The Mouse Miller AND OTHER STORIES

By COOKE DON-CARLOS Author of “Virginia’s Inheritance”

DAVIS & BOND PUBLISHERS OF GOOD BOOKS BOSTON - MASS.

Copyright, 1917, by Davis & Bond

I THE BAKER OF COBLENTZ

One Christmas Eve, the glow of the setting sun reddened the spires and domes of Coblentz and lit up a little window set in the upper half of Baker Gottlieb’s door as he looked out on the narrow, snowy street. It was lined with ugly little shops like his, with two or three tall old houses with quaint overhanging eaves and high chimney-pots, the only exception to the general shabbiness being the mansion of the Herr Professor at the corner, a handsome house set well back in its high-walled garden, as if it shrank from the poverty about it, though its master owned most of the buildings in sight.

As the sunlight faded from the street, a last beam lingered over the great house at the corner. [Pg 2]“Like a glow from the comfort within,” sighed poor Gottlieb, with envy in his heart, for his flour bin stood nearly empty, the few pfennigs brought in by the day’s baking would barely eke out the rent due on the morrow, and the one loaf left on his counter would be his only Christmas feast.

Gottlieb was turning toward the end of his shop where the oven stood when the door opened and two women came in,—the Herr Professor’s housekeeper, a buxom young female, following a ragged, aged dame who produced three bent and blackened coins and quaveringly asked for a loaf.

“Nay, mother, I have but one loaf for my own needs,” answered the baker kindly. “Besides, flour has risen in price, and it takes ten pfennigs instead of three to buy a loaf.”

The housekeeper broke in briskly:

“My good man, I must have that loaf. There are guests at the Herr Professor’s, and I need bread for croutons.” And she fumbled in an ample purse hanging at her side with her keys.

“Nay, mistress, I must eat, as well as your master’s guests, and this loaf is all I have for my Christmas dinner.”

[Pg 3]

“Then you shall have thirty pfennigs,” cried she good-naturedly. “Only haste, Master Gottlieb, for my supper waits!”

As Gottlieb extended the loaf, the old dame exclaimed:

“Alas, I must perish! for I am too weak and old to go farther. Other shops are sold out, and I have had naught to eat since yesterday!” And she turned away, still gazing with longing eyes at the one loaf.

Under Gottlieb’s ragged apron beat a kind heart, and thrusting the loaf into her hands, he bade her begone and keep her pfennigs for Christmas. So, mumbling thanks, she shuffled away, leaving the housekeeper shaking her fist at poor Gottlieb.

“What?” she screamed. “You insult me, housekeeper of the Herr Professor? Refuse thirty pfennigs and give the loaf away? Oh, you shall dearly rue this, Master Gottlieb! There will be no bakeshop here next rent day. My brother is the Herr Professor’s agent!” And she flounced out, banging the door behind her.

After a bite to eat, the baker lit a candle and sat a long time staring into the embers of his oven fire, and when the room was cold and the [Pg 4]candle burned out, he went sadly to bed, feeling that disaster had indeed come upon him.

In the Christmas dawning, a loud knocking at his door awakened him. Opening it, he found his friend Hans, the shoemaker from across the way.

“A Merry Christmas!” cried he. “See, my good daughter has come in from the country with gifts which I share with thee. Here are eggs, milk, butter, and dried grapes. And now haste you and make a Christmas pudding, for I must be back over ere my coffee cools.” And the jolly shoemaker was across the street while Gottlieb was trying to thank him.

“God is good!” thought Gottlieb, “and now I can bake kuchen and sell them, and that, at least, will buy my Christmas dinner, even if I must pack from here to-morrow.”

As he was whistling over his dough, the agent came for the rent. “On Christmas day, too!” thought the poor baker, as he counted it out from a broken mug. “Surely, the Herr Professor is a hard man.”

The agent laughed. He was stout, with a wart on his nose, and wore a blue coat.

“His agent is, baker,” he growled. “You [Pg 5]are to be out of this to-morrow. I shall let the shop to a bookseller, baker. The Herr Professor will be pleased!”

Gottlieb tried to plead for time, but the agent would not stay to listen, and taking up his tall staff, he went out, still repeating, “The change will much please the Herr Professor. Baker, the Herr Professor will be much pleased!”

As Gottlieb began his baking, he comforted himself with the thought that perhaps he could go as cook’s helper at some inn or bakery, and surely his friend, the cobbler, could lodge him for a time.

When the cakes were made, he set them, very plump and tempting, on his tray, and, donning his worn cloak, went out in the snowy morning.

People were hurrying to church, the bells were all ringing, and every one cried “Merry Christmas” but poor Gottlieb.

By dinner time he had sold but half his cakes, and he gladly took an innkeeper’s offer to give him a meal for the rest. And after dining well in the servants’ hall, he went away with such broken food as was given him, and a much lighter heart.

[Pg 6]

As he passed down an alley way, the wretched outcasts came out of their hovels to beg, but seeing his poor clothes, they did not stop him, and he hurried on until he came to one hovel more wretched than the rest. It was hardly more than a heap of stones, with no door save a gaping hole in its toppling walls. Inside, Gottlieb saw the old woman who had been in his shop yesterday. She was crouched on the earthen floor, wrapped in rags, and only moaned when he called “Merry Christmas!”

Gottlieb went up to her. “What did you buy with your three pfennigs, mother?”

“They stole my loaf and the coins, and I starve and freeze on Christmas Day!” And she fell to moaning again.

“At least you shall not freeze,” cried Gottlieb, and he ran to a corner shop to buy fuel, and soon had a fire blazing in her cracked iron brazier, and his own poor coat hung over the doorway.

Then the dame, who had neither moved nor spoken, arose and shook off her rags. She grew straight and tall, a white robe floated about her, and her face was beautiful and bright, for on her forehead gleamed a star [Pg 7]which shone so brightly that Gottlieb must shade his eyes.

Then she smiled on him and said, in a voice like the sweetest music:

“I am the Christmas Fairy, born when Bethlehem’s star first rose. I shall never die nor the star’s light cease to shine as long as men love and are merciful. You have given all that you have, and my reward is three wishes; but remember, wealth, fame, nor power can give happiness, nor plenty a contented heart.” And so saying, she laid a sprig of fir-tree in his hand and vanished.

Gottlieb looked around the empty firelit hut and rubbed his eyes. Could he be dreaming? No; there burned the fire he had kindled, there lay the old crone’s rags, and in his hand was the fir sprig. He sniffed its spicy fragrance as he went from the alley way into the street, passing the Herr Professor’s house.

The street was dark, save for the pale gleam of the starlight; but lights shone here and there behind holly-wreathed lattices, and the Herr Professor’s house was all aglow with warmth and welcome, for the counsellor would sup there to-night. Servants hurried to and fro with [Pg 8]steaming platters, and the Herr Professor and his family stood at the great open door to welcome the great guest.

“Ah,” sighed Gottlieb as he passed, “if I were the Herr Professor, how happy I should be!” Then he felt his form grow stout and robust, his hair curly and long. In the twinkling of an eye, the gift of the Christmas Fairy had worked, and he, Gottlieb, was the Herr Professor, and his tall, thin wife was bowing, too, and his children clapped their hands and chorused shrilly, “You are welcome, Herr Professor!”

The great counsellor walked proudly into the velvet-hung room, and when he had been unrolled from his many fur wraps and shawls, and the housekeeper, now very meek and attentive, had carried them away, they went in to the table, all set out in fine array with all manner of good things, and a man servant to help the housekeeper serve them.

But the supper was a failure. The counsellor felt it a condescension that he should dine with a plain professor, and showed this by his patronizing ways and the rude manner in which he contradicted his host. Gottlieb, the professor, [Pg 9]was wretched,—vexed that his gold plate had not been put on the table, envious that his old schoolmate should be so high above him in rank, and furious at his sneering manner.

“As if I, a Breneke, was not as good as a Schollenbergh!” he fumed to himself. “Why should he be counsellor and I only a professor? Oh, I wish I were he! I should—”

But before he could think another thought, Gottlieb felt his jaws grow long, his body lean, his head rather bald, his good stuff coat changed to velvet, and—he was seated in the counsellor’s chair, Counsellor Schollenbergh himself!

“The wine was bad,” he thought, “and the heavy pastry gave me stomach-ache. How stupid are these Brenekes! Why did I ever come to sup with such inferior persons?” And the counsellor arose and said haughtily that he wished his carriage called, as he desired to take leave of them. “Matters of state, good Herr Professor; I must away.” And he was speedily stalking out to his carriage, after a cold farewell which left the poor Herr Professor very sore at heart.

Yet as he wrapped himself warmly and settled back into the handsome coach, the counsellor sighed. He thought of his own great, cold, [Pg 10]mansion, where no little children welcomed the Christ-child’s birthday; of his baby’s name carved on his family tomb, and of his fair, proud wife who cared only for his wealth and name, and was now dancing, with no thought of him, you may be sure, at the count’s ball. Tears of loneliness wet the counsellor’s eyes as he gazed out on the dark street, and by the light from the cobbler’s window he read, above a tiny shop-door, “Gottlieb the Baker,” and said aloud, “Ah, within there sleeps an honest fellow, with not a worry or a care, no doubt. I wish I were as care-free as Gottlieb the baker,—nay, I wish I were he!”

Bang—bang! Pound—pound! Pushing his yellow nightcap back, Gottlieb sat up in bed. It was the morning after Christmas, and as the gray light came through the frosted window at which he stared, he finally decided that the noise of pounding came from his shop door below.

Running down in his shirt, he found Hans the cobbler lifting a great bundle from the step. Beside it lay a branch of fir, which Gottlieb picked up ere he closed the door on Hans, who laid the bundle on the counter and laughed at the baker’s dress.

[Pg 11]

“Run for your trousers, man,” he cried, “you are still asleep! This bundle is yours, left by the Herr Professor’s housekeeper an hour ago. And as you did not open your door, I was afraid of thievery and waked you.”

By the time Gottlieb was dressed, the cobbler had made up a roaring fire, and together they opened the parcel. It contained a warm cloak, a box of sweets, a stuffed goose from Strasburg, a goodly leather purse with five silver thalers therein, and a letter sealed with a red wafer and addressed to “Master Gottlieb the Baker.” And this was the letter:

“Master Gottlieb: “My housekeeper was angry on Christmas Eve, but in proof that she repents, sends the goose, and begs that you continue in your shop, serving my household. My family join me in the other gifts. Your act of charity has taught us a lesson in the spirit of Christmas giving, and at your unselfish conduct we are most edified and pleased. “Gustave Breneke.”

When Hans had been told the story of the two women (though Gottlieb said no word of his later meeting with the old dame), he shook [Pg 12]hands heartily and said, “That is well, friend Gottlieb,” and went away, after accepting an invitation to dine off the goose that very evening.

Once alone, Gottlieb stood looking at the gifts, and turning the sprig of fir in his hands, said:

“I wonder did I dream it all,—what part of my Christmas day was real, and what part a dream. Here is the fir branch the Christmas Fairy gave me, and I am sure I had those three wishes.”

Smiling gently, with a great peace in his heart, he set about preparing the goose for the oven, and as it began to send up a savory smell, he laid the fir branch on the fire and, still shaking his head dubiously, said:

“At least part of it is real, for, as the agent said, the Herr Professor was pleased.”

[Pg 13]

II A DAUGHTER OF THE STARS

Long ago a young hunter said to his mother, “I will go and hunt for buffalo.” But she answered, “It is far to go, and evil may befall you! Tarry a little, my son.”

So he laid away his bow and spear and stayed at her bidding. That was in winter; but when the spring rains had washed the earth clean and bright and carpeted the prairie with flowers, again he took his weapons, and, resisting all pleading, he went away from his village just as the sun rose.

The prairie grass was sweet and cool to his feet; the larks were calling cheerily, and his heart was very happy; and he went on, miles and miles away from home, until the sun told him it was noon; so he stopped at a spring to eat the parched corn his mother had given him. Bending to drink, he saw a leaf floating on the water, and on it a wounded cricket. It [Pg 14]chirped feebly, and the young hunter cried, “No, little brother, you shall not drown!” and took him out of the water.

Resting on a grass blade, the grateful insect shrilled its thanks, and said:

“Across the prairie is a purple hill. On this hillside you will find something worth seeking; but take care to keep what first comes to you, for if you do not, you will mourn all your life.”

The young hunter laughed at the thought of finding something on the hillside and mourning all his life; yet he promised to be careful, and went on his way.

Although he walked far, he found nothing. At last, tired and hungry, he decided to go home, yet, knowing how the villagers would laugh if he returned empty-handed, thought to hunt a little longer. So, though the sun was down and the stars were out, he persevered, until in the distance he saw a purple hill outlined against the dying fire of the sunset.

Remembering the cricket’s promise, he hastened on, and just as twilight faded into night, he discerned, among the trees upon the hillside, a globe of light, and heard delicious music.

Down, down the dazzling ball floated to the [Pg 15]foot of the hill, and he saw that it was a great golden basket, out of which sprang twelve lovely maidens in gossamer robes like moonlight. Joining hands, their music swelled into a song, to which they danced in and out among the trees, while fireflies flitted through the dusk and the starlight fell soft and pale over the prairie.

In vain he called to them; they did not heed, but wove in and out in their graceful dance, singing sweetly. Their long, dark hair hung over their glittering robes like dusky mantles, and their faces were like lilies and roses, save one who moved more lightly than the rest. Her face was like a pearl, her eyes two sapphires darkly blue, and her hair fell in a shower of gold to her feet.

Of all the beautiful ones, this one seemed the brightest, and the hunter followed them, vainly endeavoring to stay her, though she moved on softly as a cloud.

But at last the dancing feet paused, the song died away into a sweet refrain. With beating heart and panting breath, the young hunter came near and stretched out eager hands towards the brightest one; but she glided away, leaving in her stead one of the darker beauties. Then, [Pg 16]forgetful of the cricket’s warning, he released her and sprang forward with a cry, clasping the maiden he desired. Her bright hair sweeping over him obscured his sight for a moment, but he heard a plaintive minor chord, which died away in the distance, and when he could see, the dancers were fled, leaving the golden-haired maiden alone with him.

There in the starlight he wooed her. But she told him she was not of his kind and that it would not be well for him to take her for wife. But he would not have no for answer, and when she refused him, wept, and said she would go with him. Then he kissed her, and she took his hand and went back with him to his people. So the hunter did not return from his hunt empty-handed.

The village people marveled at her beauty and did homage to her. But in private his mother wept, saying, “He has wed a daughter of the stars, and he cannot be happy.”

But the star maiden, though she did not mingle with the people nor join in the work of the women, seemed to love her husband very much. And at night, when the village slept and the fires were low, she would sit out upon the prairie [Pg 17]with his head on her lap and sing him songs of the sky, or tell tales of her beautiful home beyond the seven golden mountains, across the seven golden bridges, in the land of the seven golden fountains; and it seemed to the young hunter that he was the happiest man in all the world.

Autumn came; the flowers faded, the grass grew sear upon the prairie, and the men of the village said, “Come, it is time for the fall hunt.”

So, sorrowfully he bade his beautiful wife good-by and set off for the hunting-ground. When night was come and the village all asleep, the hunter’s mother was awakened by a soft sighing, and, looking up, saw that her son’s wife stood at the tepee door with her hand stretched up to the stars. And when the mother asked why the young wife sighed, she answered, “O mother dear, I long for home.” Then she began a sad, sweet song that made the tears stand in the old mother’s eyes; but its music soon lulled her to sleep, and when she awoke it was morning, and the young wife was gone. But by and by she came with her robe full of rushes and her feet all wet with dew, for she had walked far [Pg 18]over the sear grass to a little pond where they grew.

When the hunter’s mother asked what she did with the rushes, she answered, “I shall weave a basket,” and she sat all day weaving and weaving; but though the basket grew under her skilful fingers, night came and it was not finished.

And that night she sighed as before and said, “Mother dear, I long for home.” And in the morning she was gone, but presently came again with more rushes, and sat to weave as before; and when the old mother said, “Daughter, you weave a great basket,” she answered, “Not greater than my need, mother,” and worked away until nightfall, when it was finished.

“How pleased your husband will be, daughter, at the fine basket you have woven, when he comes on the morrow!” But the son’s wife answered, “Nay, he will like it not,” and fell to sighing in the night as before, and answered the mother’s questionings with “Ah, mother dear, I long for home!”

Then she sang a sad, sweet strain in her own language. “Why, it is as if it were farewell!” cried the mother; but her eyes grew heavy, [Pg 19]and when she awoke, her daughter was gone, and the great basket, too.

When noon had come and the wife did not return, she was afraid, and when at night her son, laden with game, entered the village with the rest of the hunters amid the shouts of the people, he cried, “Mother, where is my wife?”

The mother wept and could not tell him.