Top of the World Stories for Boys and Girls Part 11

"We have met a wolf!" shouted Hanna.

"And given a bear some milk!" added Arvid.

"But the owl got a taste of the club!" laughed Hanna. Then they told all their adventures.

The parents looked thoughtfully at each other. How wonderful! To think that their children had shown mercy even to the wild beasts of the forest! What would happen next? What did it all mean?

It was now supper-time. The peasant family gathered at the table upon which, besides the usual poor fare, was the half portion of the expected treat--all that the children had brought home.

Arvid and Hanna wished to eat only dry bread and drink only water, so that their parents might have the Christmas goodies; but the parents would not allow that. They joyfully shared with the children the two rolls and the half-tankard of milk which were such luxuries.

But as they ate, they noticed something very marvelous. However often they broke and broke pieces from either of the rolls, the fresh delicious wheaten rolls never grew smaller; and however often they poured milk from the tankard into one bowl after another the milk never grew less!

While they were wondering greatly over this, they heard a scratching at the little window, and behold! there stood the wolf and the bear with their fore-paws against the window pane. Both animals grinned and nodded in a knowing, friendly way. An owl could be heard flapping behind them in the darkness, and calling out in a hoa.r.s.e voice to Arvid:

"Sometimes. .h.i.ts Sharpen wits.

Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo!

Not from need But from greed I begged of you.

Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: THERE STOOD THE WOLF AND THE BEAR.--_Page 136_.]

Then her hoa.r.s.e cries died away in the distance, and the two beasts, after a little more grinning and nodding, disappeared from the window.

The peasant and his wife and the children understood now that a blessing rested upon their Christmas food because it had been shared in mercy with those that needed it; and they finished their meal in wonder and thankfulness.

On Christmas morning when they went to get their breakfast of dry bread and water, not expecting to have anything else, they found to their amazement that both rolls and milk were as fresh as when the children bought them,--and with no sign that the rolls had ever been broken or any milk used! And all that day it was the same! There were not only riches on the roof, but joy and plenty inside the peasants' cottage, where the children feasted and sang as gaily as did the sparrows, fluttering about their Christmas sheaf of golden grain.

--_Z. Topelius_.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

ANTON'S ERRAND _OR THE BOY WHO MADE FRIENDS BY THE WAY_

Far to the South lies a beautiful land. High forest-clad mountains lift themselves toward the sky, and between them spreads a wide fruitful valley. A mighty river rushes southward singing of courage and joy, and from the mountains the merry brooks come hurrying along, the one faster than the other, as if racing to see which would get down first.

In the fields, the gra.s.s is tall and full of flowers, the grain waves like a billowy sea, and the fruit trees bend beneath the weight of rich fruits. But more than all else, grapevines grow here. The vines twine themselves in an endless wreath through the valley; and in the long arcades hang millions of cl.u.s.ters of grapes cooking themselves ripe in the sun's heat.

From olden times, an industrious folk lived in this valley cultivating their fields and pruning their vines. They gathered themselves together into small towns which were dotted here and there in the valley's green expanse like birds' nests in a spreading tree. On the surrounding heights rose the proud castles where the n.o.bles lived. They tyrannized over the farmers in the valley, and if the poor peasants made the least complaint, down from the cliffs came the barons, like eagles from their eyries, and dug their claws into their defenseless prey.

Many, many years ago, a powerful baron named Rudolf Reinhold Rynkebryn lived in one of the largest of the mountain castles. He had, by force and violence, made himself Lord over one of the cities in the valley, and all who lived there must toil and moil for the hard master on Falkensten.

When the grain was ripe and the meal ground, many hundred bags of it must be carried on horses' backs up to the mountain castle; and when the grapes were ripe and the wine pressed out, many hundred barrels must go the same way.

So had it been for many years, but at last the peasants grew tired of this state of things, and gathered together for consultation.

"There is no sense in it," said an old man. "Here we plow and sow and reap and grind so that Rynkebryn can swallow the bread that belongs to us and our children."

"Yes. Isn't that the truth?" said another. "Isn't it a sin and a shame, also? We plant vines and prune them in the sweat of our brows and when the grapes are ripe, the wine we make must go to Falkensten so that Rynkebryn and his men may drink themselves crazy and descend like birds of prey upon us poor peasants. We should not endure it any longer."

"No, we _will_ not endure it any longer!" shouted all in chorus. Then it was determined that they should send Rynkebryn a letter, in which they renounced their allegiance to him.

For the future he might get his bread and his wine wherever he chose.

Neither bag nor barrel should go from the valley to Falkensten.

Oh, yes! To come to this decision was easy. Nor was there any great difficulty about getting the letter written. The Mayor himself wrote it; and upon the letter he set the city's great seal which bore a sheaf pierced by a sword.

The difficulty was to find a messenger to deliver the letter, for every one well knew that he who carried such a message to the Baron of Falkensten would not return alive to the valley.

All to whom the mission was proposed immediately raised objections. One had no clothes, another had pains in his legs, another could by no means be spared from home, and another was sure he could never find the way up there. Oh, there were many difficulties about taking that particular letter to the Baron!

Finally someone said, "Why not send little Anton?" And immediately all shouted, "Yes, that is an excellent plan. Anton can go with the letter."

Anton was a poor boy, usually called "little Anton." He had neither father nor mother nor sister nor brother, but had been brought up among other poor children of the town in the Cloister School. Now that he was twelve or thirteen years old, he must take care of himself, and since he could do small jobs of all sorts, people made use of him, here, there and everywhere.

He helped to dig in the vineyards, to lay stone and mortar when a house was to be built; he ran with messages and letters out to the country roundabout; and as he could manage the most spirited horse, he drove, too, if there were no other driver to be had. He often took care of the babies while their mothers were out at work; he carded wool and picked hops; he sang at funerals and played at weddings.

Indeed, there was scarcely anything for which they did not use little Anton. He was quick of foot and light of hand, true as gold and silent as a locked box, so every one liked him and gave him plenty to do.

The Mayor himself went to little Anton and told him that the whole city had decided to entrust to him a very important errand. He was to go to Falkensten with a letter to Baron Rynkebryn. Of what was in the letter the Mayor said nothing, for if he had, little Anton would have realized that he was risking his life.

The others realized it very decidedly, but they reasoned thus: "Little Anton is a poor lone child, with no parents to mourn him, and if anything happens to him,--well!--we must hope that all is for the best.

It is surely better that he should perish than that we who have wives and children should. Besides, the town is full of these little poor boys whom we can get to help us when we need them."

Anton took the big letter, turned it over and over in his hands, and asked if there would be any answer.

The Mayor became a little embarra.s.sed and took a pinch of snuff. He could not look Anton straight in the face as he replied, "Answer? No, I do not think there will be any answer."

"So I can come right back?" queried little Anton.

"Yes, indeed. Deliver the letter and take to your heels as soon as you can."

The next day, early in the morning, Anton put on his thickest shoes, stuffed a couple of rolls and a small bottle of wine into his pocket, slung an old gun over his shoulder and started on his long tramp from the valley to Falkensten. He could see the castle high, high up like an eagle's nest, on the top of a cliff from which it looked out over three different valleys, many, many miles away.

It was a hot August day. The sky was without a cloud and the sun stood and smiled its broadest on the vineyards where the grapes steamed and cooked in the heat. Vines were planted on the lowest slopes of the mountain, so here Anton could walk up the stone steps between the walls. He turned and saw the city which looked shining and gay in the sunlight. The church was white as snow, and the hands on the clock glittered like gold.

By and by the vineyards ended and Anton came to some fields. The gra.s.s had already been cut for the second time and the fields were deserted.

Not a person was to be seen.

Next he came to the forest of chestnut-trees. From here everything in the valley looked very small; houses and farms, and even the church, looked like toys spread out on a green carpet. The sun glowed hotter and hotter, and Anton took off his jacket, and walked on, in his shirt-sleeves. The road grew steeper and steeper. He was hot and thirsty so he sat down in the shade of a rock and took out his bottle of wine.

When he had refreshed himself, he leaned back, humming a little song and idly striking the ground with a switch he had broken from a bush.