Snow White 1

Snow White 1

Snow White

or, The House in the Wood

 

Author: Laura E. Richards

CONTENTS.

 

 

CHAP. PAGE

 

I. THE HOUSE 1

 

II. THE CHILD 7

 

III. THE MAN 17

 

IV. ASKING QUESTIONS 26

 

V. PHILLIPS; AND A STORY 38

 

VI. MILKING THE COW 50

 

VII. THE STORY 60

 

VIII. THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 72

 

IX. RESTORED TO LIFE 83

 

X. GOOD-BYE 90

 

 

 

 

SNOW-WHITE;

 

OR, THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER I.

 

THE HOUSE.

 

 

The house was so well hidden, one might almost stumble against it

before one became aware of it. All round the woods stood tall and

dense, old woods of pine and hemlock, with here and there great smooth,

squat beeches, and ragged, glistening yellow birches. For the most

part they jostled one another so close that one almost fancied they

must be uncomfortable; but in one spot they fell away from a steep,

rocky bank or ledge, drawing back and standing in a circle at some

little distance, leaving an open space of sunny green, at the foot of

the rock. It was on this open space that the house looked; and as the

house was built of stone, and leaned up against the ledge behind it,

one could hardly tell where man's hand had begun, or where left off.

The stones might almost have been flung together by a boy at play; yet,

rough as they were, they fitted close, and kept the weather out. The

roof was of bark; the whole thing was half-covered with creepers that

made their way down in a leisurely fashion from the ledge above, not

too inquisitive, but still liking to know what was going on. To this

end they looked in at the windows, which stood open all summer long,

and saw many things which must have surprised them. The squirrels went

in boldly, several times a day; so did the birds, the braver of them;

and all came out looking pleased with themselves and with things in

general. So there was necessarily something or somebody pleasant inside

the house.

 

I said that the trees stood well back from the house in the wood. I

ought to have excepted three, a stately pine, and two glorious yellow

birches, which stood close to it, as close as might be. In fact,

part of the hut seemed to be built round the bole of the pine, which

disappeared for several feet, as if the stones had clasped it in a

rough embrace, and refused to let go their hold. The birches were a few

feet from the door, but near enough for one to lean out of window and

pull off the satin fringes. Their roots swelled out above the ground,

and twisted themselves into curves that might make a delightful seat,

under the green bending canopy, through whose waving folds the trunk

glistened like a giant prince of rags and tatters. In the centre of the

tiny glade stood a buttonwood-tree, whose vast girth seemed curiously

out of proportion to its surroundings. The pine and the birches were

noble trees; all the forest round was full of towering stems and

knotted, powerful branches; but beside the great buttonwood, they

seemed like sturdy dwarfs. If there had been any one to measure the

trunk, he would have found a girth of twenty-five feet or more, near

the base; while above the surrounding forest, it towered a hundred

feet and more in air. At a height of twelve or fifteen feet appeared

an opening, two or three feet in diameter. A hollow? surely! not so

large as that in the Lycian plane-tree, where Licinius Mucianus dined

with nineteen companions,--yes, and slept too, and enjoyed himself

immensely,--but large enough to hold two or three persons with all

comfort, if not convenience. As for the number of squirrels it might

hold, that was past counting; they were running in and out all day

long, and made such a noise that they disturbed the woodpeckers, and

made them irritable on a hot day.

 

There never was such a wood for birds! Partly from its great age,

partly from favourable accidents of soil and aspect, it had accumulated

an unusual variety of trees; and any bird, looking about for a good

building site, was sure of finding just the particular tree he liked

best, with building materials, food, and every other requisite to

heart's desire. So the trees rustled and quivered with wings, and rang

with song, all day long, except in the hot sleepy noons, when most

respectable birds keep within nests, and only the woodthrush from time

to time sends out his few perfect notes, to show that all times are

alike to the true singer. Not content with the forest itself, some

families--I think they were ruby-crowned wrens and bluebirds--had

made their nests in the creepers that matted the roof of the hut with

green; and the great buttonwood was a positive metropolis, densely

populated with titmice, warblers, and flycatchers of every description.

If anybody lived in the stone hut, he would not want for company, what

with the birds and the squirrels, and the woodchucks that came and

went across the little green as unconcernedly as if it were their own

front dooryard. Decidedly, the inhabitant, if there were one, must be

of kin to the wildwood creatures, for his dwelling and its surroundings

evidently belonged as much to the forest people as to him.

 

On the day when my story begins, the house in the wood was the only

lifeless thing, or so it seemed, in the whole joyous little scene. It

was a day in early May, and the world was so delighted with itself that

it laughed and twinkled all over. The trees were hardly yet in full

leaf, but had the gray-green misty look of spring, that makes one see

Erl-König's daughters shimmering in every willow, and rustling out of

sight behind the white birch-trunks. The great buttonwood had put out

its leaves, covered with thick white down; the air was full of sweet

smells, for it had rained in the night, and wet leaves, pine needles,

new ferns, and a hundred other lovely awakening things, made the air

a life-giving ether. The little green was starred with anemones and

eyebrights; under the cool of the trees one might see other things

glimmering, exquisite shadowy forms,--hepaticas, were they, or fairies

in purple and gray fur? One felt the presence of mayflowers, though

one could not see them unless one went close and pulled away the brown

dry leaves; then the lovely rosy creatures would peep out and laugh,

as only mayflowers can when they play at hide and seek. There seemed

to be a robin party going on under the buttonwood-tree. A dozen of

them or more were running and hopping and strutting about, with their

breasts well forward, doing amazing things in the matter of worms. Yes,

it must surely have rained in the night, or there could not have been

such a worm-harvest. There seemed almost to be enough for the robins,

and any one who knows robins is aware that this is an extravagant

statement. The titmice had apparently not been invited; they sat in

the branches and looked on, or hopped and ran about their green leafy

city. There was no need for them to travel all that distance to the

ground; besides, they considered worms vulgar and coarse food. A

self-respecting titmouse, who provides over two hundred grubs a day

for himself and his family, may well be content to live in his own

city, the murmuring, rustling place where grubs lie close on the bough

and under the bark, and where flies are ready for the bill; he has no

need to pierce the friendly earth, and drag up her unsightly creeping

things, to swallow piecemeal. A titmouse has his opinion of robins,

though he is on intimate terms with most birds in the forest.

 

Now and then some sudden wave of instinct or purpose would run through

all the great army of birds,--those in the buttonwood city, the robins

struggling on the green, and far in the dim forest depths thrush and

song-sparrow and warbler. First a stray note here and there, setting

the pitch, it might be; then, fuller and fuller, a chorus, rising high

and higher, fluting, trilling, whistling, singing away like mad, every

little ruffled throat of them all. Praise, was it, or profession of

belief, or simply of joy of being alive and able to sing under green

leaves and summer sun?

 

But even these outbursts of rapture did not rouse the house in the

wood. It lay there in the morning glory, gray, silent, senseless, crouched against the wall of rock behind it.