes,” replied the Rose-bush, “I know it. But I will have the strength.
Only you must come every day and sing your song of freedom, so as
always to renew my courage.”

The Wind promised to do this.

Then followed bad days for the Rose-bush, for she had decided not to
drink any water, that she might cease blooming. When her friend came
with the water pot she drew her little roots close to herself, that no
drops might touch them. Ah, how she suffered! she thought she would
faint. In the day-time the sun shone, and she became more thirsty every
hour, always longing more for water. And at last, at evening came the
longed for drink, but she dared not sip the full draught, she had to
turn away from the cool precious liquid, to thirst again. After a while
she thought she could not endure it. But the wind came flying, fanning
her, singing softly and gently, “Be brave, be brave! You will conquer!”

Day after day the Rose-bush gazed at the gleaming white house in which
lived people who had everything they wanted and then looked at the
street where others passed by with thin, pale faces that were tired and
sad, and this brought new strength to her heart.

She became constantly more sick and more weak; her arms hung down
feebly, her blossoms dropped their petals, her leaves became wrinkled
and yellow. The man who tended her watched her sadly and asked. “What
is wrong, my poor Rose-bush?” and he tried every remedy he knew of to
help her. But all in vain. One morning, instead of a handsome, blooming
Rose-bush, he found a miserable, withered, dead bush.

That could not remain there, the withered branches and flowers spoiled
the handsome garden. The gracious lady commanded that the Rose-bush be
thrown out. As the man dug her up, the Rose-bush gathered her remaining
strength and whispered beseechingly, “Take me home! Please, please take
me home!”

The man fulfilled her wish. He planted the Rose-bush in a flower pot
and took her to the poor, small room where he lived. His sick wife sat
up in bed and said, “Ah, the poor Rose-bush, she is as sick as I am,
but you will nurse us both back to health.”

The withered leaves and twigs moaned, “Water! Water!” And the man
understood them and brought in a jar of water. The Rose-bush drank. Oh!
what delight this was! Eagerly her roots sucked up the water, the
delicious moisture passing through all her branches gave her new life.
The next morning she could lift up her branches; the sick woman was as
happy as a child and cried, “She will get well!”

And the Rose-bush really got well. In a short while she again became so
beautiful that the poor little room was as fragrant as a garden. The
pale cheeks of the woman became rosier every day, her strength was
returning. “The Rose-bush has made me well,” said she, and all the
flowers on the Rose-bush glowed deep red with joy when she heard these
words.

The man and his wife were kind people, they gladly shared the little
they had, and carefully broke off some roses to bring joy to tired
people in other lonely rooms.

The roses had other magic powers; the Rose-bush, in her days of
struggle and suffering, had learned the songs of the Wind. Now her
flowers sang them very softly for their friends, “Keep together! Fight!
You will conquer!” Then the people said, “How strange! The perfume of
the flowers brings us new strength. We will fight together for a better
world.”

But to the little children the roses sang in a tender, loving voice:
“Little children, when you are grown up, you will no longer stand sadly
before the gate. The whole world will belong to those who work, the
whole world!”








THE SPARROW


Quarrel and disagreement ruled in the Sparrow family. Mother Sparrow
squatted unhappily in her nest all day and Father Sparrow swore and
grumbled and found fault with everything. The family that had once been
so gay and happy was completely changed. And for all this misery the
youngest Sparrow was to blame. One evening at supper he had declared,
briefly and boldly, “I’m not going to school any more. I’ve had enough
of being insulted by those aristocrats. Above all, I’m tired of all
this life. I want to go out into the world.” He stuck up his bill and
looked at his parents defiantly.

Mother Sparrow was so shocked that all her feathers stood up. She
started helplessly at her naughty son, and all she could do was to say
weakly, “Peep, peep.”

But Father Sparrow opened his mouth so wide in anger that the worm he
had meant to eat slid quickly away. He was a person of action, did not
believe in talking much, and proceeded to beat his son in the face with
his sharp beak.

The young Sparrow screamed more defiantly than ever, “I won’t stay here
any longer. I’ve had enough. I’m going out into the world.”

Then Mother Sparrow found her voice again and said tearfully, “You
wicked child! That’s how you thank your parents for their love. Haven’t
we brought you up well? You are the first sparrow in our village to
attend Professor Swallow’s school of architecture and learn to build
artistic nests. You belong to the best society and mingle with
Swallows, Starlings and Yellow-bills. And this is how you repay us.”

“I don’t care a pin about fine society,” replied the excited young
Sparrow. And he whistled defiantly, “Tweet, tweet!”

“No other Sparrow is studying such a respectable profession,”
despairingly piped Mother Sparrow.

Then the young Sparrow began to make such a fuss that the whole nest
shook. “A respectable profession, truly a beautiful profession. To
build nests in which others live. To slave in the heat of the sun,
carrying straws from all over, to weave them together, to see that
everything is just perfect—and then the fine ladies and gentlemen move
in, and throw me a little worm for my wages, hardly enough for a decent
meal. Above all, these fine people. The swallows, always dressed up in
their frock-coats; the Yellow-bills, always showing off their fine
jewelry. And how they treat our own people, full of pride and scorn.
Common laborer, they call me. I’ve had enough of it. I’m as good as
they are, and maybe better.”

Mother Sparrow shrank in horror, but Father Sparrow blew up until he
nearly burst and shouted, “Be silent, you lost soul, you
whipper-snapper. You talk like a Bolshevik. You forget that I am
chairman of the Council of Jesters. My son must not rebel against law
and order.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Mother Sparrow, “and suppose the neighbors should hear
you! How dreadful!”

The young Sparrow laughed shamelessly, seated himself on the edge of
the nest and whistled a revolutionary song.

Father Sparrow rose hastily and grumbled in an undertone to his wife,
“See to that young fool and make him behave. I must go to the meeting
of the Singing Society.” He flew away without one look at his naughty
son.

Mother Sparrow sighed deeply and asked in a complaining voice, “Now
what is it you really want?”

The young Sparrow came closer, nestled against his mother, and said
with a sweet smile, “I want to go away little mother, far away. To
foreign lands where it is always summer.”

“But son of my heart, you know that even the stupid children of men
learn in their schools that the Sparrow is not a migratory bird.”

“What is that to me? I can’t stand it here any longer. Always seeing
the same things; in the distance the old church steeple, here before
our noses the farm-house, and the dung-hill. No, I want to go away, far
away.”

At that he spread out his wings and pushed himself head first out of
the nest into space. It seemed very dangerous, but his wings carried
him safely through the air.

But the young Sparrow was by no means as joyous and light-hearted as he
seemed to be. The words of his parents had aroused all sorts of doubts
in his mind. “Mother was really right,” he said to himself. “The
Sparrow is not a migratory bird. No one has ever heard of a Sparrow
that has flown across the great ocean and gone to foreign lands. But
why shouldn’t I be the first one to do this?” he asked himself, with
defiant courage. “Some one must always be the first one. If my venture
succeeds, I will have proven to all the Sparrow folk that they need not
freeze and starve in the winter-time, but can move to the warm
countries and live happily. Certainly, the ocean....” The young
Sparrow’s heart lost courage, he thought of what his teacher, the
Swallow had once told him about the great, wild water that never seemed
to end, about the angry frothy waves over which one had to fly daily.
If one’s wings lost their strength, one fell down and was lost. One was
swallowed by the waves.

At these thoughts the Sparrow almost wanted to give up the idea. He
shrank together and began shivering. Then suddenly he thought how in
past hard winters many wretched Sparrows had died of hunger and cold.

“No, no,” said he to himself. “I must not be so cowardly. This matter
does not concern only myself, but all my brother Sparrows, all the
Sparrows of future generations, who will live when I have been long
dead. It will be worth every danger and every sacrifice if I can help
them to a happier life.”

And the brave young Sparrow decided to leave the next day.

He spent that night in his parents’ nest, nestled close to his mother,
wept a little secretly because it was hard for him to leave. Father
returned late, and he was quite drunk, threw himself on his bed so that
it cracked and fell asleep immediately.

The grey-white sky began to turn rosy, morning came flying on the wings
of the wind and brought light to the world. The young Sparrow awoke,
looked for the last time at his sleeping parents, and flew forth. He
knew in which direction he must fly, for he remembered the stories of
the Swallows. Now he flew exactly that way.

The sun climbed higher into the heavens, it became hotter and hotter,
the poor Sparrow could hardly breathe. His wings were so tired and sore
that he could hardly lift them. Still he flew further. He had resolved
not to rest until the shadows would fall upon the earth.

Never had he lived through so long a day. Vainly his bright little eyes
explored the heavens, but the great golden sphere of the sun shone
brightly, would not go down.

“I was a fool,” thought the Sparrow. “Now I might be sitting at home in
our nest, or be bathing in the puddle by the cherry-tree. Ah, how
pleasant it would be to bathe; at this moment even the ocean would not
be too large.”

Still he flew steadily on. But now he flew slowly, every beat of his
wings caused him dreadful pain. He began to hate the sun, this
merciless glowing red sphere that would not go down. To give himself
courage, he made up a little song, singing it very softly and moving
his tired wings in time to its rhythm.


           “My cause is the cause of my brothers,
            My strength must save them all;
            If I fail I do wrong to the others,
            And their chains will never fall.”


At last, at last, great black shadows fell upon the earth. A refreshing
breeze came flying, coolly fanning the weary Sparrow, carrying him
gently along on its mighty wings.

As the sun went down behind a blue hill, the tired Sparrow alighted on
a large meadow. He lay panting in the tall grass. The soft chirping of
the crickets lulled him to sleep; his eyes closed.

Rough, loud voices of men awakened him. Under a knotty old nut tree he
saw two ragged, dust-covered men seated. One of them pulled his torn
boots off, looked woefully at his blistered feet and said, “I can’t run
any more, I must rest a day.”

“Just another half hour,” the other man said comfortingly. “Just to the
next railroad station. There we will hide in a freight car and ride
until morning. Then it will not be far to the sea.”

The Sparrow had listened carefully to their conversation. “So people
get tired, too,” thought he, “and then they ride. I don’t know what
that means, but I know that one does not tire oneself that way. If
people ride, why shouldn’t Sparrows also ride?” He decided to follow
the men, and since they left in a short time he flew after them.

They arrived at a house in front of which two shining bands were
stretched on the ground. Now night had really come. All was hidden in
darkness, only the stars shone faintly in the sky. The Sparrow stayed
near the two men and waited.

Suddenly something dreadful appeared. Through the darkness a gigantic
black beast came rattling, its red eyes shining so brightly that one
could see them from a great distance, it puffed and panted, the earth
shook after it. It shrieked frightfully as it came near. Then suddenly
it stopped. It let out clouds of smoke from its long black nose.

The Sparrow was astonished that neither of the two men, nor the rest of
the people, seemed to be afraid of the monster. On the contrary, they
ran up to it, disappearing in its smoke. Then the Sparrow saw that the
monster pulled some black houses behind it. He saw the two men sneak
into one of these houses and flew on to the roof of the same house.
Scarcely had he settled himself when the monster again began to puff
and pant and started on its journey.

The poor Sparrow thought he would die of fright. The monster rushed
with such speed that the little bird could not hear or see. At home he
had often flown with the wind for the sport of it and had enjoyed the
swift motion. But this was altogether different. He made himself very
small, settled himself firmly, and believed his last hour had come. If
men called this rest they surely are strange creatures. Perhaps it
wasn’t so terrible where the people were. He was a clever Sparrow and
when the monster stopped again to take breath, he flew down from the
roof of the house and examined it. The door was not quite closed. The
Sparrow squeezed through the crack, entered a dark room where many
boxes were piled. He squatted on one of the chests and waited to see
what would happen.

The monster began to run again. The Sparrow laughed with joy; now he
had guessed right. He sat here quietly, comfortably, and the monster
had to slave to carry him further. So this is what people call “to
ride.” Truly, people are not so stupid as he had thought.

The countless feet of the monster pounded over the earth singing a
rattling, rumbling, monotonous song. The Sparrow understood the words
to mean “Into the distance! Into the distance!” For a while he listened
to the song, then he fell asleep.

He must have slept a long time. When he awoke the sun was high in the
sky and its rays came into the dark room through narrow cracks in the
door. The Sparrow saw that his two acquaintances had hidden themselves
between two tall boxes. They seemed to be in good humor, chatting with
one another and laughing.

“We have traveled a good part of our journey without trouble,” said the
older one. “Now we only have to walk another day and ride another
night. Then we will reach the ocean.”

“How long will we have to swim?”

“About five days.”

The Sparrow was frightened. Five days he would have to swim over the
endless waters, five long days he could not rest or cease if he wished
to save himself from sinking into the waves. How could he endure it? He
began to reflect carefully. Could men swim so long in water? He had
seen boys bathing in the village pond, yet they would come out of the
water in a short time and none of them ever remained in the water all
day long. But perhaps there were also tame monsters which carried men
over the water. Again he decided not to leave the two men and to do
everything they did.

When the two men jumped, unnoticed, off the freight train at a railway
station, the Sparrow followed them. He flew very close to them. He felt
that they were both his friends and so long as he would not leave them
nothing would happen to him.

All day long the men journeyed, walking through fields and meadows,
through little villages with queer pointed church steeples. The younger
of the two men limped, he could only walk slowly. This was very
pleasing to the Sparrow, because he did not have to move fast, he could
fly comfortably. When the men stopped, the Sparrow followed their
example, meantime seeking his food, as the long journey made him
unusually hungry. He also chatted with a few strange birds, all of whom
advised him not to continue his dangerous journey. The migratory birds
looked him over scornfully, saying with a sneer, “Do you believe you
can do the same as we distinguished people? To travel, to see the
world, to spend the winter in warm countries—that is not for common
people.”

An old blackbird minister, black-frocked and solemn, delivered a sermon
to him from a branch. “We must obey God’s commandments. God has
ordained that Sparrows must spend the winter in the north.”

“If God has decreed that all our people shall freeze and starve and
that only the aristocrats, the Capitalists, like the Swallows and
Starlings, shall fly away to the warm places, I don’t want to know
anything about him!” cried the Sparrow and his feathers bristled up in
anger.

The old blackbird minister primped his shining feathers with his bill
and growled senselessly. But the Sparrow was sad. “How cruel the birds
are to one another,” he thought to himself. “I want to do something
that will help all and am just laughed at. Can’t anybody understand
me?”

“Hark, hark!” called a soft voice from a great height, and a young Lark
shot downward as swift as lightning to the side of the sad Sparrow. “I
understand you. Everybody jeers at me too, because I don’t fly close to
the earth like they do, but always seek to fly higher and higher, into
the blue sky. Do not be downcast, beloved brother, you will reach your
goal.”

The young Lark flew quite close to the Sparrow, looked at him and said,
“Fly a little for me, brother, so I can see how strong your wings are.”

The Sparrow flew up, hovering over the Lark.

As he returned she looked at him sadly and said earnestly, “Your wings
cannot carry you over the great ocean, my poor friend. But you must not
give up on account of that, you must do as men do, who cannot fly and
yet travel all over the world. They have invented a sort of house that
swims over the water. They call it a ship. You must....”

The Sparrow did not wait to hear the end. The two men had left during
the conversation, and now the Sparrow saw them in the distance looking
like two dark spots. Frightened, he cried. “My two men have left me,”
and he flew after them as fast as he could.

When it grew dark, the men once again sneaked into a freight train. The
Sparrow followed them and slept all night, while the black monster
again took him over hills and mountains, past rivers and streams.

As dawn came, the two men crept out of the train and the Sparrow flew
after them. They walked for a little while, then the Sparrow saw an
immense body of water lying before him. Endless, extending beyond his
vision, this blue-gray body of water extended, and on its surface
stormed wild, white-capped, monstrously high billows.

So this was the ocean! Never had the Sparrow felt so small and helpless
as at the sight of this dreadful water. What was he in comparison to
this? A poor, helpless little bird, a tiny something. Deep sighs lifted
his little breast, from his bright eyes the tears fell. “If I were only
at home, in the safe little nest,” cried he to himself. “I could creep
under mother’s wings as I did when I was little.”

The waves roared dismally, threateningly; the white froth squirted
upwards. The two men walked unconcernedly on the damp, sandy ground.
With beating heart the Sparrow followed them. And then he saw something
surprising. In a great bay some strange things tossed. They were
something like a house, but had few windows and tall chimneys from
which streamed heavy grey smoke; some things that looked like a forest;
bare trees without branches seemed to grow in it. Although these trees
bore neither fruit not leaves, the Sparrow was delighted to see them.
They gave him confidence. He began to feel at home. But how strange it
was that these houses with trees on them were tossed up and down by the
waves. Suddenly the Sparrow remembered the words of the Lark. “Men call
these houses that swim on the water ‘ships’.” So these were ships! On
one of these tossing, swimming houses he would journey to warm lands.

But which should he choose?

It occurred to him that at home the largest trees could best withstand
the wind. Evidently the same was true of ships, and so he must choose
the largest.

His two friends went to a small ship, and the Sparrow piped, “Good
luck! Good luck!” but they did not hear him.

The Sparrow flew on to an immense ship from whose chimneys streamed
great clouds of grey smoke, and hid himself high up at the top of one
of the leafless trees.

What noise and excitement there was below. Countless people ran hither
and thither, calling and shouting to one another; something rattled,
something clattered, the great chimneys shrieked loudly. A bridge that
attached the boat to the land flew up into the air, then fell into the
boat with a bang. The boat started on its journey. Slowly, solemnly it
cut through the water that bubbled on either side. The large house with
the leafless trees, the little bird’s new home, swam away from the
land.

The Sparrow’s mind was quite confused with the noise and hurry. And now
another great fright came to him. Suddenly a young fellow climbed up
his tree. The Sparrow believed that he wanted to capture him, but the
fellow didn’t seem to notice him and after a little while climbed back.
As it grew dark, the boat became quiet and one could only hear the
noise of the waves. The Sparrow flew down from his tree and sat down on
the roof, where he soon fell asleep.

When he awoke in the morning, he thought he would die of fear. The land
had disappeared. Wherever he looked he saw only water; great grey waves
rolled against the ship, shaking it gently as a soft wind shakes the
nests in the trees. Nowhere a tree, a shrub, a flower. The boat swam
all alone on the great ocean, that would not end.

The poor Sparrow felt quite lonesome and deserted. “If I could just
find any bird,” sighed he. “Even if it were a haughty Swallow or a
strange Blackbird. At least I could speak with some one who knows my
world, who speaks my language.” Finally he lost all his courage and
began to weep bitterly.

“Who are you?” suddenly asked a thin, piping voice, and the Sparrow
beheld a little mouse standing before him, who stared at him with large
round eyes.

The Sparrow was happy, for he was acquainted with mice at home. He bent
down and hopefully answered the questions of the mouse.

“You are a brave Sparrow,” she said, after she had heard his story. “I
bid you welcome to my ship.”

“To your ship?” exclaimed the Sparrow. “I thought that the ship belongs
to the people.”

“The people also believe that,” replied the Mouse sharply. “But don’t
you know that people believe that everything belongs to them?”

“That is true. The farmer at home believed that the church-steeple was
his, and yet it is quite clear that the church-steeple was made for us
Sparrows.”

While they were speaking thus, a very old mouse came over and began to
speak. “Not all people believe that everything belongs to them,” said
she learnedly. “There are also people who do not possess anything. You
can observe that on the ship. Above live people in large, beautiful
rooms, and eat all day long. My mouth waters when I smell the rich
foods that are set before them.”

“But down below the people are crowded together, so that they can
hardly find place to lie down at night, and many have only dry bread
along with them to eat on the whole journey. This stupid phrase ‘my
boat’ you have also learned from men,” she said scolding the mouse.
“You know that the common things are ours. Don’t let me hear false
words from you.”

“Excuse me, grandmother,” begged the young Mouse.

“You are a stranger here,” said the Grandmother Mouse to the Sparrow.
“We will be helpful to you, so that you can endure the long journey. I
advise you not to fly to the rich people, they will play with you a day
or two, and then forget you. Indeed, it is only among the poor people,
on the lower deck, that you will find a few breadcrumbs, and these
people will be good to you because they know how a poor, unfortunate
creature feels.”

The Sparrow followed the advice of the wise Grandmother Mouse and soon
realized that she had spoken truthfully. The children were delighted
with him, and they spared him breadcrumbs from the few that were
provided for their own little mouths. And because they were children,
they understood the language of the Sparrow, and chatted with him. In
this way the Sparrow heard many sad stories. The children told of
poverty and distress, how hard parents had to work and how often there
was nothing to eat at home. The honest Sparrow felt very sad to hear
this. “There must also be a beautiful land for men, where conditions
are good and they do not have to hunger and freeze,” said he to his
little friend.

“Perhaps,” said a pale little girl. “But we have not yet found the road
to it.”

“When I am big,” declared a little boy dressed in black, “then I will
go out to search for that land. When I find it I will lead all the poor
people to it.”

The two mice also visited the Sparrow often, they always came towards
evening, when all was quiet.

So passed a long time, and one day the Sparrow saw land in the
distance, saw houses and trees and knew that now his goal was reached.

The grey ocean had become quite blue and gleamed in the sunshine. It
was very hot, and Grandmother Mouse said that in this land there was no
winter.

When the ship landed, the Sparrow flew after his friends for a while
and then contemplated his new home.

All the people had brown faces and wore strange clothes. The faces of
the women were covered so that one could only see their large black
eyes. He also saw queer animals that walked on four legs and had great
humps on their backs. Even the trees were different than those at home,
there were some with long pointed leaves and brown fruit that the
Sparrow relished. There was plenty to eat; here no Sparrow had to
suffer hunger, and there was no snow or cold.

“Isn’t this also the right country for the poor people?” the Sparrow
asked himself. But then he saw that in this sunny land there were also
rich and poor, that some were richly dressed and others wore rags, that
some lazy ones rode in handsome carriages and some dragged heavy
burdens. And he thought, “It is much easier to find a Sparrow paradise
than a land in which people may enjoy happiness.” This pained him,
because on his journey he had learned to love the poor people. “But how
strange this is. People can tame wild animals to carry them through all
lands, they know how to build houses that swim on the water and yet
they are so poor and destitute and let a few evil wretches take
everything for themselves.”

Now that he had reached the warm country, the Sparrow rested from his
long and wearisome journey, flew about lazily, and spent each night in
a different tree.

One day he came to a beautiful green stream and flew along its course.
He came to a great, large plain. At first he thought he had reached the
ocean again, but as far as he could see lay fine yellow sand. In the
distance he saw something rising out of the sand which looked like a
monstrous animal. He flew closer to it and saw that it really was a
gigantic creature with the head of a human being and two large paws. It
was made of grey-brown stone and was partly covered with sand.

The ugly animal lay quite still and grinned angrily. The Sparrow
curtseyed carefully: would the beast wish to eat him? But no, it
graciously acknowledged his greeting and said: “I have been lying here
thousands of years, yet I have never seen a bird like you. Who are you?
What are you doing here?”

The Sparrow related his story and the great beast listened patiently.
Then the little bird inquired, “Will you tell me who you are? We have
no animals like you at home.”

The great beast laughed and replied, “People call me the Sphinx. I am
so old that I have lost count of my years; have seen everything, know
everything.”

“In my country the Owls say that, too,” was the Sparrow’s pert remark.

The Sphinx looked at him angrily. “The Owl is a conceited boaster!” he
cried excitedly.

“Excuse me!” stammered the Sparrow, frightened. “I did not wish to
insult you. You look much older than the Owl.”

“Indeed I am. I count my years by the thousands.”

“How much you must have seen!” cried the Sparrow.

The Sphinx opened her gigantic mouth and yawned so hugely that the sand
flew about her as though a whirlwind had hit it.

“Since the year 1000,” said she. “I always see the same; I see people
who have riches and joy, forcing their starving slaves to drudge. At
first the slaves were driven with whips which the overseer used to beat
them with when they became tired from the heat of the sun. Often these
slaves were kept at work with chains on their feet so that they should
not run away. Later the whips disappeared, the masters bragged of their
kindness, saying, ‘In these progressive times, no man is a slave.’ But
secretly they concealed a dreadful whip, Hunger, and this drove the
people to slavery as surely as the whip they had used previously. I see
people pass here, rich strangers who visit this country out of
curiosity, and see the poor Arabs, who work as muleteers and drag heavy
stones, and are barely kept alive with a few dates and a little corn,
just like their ancestors thousands of years ago.”

The Sphinx became silent, gazing gloomily at the desert. Then she spoke
again, “For thousands of years there were gorgeously dressed, jeweled
priests here, who belonged in the same class as the rich people. They
preached to the people, threatening them with the anger of the gods if
they became dissatisfied with their fate. Today these priests are
dressed in black, but they also lie and stand by the rich ones, they
also worship a God who was a bad mechanic. It has always been the same,
for thousands of years.” And again the Sphinx yawned.

“Can’t you also see into the future, wise Beast?” bashfully questioned
the Sparrow.

“Yes, I can also see that. Listen to my words, little bird. A day will
come when all slaves will arise in a dreadful struggle against their
oppressors. After long bloody battles they will conquer and then there
will be a new world, where everything belongs to all the people and all
people are free. Even today the earth trembles in happy expectation,
and in the quiet night I feel its trembling. For thousands of years I
have not spoken to any being, I will only speak again when the day of
freedom dawns. Then my voice will join in the jubilations of the freed
people.”

The Sparrow flew out of the desert where he could find nothing to eat,
back to the green stream, and enjoyed many pleasant days there.

One day he was sitting on a stone on the bank of the stream, when he
heard familiar voices, “Tweet! Tweet!”

He looked up and saw three Swallows who flew slowly toward him.

“Are you here already?” the Sparrow asked in surprise.

“Certainly, certainly,” twittered the Swallows. “At home rough winds
are blowing, the frost is in the meadows at night, winter is coming.”

How frightened the Sparrow was at that. Here in this beautiful land
where he had plenty of fat worms and warm sunshine, he had forgotten
about his Sparrow brothers. And in the meantime the deadly winter had
come! He must rush home to teach them how to reach the sunny land.
Would he reach there in time? How selfish he had been; if Sparrows were
freezing and starving at home, it was his fault.

Even while he was thinking this he spread out his little wings and flew
toward the ocean.

In the harbor many silvery-white Seagulls flew about, crying with
shrill voices, “A storm is coming! A storm is coming!”

“Which ship is going north?” he asked hastily.

“None,” answered a Seagull; but this was not true, they were
disagreeable birds and wanted to frighten the Sparrow.

But he believed them. “Then I must fly over the ocean,” thought he,
fearfully. “I must do it, for on me depends the life or death of my
Sparrow brothers. I must make good.”

Sadly he looked back once more on the wonderland; then flew out on the
great waters.

Wild waves dashed up, the storm howled and rain fell. In a few hours,
the Sparrow was so tired that he could no longer fly high. The billows
made his feathers wet, they were heavy with the water and drew him
deeper and deeper down. A monstrous wave reached out for him with white
arms and the Sparrow fell into the ocean and was swallowed by the
waves.

For that reason the Sparrows must still freeze and starve every winter,
for there has not been another courageous Sparrow to show them the way
to the sunny country.

But had the Sparrow suffered so much and died in vain?

No, the little black-haired boy on the ship had paid special attention
to the story which the Sparrow had told him and had listened to what
the Sparrow wanted to do for his Sparrow brothers, and this the little
boy wanted to do for his fellow-humans. He grew up, and wherever
oppressed workers struggled against their oppressors, he was the
leader. But the story of the black-haired boy, of his life and his
death, is another tale and does not belong here.








THE LITTLE GREY DOG


He was an ugly grey dog with long silken-soft ears and a bushy tail. He
was born in a splendid stable that belonged to a rich man. This rich
man lived on a large estate in which were fields and meadows. And in
these fields grew sugarcane, in great quantities, great, round, smooth
canes that contained the sweet sugar. On the sugar plantations worked
hundreds of Negroes, men and women, and the Negroes belonged to the
rich man who had bought them in the market as he would buy cattle, for
this story happened long ago, in those days when slavery existed in
America. The rich man could do anything he wished with his slaves. If
he was in a bad mood he would permit them to be whipped; if they dared
to protest against this cruel treatment they were more cruelly
punished—they were stripped naked, smeared with honey, and tied to a
tree. The smell of the honey attracted the bees that came in large
swarms, settled on the body of the slave, sucked the honey and stung
the bound man till he collapsed with pain. Also, the master could sell
his slave, did this frequently, without the least consideration,
tearing mother from child, separating man and wife, sister and brother.
The poor Negroes were completely helpless, they had to work all day
long in the hot sun, received very poor food, lived in wretched huts,
separated from the house of the rich man by a mighty river. Here lived
the Negroes, crowded together; the children played about in front of
these huts, played happily, because they did not yet know that they
were slaves and that a hard, difficult life awaited them.

In one of the Negro huts arrived the little grey dog who had been born
in the splendid stable, and this is how it happened.

Once when the rich man walked through the stable, he noticed the little
grey dog who was playing in the straw. He examined the little dog, and
said angrily to the coachman, “What is this ugly little creature doing
here in my beautiful stable? Take it out, drown it in the river.”

The coachman promised to do this; indeed he pitied the lively little
animal, but the master was strict and he did not dare to disobey the
command. He called the little dog, who came running joyously, and
started toward the river. As he came near the homes of the slaves, a
little black boy ran out of one of the huts and cried, “O, the lovely
little animal! Where are you taking it?” And he ran quite close to them
and patted the dog, who mischievously jumped at him, barking.

“I must drown the dog,” answered the coachman.

At that the eyes of the little boy filled with tears, he took the dog
in his arms, held him close, and begged, “Don’t do it, just see how
darling he is!”

“I must do it, Benjamin. The master has commanded me. If I don’t obey
him he will punish me severely.”

The little grey dog licked Benjamin’s face, looked at him with his
large eyes that seemed to implore him, “Save me, save me!”

“Give me the dog,” pleaded Benjamin. “I will hide him well so that the
master will not see him.”

The coachman thought for a moment, then replied, “Good, you may hide
him. But,” he said warningly, “you must not betray the fact that I have
given him to you. If the master should ever see him, you must say that
you saved him from the river. Then he will give you a bad beating....”

“That doesn’t matter,” cried Benjamin eagerly. “As long as the little
dog is allowed to live.”

The coachman laughed, removed the string from the neck of the dog, and
Benjamin ran to the hut with him, patting him, kissing him, full of
joy. At evening when Benjamin’s parents came home, he showed them the
dog, and the parents also were happy because they had to be away from
home all day and always feared that the little boy might go to the
river, fall in and be drowned. But now he would stay near the huts with
his playfellow, so that he might hide himself quickly in case the rich
man might pass by.

It was as though the little grey dog knew that Benjamin had saved his
life. He did not leave the side of the little boy, obeyed him, and
showed himself to be quite intelligent. Benjamin spoke to him like to a
person, and the dog looked at him as wisely as though he understood
every word.

Benjamin’s parents were young and strong, the best workers on the sugar
plantation. Therefore the severe overseer was satisfied with them and
beat them less often than he did the other slaves. On that account they
were both, in spite of their hard life, satisfied, and in the evenings
when they returned to their hut and their little Benjamin, all three of
them were gay and happy.

Benjamin’s mother Hannah was also an excellent seamstress, she knew how
to weave pretty baskets from reeds and rushes, and was a very good
cook.

One day the eldest daughter of the rich man, who lived with her husband
in the north, come to visit her father. She was glad to see her old
home again and everything seemed to her more beautiful than in the
north. She complained of the trouble she had in getting servants in the
city. “These whites are not nearly as desirable as the blacks,” said
she. “They cannot be driven to work with whips. You should present me
with a good slave, father, so that it will be more comfortable for me.
My husband will be quite angry about it, for the people in the north
are crazy, they claim that the blacks are also human beings, and that
slavery must be abolished. But he loves me dearly, and will be glad if
he sees me happy.”

The rich man thought a while and said, “The young slaves that I own are
all clumsy, incapable; the old ones of course could not become
accustomed to living in a large city and would be more trouble than
help to you. Whom can I give you?”

He considered for a moment, then cried happily, “Now I know, Hannah is
just the right one for you. How could I forget her? Of course, she has
a little boy....”

“I don’t want him,” the daughter interrupted. “My dear little son must
not play with a dirty Negro child. You can keep Hannah’s son here.”

“You are a good mother, my beloved child,” said the rich man, moved.
“You always think of your son. Good, Benjamin shall remain here and
when you go back to the city tomorrow, I will give you Hannah to take
along. I will immediately tell the overseer, so that he may tell her to
be ready.”

And the rich man called a servant and bade him bring the overseer.

Ah, what a sad night that was in the little hut of the Negroes. Poor
Hannah hugged her little son close in her arms and cried as though her
heart would break. Her husband Tom gazed at her with worried eyes and
was so miserable that he could not say a word. Hannah kept looking
anxiously toward the little window, trembling with the fear of seeing
the first ray of light that meant that day was near, when she would
leave her loved ones.

The little grey dog seemed to understand the grief of his friends, he
nestled quite close to Hannah’s coat, looking up at them with loving,
clever eyes. Then Hannah cried loudly, “If they sell you, too, Tom,
what will become of our poor child?” The little dog laid his paw on
little Benjamin as though to say, “Don’t fear, poor mother, I will take
care of him.”

Hannah noticed this, sobbingly patted the shaggy head of the dog, and
said to him, “Guard my little boy, you good dog. We are all as helpless
and deserted as you.”

The following morning, poor Hannah, weeping bitterly, rode off with the
young woman. Her family was not allowed to see her off, for Tom had to
work in the field and Benjamin, like all the slaves, was forbidden to
come near the house of the rich man.

Little Benjamin lived through many sad days. His father was so unhappy
that he no longer wanted to work, and many evenings he would return
home with his back all bloody. Instead of the caressing and joy to
which Benjamin was accustomed there was an unaccustomed silence in the
house. Tom sat sadly on the ground, sometimes stroking sadly the wooly
head of his little son, but never speaking. Only once in a while he
would cry out, “Hannah!” and sigh deeply, while great tears rolled down
his black face. And sometimes he would clench his fist, looking so
angry that Benjamin took the little dog and crawled into a corner with
him.

The overseer was always unsatisfied with Tom, he complained to the
master of the laziness and obstinacy of the slave. Had poor Tom known
the results of his disobedience, he would have worked as industriously
as he used to, in spite of his anger and unhappiness.

The rich man celebrated his birthday. There was a great feast, chickens
and calves and lambs were roasted, rich foods could be smelled all
through the house, the servants brought countless bottles from the
wine-cellar. After supper the young guests danced in the large hall,
the older men seated themselves at a table and began to play cards.

The rich man had no luck, he lost again and again, until at last his
purse was empty. “One more game,” said he to his friend who had won all
the money, “We will gamble for my strongest and best slave.” And he
thought to himself, “If I lose Tom, that will not be a misfortune, for
lately he is lazy and obstinate, anyhow.”

His friend agreed. The whole life and fate of a human being depended
upon a few cards, a bundle of paper. The rich man drew a card, his
friend did the same. They threw the cards on the table. The rich man
had lost.

When Tom came to work the following morning, the overseer told him to
go to the house of the rich man, the master had sold him and his new
master would take him to his estate at once.

That evening Benjamin waited in vain for the return of his father.
Night came, it was quite dark, and his father did not come. Benjamin
sat huddled on the threshold, peering anxiously into the darkness. The
little grey dog lay near him. He was sad and quiet, he seemed to feel
that something was wrong. At last Benjamin could stand it no longer,
ran crying to the hut of a neighbor, and asked about his father. The
stout negress informed him that a strange master had taken Tom with him
that morning; he was sold and would not return.

Benjamin went home crying, afraid of the dark, holding the little dog,
his only friend, tight in his arms. And now something strange happened.
When Benjamin, sobbing, started to tell the little dog of this sorrow,
the dog began to bark softly. But it was not an ordinary bark, but
speech, and Benjamin understood very well the words, “Don’t cry, little
friend, I will take care of you and guard you. And some day we will go
to search for your parents.”

Benjamin was so astonished at this, that he stopped crying. “What!”
cried he, surprised, “you can speak, like a human being?”

The dog shook his shaggy head. “Yes, when the rich people act like wild
beasts against the poor people, we animals must help them. When a human
being is very unhappy and forsaken, he understands our language and
knows that we wish him well. I have not forgotten, little Benjamin,
that you saved my life. I want to thank you. Lie down on the straw,
sleep, I will watch over you.”

A little comforted, the little boy obeyed, and the dog sat down near
him, guarding him all night, licking Benjamin’s hand with his warm
tongue occasionally.

Then came hard times for little Benjamin. The stout lady who was his
neighbor took him to her hut, but she was not good to him. She forced
him to carry water from the river in a heavy bucket, and made him do
all kinds of hard work. And the worst was yet to come. One day the rich
man passed by the huts of the Negroes and saw Benjamin. “A strong boy,”
he said. “He can work in the fields already.” And from then on the
little boy had to work in the fields in the heat of the sun till he
thought he would die of weariness.

At evening, tired, he would crawl into the hut, bury his head in the
hide of the grey dog, cry, and draw comfort from his only friend.

One evening, his back all bloody and his face swollen, Benjamin came
home. The overseer had been in a bad temper, had beaten the little boy
with a whip and hit him in the face with his fist.

“I want to die,” cried Benjamin, while the dog softly and gently licked
his wounds. “I can’t stand it any longer. My parents are gone, I am
entirely deserted, everyone is unkind to me. Dog, dear dog, what shall
I do?”

“Run away,” replied the dog.

“Where to? They will catch me and beat me again.”

The dog thought hard for a while.

“We must go north,” said he at last. “There people are better than they
are here. They do not want the Negroes to be slaves. We must run away
there.”

“I don’t know the way,” complained Benjamin.

“I will lead you. Morning and night, when everybody is asleep, we will
go.”

And so it happened. The moon was a small white sickle in the sky, the
great trees tossed weird, black shadows on the earth, all was deathly
quiet, only once in a while the leaves rustled sleepily. Benjamin and
the dog ran softly on their tiptoes, out of the hut, and went toward
the great river. All night they wandered along the side of the river,
and when morning came the dog looked for a safe hiding place, for the
short legs of little Benjamin had not carried him very far, and there
was still the danger that the servants of the rich man might trace him.

While the dog was running restlessly back and forth to find a safe
place, Benjamin sat on the bank of the river, letting his tired,
burning feet hang in the water. Suddenly he was dreadfully frightened
and drew his feet back hastily. A large pointed head thrust itself
through the water, a gigantic mouth opened, showing two rows of
dreadful teeth, and a deep voice growled, “A fine morsel, just right
for breakfast.”

Benjamin screamed aloud and the dog came running quickly to him. Though
he was himself a little frightened, he whispered to Benjamin, “That is
an alligator. Step back and let me speak to him.”

The little boy obeyed and the dog addressed himself with cajoling
courtesy to the alligator, saying, “Excuse us for having come to your
kingdom, mighty lord of the river, but we are fleeing from evil people
and know that you with your power will be good enough to defend us.”

The alligator felt flattered, drew his gigantic mouth into a friendly
grin, and replied politely, “You are a clever animal. I am truly more
mighty than people, and,” he agreed pensively, “neither are we as bad
as they. But this creature that sat with his feet hanging in the water
is also a human being. Then why is he running away from his brothers?”
And the shiny, greenish eyes of the alligator looked distrustfully at
the dog.

“You surely know, wise and mighty animal, that the rich people are
merciless to the poor, as though they were the wildest beasts. That is
because there is no more greedy animal than this man. He is never
satisfied, he always wants more: food and drink and houses, but above
all, gold. That makes him so mean. My little friend is a poor child who
must work for a rich man. He was torn away from his parents, and beaten
until the blood flowed. I advised him to run away. And now we beg that
you help us, for any moment the servants of the rich man may appear and
capture my little friend.”

The alligator shook his pointed head thoughtfully and said: “People are
peculiar creatures. No alligator would torment a little alligator,
neither do we know the difference between rich and poor, and still it
is said that we are evil animals. It is true that I would like to eat
your little friend for breakfast, yet I will be merciful to him. I will
also show you a safe hiding place. Do you see that little island? The
servants of the rich man will not find you there.”

“We thank you, mighty animal; but how can we reach the island? The
water is rough and deep, and my little friend can’t swim.”

“I will carry you over on my back,” answered the alligator.

Benjamin and the dog seated themselves on the scaly back of the animal,
and it began to swim. What a strange journey that was! The waves played
over the back of the alligator and the dog was afraid that the
alligator might change his mind and eat both of them for breakfast. For
that reason he spoke continuously to the alligator, flattered him,
praised his goodness and declared solemnly that the alligators are the
noblest animals in the world. This trick did not fail in its purpose.
When they landed on the island, the alligator called twelve of the
strongest alligators to him, instructing them that they must not harm a
hair on the boy or the dog, that they were his guests. He also
commanded them to swim along the bank of the river  and stand guard,
keeping the people from coming to the island. This was well done, for
when the sun was high in the heavens, five men appeared, sent by the
rich man to look for Benjamin. One pointed to the island, started to go
into the water, when an immense alligator pushed his head out of the
water and the man crept back. “He can’t be there,” said the man to his
companions. “The alligators here must have eaten him.”

Benjamin and the dog rested all day on the island. The little boy ate
the sweet berries that grew there, drank from a well, and at evening
the alligator carried them back again to the bank and bade them a
friendly farewell.

Today traveling was more difficult than it had been yesterday, for
Benjamin’s feet were blistered, he groaned and complained at every
step. The dog comforted him, encouraged him, let him ride on his back a
little while though the boy was too heavy and after a few minutes the
dog’s bones would crack and he would have to lie down. Deep sorrow
tormented the dog, surely the servants of the rich man were somewhere
in the neighborhood, determined not to return home without the boy. And
even if they were not found, how far was it to the north? How will we
get there if Benjamin is already too tired to go further?

Toward midnight they suddenly saw a fire burning on a meadow. People
must be there. The dog dragged the boy into some thick bushes, told him
to keep still, crept softly toward the fire. A pot hung over the fire,
and a blond man sat before it. Close by stood a wagon with large
wheels, to which a brown horse was harnessed. The dog looked at the man
very searchingly. He looked different from the people at home, had a
very light skin, kind blue eyes; surely he was a northerner. But was he
a good man? Then the dog remembered that only very good people
understand the language of animals, and the dog decided to tell him the
story of little Benjamin. Carefully he came closer to the fire and said
softly, “Good evening, man. Are you a northerner?”

The man looked at him in surprise, but, oh joy, he had understood the
words and answered, “Good evening, my friend. Yes, I am a northerner.
Do you want to eat something? My supper will soon be ready.”

“I am not hungry,” replied the dog. “But I want some help.” And then he
told the story of little Benjamin.

The blond man became red with anger and his eyes sparkled. This made
the dog happy. “He is really a good man,” thought he, “for only good
people are angered by the sufferings of other people.” When he was
through speaking, the man said, “Bring your little friend here quickly.
My horse has rested enough. We will ride off immediately so that no one
can capture Benjamin.”

How happy the little grey dog was! In spite of his weariness, he danced
with joy, wagging his tail, and started toward the bushes where
Benjamin was hidden. Then he saw something dreadful. A man came over
the meadow with a dog, which ran straight towards the bushes. The grey
dog howled with fright. The blond man looked up, jumped forward and
called to the dog, “Keep the man back just a moment, and all will yet
be well.” At that the dog ran toward the man. The man had reached the
bush, with one bound the dog leaped at his throat, bit it hard, did not
loosen his hold in spite of cuts and blows.

In the meantime the northerner had taken little Benjamin in his arms,
ran hastily toward the wagon, jumped in, and called to the dog, “Follow
us, we will wait for you in a safe place.” Then he cracked his whip,
started on the road, the brown horse galloped ahead for it knew
everything that was going on.

The grey dog still gripped the man’s throat, thinking every moment that
if he could detain the man, it would be an advantage to the good man
and little boy, and would save his friend. But the man, tired of
wrestling, took a large knife from his pocket and plunged it deep into
the breast of the faithful dog. The dog whimpered piteously and fell
heavily to the ground. His clouded eyes still saw, far off in the
distance, a tiny spot that kept growing smaller and smaller; that was
the wagon which was carrying little Benjamin to freedom.

Great joy filled the dog’s heart. He wagged his bushy tail once more.
Then he died.

The blond man and little Benjamin waited a long time in vain for the
grey dog. Benjamin wept bitterly, and his new friend comforted him:
“The brave dog will come running back. All is well with him.”

But though Benjamin was safe, he was always sad when he thought of his
friend. But he did not know that the little grey dog had died for him,
paying his debt of gratitude to Benjamin with his life.








WHY?


Once upon a time there was a little boy, who had neither father nor
mother, who lived in the poorhouse in a little village. He was the only
child in the whole house; all the others were broken-down old people
who were always gloomy and cranky, who liked best to sit quietly in the
sun, and who would become angry whenever the little boy, while at play,
would bump against them or make too much noise.

A sad life it was for little Paul. He never heard a kind word, no one
loved him, and no one petted or comforted him whenever he was unhappy.
Instead of that he was scolded every day and often he was even spanked.
One peculiarity of his particularly irritated the supervisors of the
poorhouse: at every occasion he used to ask, “Why?” always wanting to
know the cause for everything.

“You mustn’t always ask why,” angrily declared the stout Matron who was
in charge of the poorhouse. “Everything is as it is, and therefore it
is right.”

“But why have I no parents like the other children of the village
have?” insisted little Paul.

“Because they are dead.”

“Why did they die?”

“Because the good Lord willed it so.”

“Why did the Lord will it so?”

“Keep quiet, you good-for-nothing! Leave me alone with your eternal
questions.” The fat woman was quite red with anger, because she knew no
answer to Paul’s questions, and nothing angers ignorant persons more
than to be forced to say, “I don’t know.”

But no one was able to keep little Paul quiet. He looked right up into
the angry red face and asked further, “Why are you so impatient with
me?”

Slap! and he got a box on the ears. He began to cry, ran away, and
while running asked, “Why do you hit me?”

He came to the chicken yard. There stood a big hen with many-colored
feathers, cackling aloud, proudly strutting. “I have laid an egg! I
have laid an egg!” And from all sides of the yard there sounded in
chorus: “I have laid an egg! I have laid an egg!” The rooster, however,
was angry because the hens were so proud of having done something which
he could not do, and cried scornfully, “I am the rooster, you are only
hens!” Along came Mary, the little blond servant of the poorhouse,
gathered the eggs carefully into her blue apron, and carried them into
the house.

“Where do all your eggs go to?” Paul asked the speckled Hen.

“To the city,” she cackled.

“Who eats them there?”

“The rich people, the rich people.” Thus spoke the hen proudly, as
though it were a special honor for her.

“Why don’t I ever have an egg?” complained Paul. “I am always so
hungry, you know.”

“Because you are a poor Have-nothing.” And the hen spread her plumage
with dignity, and cocked her eye defiantly at Paul over her crooked
beak.

“But why am I a poor Have-nothing?”

Now the hen became angry as had the stout Matron, and raged: “Get off
with you! You make me tired with your questions.”

Disappointed, Paul slipped quietly away. The garden door stood open,
and he stepped out onto the road, strolling along aimlessly until he
came to the entrance of a cowshed. The shed belonged to a rich farmer.

Many sleek cows, white and reddish brown, stood in a row and gazed
before them with large, soft eyes. Paul, feeling very hungry, stepped
up to the most friendly looking cow, and begged, “Dear Cow, will you
give me some of your milk to drink?”

“I dare not do that,” replied the Cow. “The milk belongs to the
farmer.”

The little boy looked with astonishment at the Cow, then over the
entire shed, slowly counting the animals: “One, two, three.” Upon
reaching twelve he stopped, for although there were many more cows, he
stopped because the counting was too hard for him. In the poorhouse he
was taught to be gentle and obedient, but nothing else. “Twelve cows,”
he said thoughtfully. “Is it possible that the farmer can drink the
milk of twelve cows?”

“Oh no,” the friendly Cow informed him. “He sells the milk in the
city.”

Paul remembered the words of the speckled hen, and he asked, “Do the
poor children there get any of the milk?”

“Good gracious, Paul,” sighed the Cow, “how stupid and inexperienced
you still are! From the milk they make delicious whipped cream, which
then goes on cakes and puddings, and these are bought by rich people.”

“Why not by the poor—don’t they like to eat good cakes?”

“You shouldn’t ask me so many questions, little boy,” replied the Cow.
“I am only a dumb Cow, and do not know what to answer you. Besides, you
had better go away. This is the time when the farmer comes to the barn,
and should he see you it might mean a good beating for you.”

Paul stroked the shining hide of the friendly Cow, and pursued his way.
On and on he went, until he reached a great big wheat field through
which the wind was blowing. It looked like softly moving golden waves.
The ears sang with soft voices, sounding very sad, and Paul
distinguished the words: “Soon the reapers will be here with their
scythes, z-z, and will cut us down, z-z-z. Then the people will bake us
into fine white bread, z-z-z.”

“Who eats the white bread?” asked Paul, who had never in his life
tasted a piece of white bread.

“The rich people, the rich people,” sang the ears of wheat, swaying to
the rhythm of the wind.

“Ah, again the rich people!” exclaimed Paul. “Does everything in this
world belong to the rich people?”

“Everything, everything,” buzzed the ears.

“Why?”

This question seemed to amuse the ears very much and almost doubling
with laughter, they sang, “How silly, how stupid you are!” However,
they failed to answer Paul’s question. Paul was near to tears; he
stamped angrily on the ground with his foot, and cried loudly, “I
demand an answer to my questions. Is there no one to give me an
answer?”

Just then a Porcupine crept slowly across the road and said, “The
wisest creature I know of is the Owl who lives in the great oak forest.
Why don’t you go to her, you question mark.”

“Can’t you tell me why...?”

The Porcupine did not permit Paul to finish; impatiently he drew in his
head, shot out his quills, until he looked like a ball covered with
spikes.

“I do not associate with people,” he said, and his voice became as
sharp as his quills. “They are too stupid for me. Go to the Owl, but be
sure not to irritate her or she will gouge her eyes at you.”

Night fell, sending out its black shadows, and covered all the land. It
was dark in the forest and Paul became somewhat uneasy, yet this
mysterious forest seemed more pleasant to him than the terrible
poorhouse, and he walked on further.

The further he went the thicker and closer were the trees. Soon there
was no longer a path; but Paul pushed on over the soft carpet of green
moss. The fragrance of the forest was pleasant. Beneath the tall trees
grew delicious strawberries and the little boy picked them and
refreshed himself as he went along.

At last he came to a great oak, and saw the owl perched on one of the
branches. The Owl wore a large pair of spectacles and studied
attentively a green sheet which she held in her claws.

Paul halted beneath the tree and shouted, “Mrs. Owl! Mrs. Owl!”

But the Owl was so deeply absorbed in her studies, that she did not
hear, and only after he had repeated his call several times did she
look down. Uttering an angry cry, she glared down at Paul with fierce
round eyes.

“Well, what is it you want?” she asked. “How dare you disturb me in my
studies?”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Owl,” begged Paul. “The Porcupine sent me to you. He
told me that you are the wisest creature he knows of. Surely, you will
be able to answer my questions.”

“What matter the opinions of the Porcupine to me? What have I to do
with your questions?” growled the Owl. “Why should I waste my precious
time on such a stupid child as you? You know very well that I can see
only at night and the summer nights are so short that I have hardly
time enough for my studies. I, too, think over all kinds of questions.
One in particular has bothered me for countless years; I have grown old
and grey over it, and yet no science in the world has helped me to
solve it.” The Owl sighed deeply and her countenance became sorrowful.

“And just what is this question of yours?” Paul inquired anxiously.

“Do you think, perhaps, that YOU can answer it, you young saucebox?”
sneered the Owl. “Around this question hang all the other questions of
the world; it is: Why are all people so stupid?”

“Are all people really so stupid?” asked Paul, astonished.

“Yes, and if you don’t know that, why do you disturb me? Is it because
you have never seen anything that you are so idiotic?”

“Very little,” replied the little boy shamefacedly. “You ought to know,
dear Mrs. Owl, that I live in a poorhouse, where there are only old
folks, and naturally they are all wise.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the owl. It sounded most awful in the dark
forest. “Ha, ha, ha! You are certainly another splendid example of the
stupidity of mankind. So it is in the poorhouse that all people are
wise? Well, we will see if you are right. Who is it that you like best
in the poorhouse?”

“Mary.”

“Who is Mary?”

“The maid.”

“What does she do?”

“She works all day long. She gets up at five o’clock in the morning,
and is the last one to go to bed.”

“Then she most likely earns lots of money, wears beautiful clothes, and
eats good food?”

“Oh no, she’s as poor as a beggar, she patches her clothes over and
over, and eats what other people leave.”

“H-m-m. Well, why then does she work so hard if she gets nothing out of
it?”

Little Paul thought a while, finally he said, “I don’t know.”

“But I know—it is because she is stupid. Mary knows, too, that there
are fashionable ladies who don’t move a hand, who wear gorgeous
clothes, eat costly food, live in luxury. Hasn’t Mary ever asked
herself: How is it that I, who work all day long have nothing, and
they, who do nothing have everything?”

“I believe not.”

“Well then, your Mary is stupid, very stupid. Whom do you still
consider wise, you little sheep?”

“Old Jacob.”

“Who is this Old Jacob?”

“He is an old laborer, he is eighty years old. He worked until his
seventieth year. Now he can’t do anything more, and has his hands and
feet and legs crippled by rheumatism.”

“He worked sixty years for others! A pretty long time. I suppose that
Old Jacob is treated like a prince, everybody is terribly anxious to
serve him? He has a wonderful soft bed for his tired limbs, gets
special kind of food every day, lives well and happily?”

“Oh no, the old matron always curses at him when he complains that the
bread is too hard for his old teeth. And if he asks for a little
tobacco, she gets angry and cries that he is unreasonable.”

“Why then did Old Jacob work until he was seventy years old, if now
when he’s old he doesn’t even live well?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because he is stupid. He knows also, just like Mary, that there are
fine young gentlemen who do nothing at all and yet live like kings. Do
you see now, little imp, that people are stupid?”

“Yes,” said Paul sadly. “But I would like to ask you something, dear
Mrs. Owl. Why are there rich people in the world?”

“You really ought to be able to answer this question yourself after our
talk, little stupid head: Because the poor people are stupid.”

“But why are they stupid?”

But now the owl became angry, the same as the fat matron and the
brightly speckled hen.

“Didn’t I tell you, little imp, you stupid little person, that I have
been thinking about this question for years and years? Come back again
eighty years from now, perhaps I will answer you then.”

“But why...?”

“Quiet!” the owl commanded little Paul. “You have stolen enough
valuable time from me already. Go to the Cuckoo!”

“Where does she live?” asked the frightened little boy.

But already the Owl had adjusted her spectacles, become absorbed in the
green leaf, and gave no answer.

“Oh, poor me!” little Paul thought sadly. “Now I am to go to the
Cuckoo, and I don’t even know where she lives. Will the Cuckoo know
more than the Owl? And I am already so tired, my feet hurt me.”

He sank down upon the soft green moss at the foot of a slender young
birch. Little by little he became very depressed. He was thinking how
he was altogether abandoned and alone, how nobody was good to him, and
all at once he began to weep bitterly. Thereupon he became aware of a
thin small voice coming from somewhere high up; it sounded like little
bells of pure silver.

“Why are you crying, little child?” the silvery voice asked.

Paul looked upward and he saw the most wonderful little creature he had
ever beheld in his life. Upon a branch of the birch sat a fairy. She
had long golden-blond hair, which reached down to her feet, her little
face was pale and delicate as moonlight, and her big eyes shone green
like the leaves of the birch. She fluttered down toward Paul very
lightly, alighted on his shoulder, it was as though a light leaf
touched him, and stroked his face with her tiny white hands. Paul’s
heart warmed. How good it was to be touched by tender hands! His tears
stopped, he stared at the little creature, and asked at last, “Who are
you?”

“I am a Dryad, I am the soul of the birchtree,” declared the little
creature. “All day long I must sit in my tree, but when night comes I
am free, I walk about on the earth, play with the other Dryads, my
sisters. But tell me, for what reason are you sad?”

Paul told the Dryad of his unhappiness, saying at the end, “I must
always ask why. The question burns in my heart, hurts me, and I believe
if I ever receive an answer I will be happy. But now this question
stands between me and all other people who do not ask the question like
a big wall and this makes me so lonesome.”

The little Dryad laughed and her pretty face became sweeter and more
tender than before.

“You are mistaken, little Paul,” she said softly. “You are not alone.
Hundreds and thousands ask the same question, sad and troubled. Put
your ear down to the earth and tell me what you hear.”

Paul obeyed. At first he heard only an indistinct sighing and
whispering, then he thought he heard a terrible weeping and crying, and
at last he heard words.

“Mother, I am hungry, why is there nothing to eat?” cried a child’s
voice.

“I am stifling in this hot city, why can’t I go to the country like my
rich schoolmates?” murmured a boy’s voice.

“I work all day, why are wages so low that I scarcely have enough to
live on?” sobbed a woman’s voice.

“Why have the idlers everything and the workers nothing?” said a man’s
voice threateningly.

And then all the voices rang together, crying, murmuring, sobbing,
threatening, “Why? Why?”

Paul sat up, looked at the little Dryad who sat very quietly near him
and asked, “Who are these people whom I heard?”

“They are your people,” replied the little Dryad. “That is your family.
You have heard all the languages in the world, you will hear questions
from all mouths, angrily, anxiously, threateningly. Every day new
voices join the chorus, and when the thousands of voices become
millions and billions, then there will be an end to the misery and
poverty and to those lazy parasites.”

“When will that be?” asked Paul eagerly.

“That I cannot tell you, I know only this—every time I put my ear to
the earth, I find new voices added and that is how I know that the day
is not far distant.”

“And can nothing be done to make the day come sooner?”

“Of course. There are many, many people who do not know yet how good it
is for other people and how bad their lives are; who work like beasts
and never ask why their honest labor brings a starvation wage. These
poor blind people must be shown the truth, and this is not at all easy,
because the poor are so tired from the day’s work that they can hardly
think; and the rich do everything not to awaken questions in the minds
of the workers. That is why they punish every one who asks, ‘Why?’ You
have already learned from your own experience, little Paul.”

“Then I must continue asking questions?”

“Yes, little Paul, but do not ask the rich, they will not answer you
because if they did they would have to say, ‘The world is such a bad
place for poor people because we, the rich, are greedy, selfish, vile,’
and no person likes to say that about himself. But go to the poor
people, ask them, ‘Why do you eat dry bread though you work hard, while
the idle rich eat cake? Why are your children pale, thin and ill while
the rich children are rosy, fat and healthy? Why does your long life of
toil end in the poorhouse, whereas the lazy grafters are well taken
care of in their old age, resting luxuriously from their lives of
idleness?’ Ask the poor people these questions so long and so often
that they will fall on the structure of injustice like a hammer and
smash it. Will you do it, little Paul?”

“Yes,” replied the boy with eyes alight.

The little Dryad kissed his forehead and said earnestly, “Your life
will be hard, little Paul. The rich, who are afraid of losing what they
have robbed, will punish you. They will try to choke the question in
your throat, they will throw you into jail, that no one may hear your
voice. But you must not lose courage, for the question was not born in
you in vain, you are destined to speak before many thousands who are
today still dumb. And you will find comrades, friends—you will not be
alone.”

The little Dryad nodded laughingly to Paul, swept lightly upwards, and
sat on a branch of the birch.

“Are you going already,” asked little Paul, worried.

“You must go home, little Paul. But you must always come back and I
will comfort you and help you.”

“Wait a little,” begged Paul. “The Owl said in eighty years, not until
eighty years from now, she will be able to answer my question. That is
a long time. Did the Owl speak truly?”

“That depends on you people,” replied the light, silvery voice of the
tiny Dryad. “Perhaps it will take you eighty years to become wise,
perhaps if you, you and your comrades, do not stop asking questions, it
may only take fifty years. The great day of freedom may come in twenty,
in ten years. Yes, perhaps even tomorrow.”

The tiny Dryad disappeared into the tree, but all the tree called in
light, joyous voices to little Paul:

“Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!”






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