More Tales in the Land of Nursery Rhyme Part 1

More Tales in the Land of Nursery Rhyme.

by Ada M. Marzials.

THE NORTH WIND DOTH BLOW

"_Different people have different opinions_"

The North Wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will the robin do then? Poor thing!

He will sit in a barn, And to keep himself warm He will hide his head under his wing. Poor thing!

Oh, how cold it was!

The North Wind howled round the barn, whirling the snowflakes into a little heap inside the half-open door. Even beyond the little heap of snow, right inside the barn among the whisps of hay and straw, and beyond the pile of turnips piled up in one far corner, it was still bitterly cold and draughty.

The few birds left had found their way into the old barn for shelter, and were close together on a low bar of wood at the far end, where they sat ruffling their feathers and shivering.

From time to time one of them would peer out at the leaden grey sky and the falling snowflakes, and then hide its head under its wing again to deaden the sound of the wind whistling through the crannies.

There were five of them.

A Robin, who had been blown in with the last gust of wind; a wretched little Sparrow, who twittered helplessly from time to time, and then hid her head ashamed at having been betrayed into such an exhibition of weakness in public; an Owl, who, living habitually in the barn, regarded the others with suspicion as intruders, and possibly thieves; and, lastly, two queer j.a.panese birds, who had lived all the summer on the ornamental lake in the garden.

These latter had been brought to the barn during the bad weather, as they were considered too delicate to bear the stress of a really cold English winter, and were looked down on and despised by the other birds as foreigners. They were very shy, and crouched side by side in one corner, never venturing a remark unless first spoken to. The Robin, though he was the latest comer, had, by reason of his cheery good-nature, and a certain perky self-confidence, already gained for himself a position as leader among the other birds. Even the old Owl blinked and winked occasionally at his jokes, and the Sparrow was soon reduced to a helpless state of twittering giggles. But laughing will not keep you warm, and at last even the Robin was forced to confess that he had never been colder in his life; and what was the use of thinking of all the plum-puddings and mince pies and bread crumbs and holly-berries in the world, when you were feeling as though you had not a feather on your body to bless yourself with!

"I wish I could make the snow stop somehow," he said. "It is all very well for Mother Goose to go on plucking out feathers up there, but she does not help to make _us_ any warmer."

"Pooh!" said the Owl, who had lately condescended to join in the conversation. "Who told you all that rubbish about Mother Goose? Why, the snow has no more to do with Mother Goose than I have! . . . Mother Goose, indeed!" and she blinked twice, just to show that she could tell more if she chose.

"Bird of Wisdom," piped the Robin, with a wink at the Sparrow, which set her off giggling worse than ever, "enlighten us, I pray you, as to the true cause of snow?"

"Yes, do," said the Sparrow, when she had recovered her breath. The j.a.panese birds said nothing, but stirred uneasily.

"Snow," began the Owl, sententiously, "is connected with rain and frost----"

"Pip! Pip!" rudely interrupted the Robin. "If you are going to talk science, madam, I must beg to be excused," and he promptly hid his head under his wing, and the Sparrow followed suit.

The Owl paid no heed to this interruption, but lectured on, and having talked for about ten minutes or so with no applause, withdrew to a further corner of the barn and fell asleep.

When she had gone, the j.a.panese birds began murmuring softly to each other. The Robin brought his head from under his wing with a start.

"What's that you said?" he inquired.

"In our country," began the elder j.a.panese bird, with a slightly foreign accent, but in otherwise perfect English, "we look on snowflakes as the whirling mantles of the dancing moon maidens; and when the trees and mountain-peaks are seen covered with snow in the morning, we say the moon maidens have left their mantles hanging up or spread out to dry."

"Charming idea, and most romantic," piped the Robin. "I am not romantic myself, and I must say that the Mother Goose idea strongly appeals to my practical nature. Still, there may be something in what you say."

"An absolutely too sweet notion. Fancy a foreigner thinking of it,"

chirped the Sparrow.

"Have you ever seen a Moon Maiden?" continued the Robin, without heeding the Sparrow's rude interruption.

"No, they are invisible now," said the j.a.panese bird; "but my great-grandfather told my father a story about one of them once. We always tell it to each other in snow time. It keeps us warm and makes us think of home."

The other j.a.panese bird piped a few sad notes, which, as the Robin said, "stirred his nature to the very depths!"

"Would it be asking too much for you to tell us the story too?" he said.

"I hope it is something cheerful, though; the roast beef and plum-pudding type of story is what appeals to me."

"Hoots!" said the Owl, waking from her little nap. "_I_ like melodrama.

I hope there is a villain in it, and a churchyard or two."

"And _I_ hope there is a strong domestic interest," said the Sparrow, with a feeble giggle.

"Anyway, please tell us," said the Robin. "I am absolutely freezing and must have something to distract my thoughts--ri tol de rol!"

The elder j.a.panese bird rustled his feathers softly for a minute or two, and then, with his eyes fixed on the grey sky and driving snow, and interrupted from time to time by the howling of the wind, he began:

You must know that our country, like this, is surrounded by the blue sea; and that the sandy sh.o.r.es are fringed with pine trees, and that behind the pine trees rise the hills and mountains. Yea, and behind all these lies the one most beautiful mountain in the world, our Fuji, to look on whom is the greatest privilege that can be given to bird or man.

You must know, also, that across the blue sea, for those who can find it, is the direct path to the country of the moon. There dwell the moon maidens, creatures so lovely that it is beyond me to describe them. They are dressed in white glistening mantles, and spend their lives dancing and singing to the stars. On great occasions, such as birthdays, they are allowed to visit our country, some even to gaze on the all-glorious Fuji. But though they swim across the sea, and often spread out their mantles to dry when they reach the hills, yet must they always be sure to put their mantles on again before they leave our sh.o.r.es, or they will fade and vanish into nothingness, and never again reach the moon where is their home.

There was once a Moon Maiden who was fairer to look upon than all the others, and danced more divinely than any of them. Her name was Tsuki, the Daughter of the Moon. To her, too, was it granted on her birthday to visit our country, and to gaze on the all-glorious Fuji.

Wrapping her feather mantle round her, she swam down the path which leads from the moon across the blue sea to our sh.o.r.es.

When she arrived on the sands among the pine trees, she searched about for some spot where she might hang her feather mantle to dry, while she climbed a neighbouring hill to gaze on the all-glorious Fuji. She saw one pine tree taller than the others, with a flat surface of branches at the top, and taking her glistening, dripping mantle with her, she flew to the topmost branch. There she spread out her mantle and left it to dry.

She then fled away to the neighbouring peak, which, climbing, she beheld Fuji, bathed in moonlight, and realised that even in her own moon-land she had never seen anything so beautiful.

While she was gazing in wonder at our pearl of mountains, a poor fisherman who lived in a cottage close to the sea came out to tend his nets.

His name was Yama, and he lived alone. My great-grandfather's nest was close to his cottage, and Yama loved my great-grandfather and often spoke to him of his dreams.

On this night when Tsuki came to earth, Yama, tempted by the glory of the sea and stars, did not go into his cottage again, but wandered aimlessly along the sh.o.r.e thinking of his lonely life, and dreaming of the moon.

Unconsciously he raised his eyes to the tops of the pine trees that fringed the sandy sh.o.r.e, and his attention was caught by something white and glistening on the top of one of them.

"Is that some dead white bird lying yonder?" he thought. "'Tis too late, surely, for snow."

He walked to the foot of the tree and climbed it branch by branch. When he reached the top, he saw that what he had taken to be a bird, was indeed a ma.s.s of finest feathers, but shaped like a woman's cloak.

He took it in his arms--it was as light as driven snow--and climbed down the tree on to the seash.o.r.e.

"How beautiful!" he said. "I will hang it up in my cottage; surely it is some fairy thing, and will bring me good luck and a fulfilment of my dreams." He was about to walk away with the mantle in his arms, when he heard a cry behind him.